Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

A s Margaret allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor by Morgan, she endeavored to quell the quickening of her breath and maintain her composure. The weight of so many curious gazes was nearly tangible, accompanied by whispers that floated just beyond her hearing.

It was to be expected, she supposed. Many of the country folk present had likely never laid eyes on the Duke of Giltford before this evening. His reputation and the whispers surrounding the Silent Castle had only served to deepen the mystique.

But Margaret refused to falter. She straightened her shoulders and placed her hand lightly on her husband’s, allowing him to guide her into the opening steps of the waltz. As the music swelled, the world around her began to fade. The crowd blurred, the whispers vanished, and there remained only the strains of the orchestra, the rhythmic motion of the dance, and the man who held her with such practiced confidence.

She glanced up at Morgan, his expression inscrutable yet less severe than usual. There was an ease in his movements, a natural command that belied the unease she knew he must feel. His touch at her waist was steady, his steps sure, and Margaret found herself surrendering to the moment. If only time could stand still.

As they swept across the floor, Morgan spoke, his voice a low murmur that seemed meant only for her. “I had a word with Sir Aleshire earlier. I’ve determined to involve myself in the charity.”

Margaret’s steps faltered for the briefest of moments before she regained her rhythm. “You are serious?” she asked, the brightness in her tone betraying her delight.

“Quite serious,” he replied, his gaze flickering to hers. “I had not fully appreciated the scope of their efforts.”

Her smile widened, her joy unrestrained. “That is most gratifying to hear, Morgan. I am proud of you.”

“You look positively giddy, Margaret,” he remarked, his lips curving faintly. “Much like a child upon discovering a tray of sweets.”

“Perhaps because my husband is showing interest in something beyond his ledgers and accounts,” she teased, her eyes alight with mirth.

He chuckled, a rich sound that seemed to ripple through her. “I shall have you know, Margaret, I am a man of varied interests.”

“Oh, of course,” she replied with feigned gravity. “Such as the thrilling pursuit of balancing the estate’s accounts?”

“Precisely,” he said, his tone wry. “You are proving a quick study, dear wife.”

Her cheeks warmed at the endearment, and though she tried to school her expression, the smile on her lips betrayed her. After a moment, she tilted her head, her tone turning playful. “You know, I must ask—why is it that you attend events in London with such ease, yet avoid country gatherings as though they are a plague?”

Morgan’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his lips twitched in amusement. “A curious observation, Margaret.”

“Well?” she prompted, her brow arched.

He was quiet for a moment before replying, his tone measured. “In London, I was in search of a wife.”

Margaret blinked, startled by his candor. “A wife?” she repeated. “Morgan, I did not find you; I merely happened upon you.”

“And yet, here we are,” he said smoothly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

“You are impossible,” she muttered, though her voice held no true bite.

The music swirled to a close, and Morgan bowed, offering her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked, inclining his head toward the garden doors.

She nodded, letting him lead her into the cool night air. The garden was quiet save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of laughter from the ballroom. The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over the manicured hedges and gravel paths.

“I had no idea you were actively seeking a wife,” Margaret said as they strolled.

Morgan shrugged lightly. “I would not call it an active search. More a… passive acknowledgment of necessity.”

Margaret stopped, turning to face him. “Necessity?”

“As a Duke,” he began, his voice steady, “I needed a Duchess. Even if only in name.”

She stared at him, her brow furrowing. “In name only?”

He met her gaze, his expression softening. “It was what I thought at the time.”

Her heart twinged at his honesty. She folded her arms. “That is hardly a romantic notion, Morgan.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “And yet, it brought me to you.”

She rolled her eyes, though a smile threatened to break through. “You are fortunate that I have a forgiving nature.”

“Fortunate indeed,” he agreed, his tone wry. “Though I must say, Margaret, you have an uncanny ability to turn any conversation into an interrogation.”

“An interrogation?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “I was merely seeking clarity.”

“Ah,” he said with mock seriousness. “How could I have mistaken it for anything else?”

Her laughter rang out, light and free, as he took her hand. They continued their stroll, the earlier tension melting away into the quiet comfort of the evening.

The charity ball had been an unequivocal triumph. As Peggy climbed into bed that night, she felt a profound sense of satisfaction settle over her. The evening had been filled with laughter, camaraderie, and generosity, and she couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.

Yet, it was not merely the success of the event that left her feeling so content. Morgan had surprised her—pleasantly so. For the first time since their marriage, he seemed to be stepping out from the shadows of his self-imposed seclusion. He had conversed, laughed, and even danced with her. Perhaps, she thought as she sank into her pillows, there is hope yet.

The idea brought a warmth to her chest, and she clasped it tightly as her eyes fluttered shut. Sleep claimed her swiftly, her mind carrying her into dreams where her husband was no longer distant, where their partnership grew stronger with each passing day.

But that peace was short-lived.

Curious sounds pierced her slumber, dragging her back into wakefulness. Peggy’s eyes flew open, her heart racing as she sat upright in her bed. The room was dim, the moonlight streaming faintly through the curtains casting long shadows on the walls. She held her breath, listening.

The sound came again. Low, guttural grunts, like those of someone in distress. Her pulse quickened as she strained to locate the source. And then it struck her—these sounds were coming from Morgan’s chambers.

Alarm surged through her, erasing any remnants of drowsiness. She threw back the covers and slipped her feet into her slippers. Wrapping her dressing dress tightly around her, she moved swiftly to the adjoining door, her heart pounding with each step.

Peggy did not expect to find the room occupied. Since their marriage, Morgan had spent most of his nights in his study, retreating to the sanctuary of his solitude. But when she let herself into his chamber, candle in hand, she stopped short.

Her husband was there, reclined on a chaise lounge near the hearth, his cravat loosened and his waistcoat unbuttoned. The soft glow of the dwindling fire cast flickering shadows across his features, but something was unmistakably wrong.

He was shaking.

Low, agitated grunts escaped his lips, his brow furrowed deeply as if he were in great torment. Peggy rushed to his side, her heart thundering in her chest. Kneeling before him, she gently placed a trembling hand on his forehead, her fingers brushing against the dampness of his skin.

“Morgan?” she called softly. He didn’t stir, his head tossing lightly against the cushion as more incoherent mumbles left his lips. Whatever he was trapped in, it was consuming him.

Her chest tightened as she leaned closer, her hands coming to rest on his arm. “Morgan, can you hear me?” she tried again, more urgently now. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But it was no use. He shook harder, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his entire frame wracked with the silent echoes of some unseen agony. The rawness in his muffled cries pulled at something deep within her, filling her with a desperate need to pull him out of whatever darkness held him captive.

Peggy tried again, shaking his arm gently. “Morgan, please wake up,” she pleaded, her voice breaking slightly. But there was no response—just the same heartbreaking grunts, the labored breaths, the perspiration gathering on his brow.

She was just about to give up and summon help when the room fell suddenly silent.

Morgan grew still—too still. Peggy froze, her breath catching as she watched his chest. Her hand darted to his face, and she exhaled shakily when she felt the soft puff of his even breathing against her palm. Relief coursed through her, and she realized only then that she’d been holding her breath.

Lowering herself onto the carpeted floor, she sat back on her knees, her gaze never leaving his now peaceful form. She reached up, her fingers gently brushing through his sweat-dampened locks. His brow was smooth once more, his expression calm as if the torment had never been there.

She lingered like that for a while, stroking his hair, grounding herself in his presence. Only when she felt certain he was well did she finally rise, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she quietly left the room.

But back in her own bed, sleep eluded her entirely. Peggy lay staring at the canopy above, her mind turning restlessly over what she had just witnessed. What was wrong with Morgan? she wondered, her chest tightening anew. First, the night she’d found him frozen in the hallway—and now this.

A shiver ran through her, unpleasant and cold, but it had nothing to do with the temperature.

After a long while of wrestling with her troubled thoughts, Peggy sighed and threw back the covers. Lying in bed, stewing in worry, would achieve nothing. She slipped her feet into her slippers, wrapped herself in her dressing dress, and padded toward the door.

Warm milk and honey, she thought as she made her way down the dimly lit hallways. That never fails to settle one’s nerves. It was a habit she’d learned in her girlhood, and though the castle boasted more staff than she could count, it didn’t occur to her to summon anyone for such a simple task. Warming a little milk was hardly beyond her capabilities, and truthfully, she didn’t wish to disturb anyone so late.

The quiet of the house was heavy, the faint creaks of the old wood floors and the distant ticking of a clock the only sounds accompanying her. As she reached the rear vestibule, a shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and her heart leapt to her throat.

“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, her breath hitching as she pressed a hand to her chest. “Mrs. Hallewell,” she said.

The housekeeper stood calmly, her ever-composed expression firmly in place. “Did you need something, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice low and unruffled, as though it were perfectly normal to be wandering the house at this hour.

Peggy swallowed hard, willing her pulse to slow. “I was just hoping to warm some milk,” she said, offering a faint smile. “I cannot sleep.”

Mrs. Hallewell inclined her head slightly. “You should have rung for it, Your Grace,” she said.

“Ru ng for it? At three in the morning? Waking the household for a simple glass of milk? ” Peggy shook her head, though her hands fidgeted slightly with the tie of her dressing dress.

“The kitchens are always at your service, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell replied, her tone calm and even, as though she had not heard a word of Peggy’s protest.

Peggy opened her mouth to argue further but thought better of it. Instead, she allowed the housekeeper to lead her to the kitchens. The room was quiet, the faint glow of embers from the hearth providing just enough light to navigate. Mrs. Hallewell moved with practiced efficiency, fetching a small pot and a jug of milk, her steps precise and deliberate.

“Please, allow me,” Peggy offered as they reached the stove.

But the housekeeper merely shook her head. “Your Grace, if you would like to sit,” she said, gesturing toward the table in the corner.

Peggy hesitated but eventually relented, settling herself at the table with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She watched as Mrs. Hallewell poured the milk into the pot, her movements fluid and methodical. The silence between them grew thick, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire as it caught and flared.

Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, Peggy spoke. “He was having nightmares,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Hallewell’s hand faltered ever so slightly as she reached for a wooden spoon, the movement so fleeting Peggy almost doubted her own eyes. But the housekeeper recovered swiftly, stirring the milk with calm precision as though nothing had passed.

“Is that so, Your Grace?” she said, her tone neutral, not a hint of surprise betraying her.

Peggy’s brows furrowed as she leaned forward slightly. “It was as though he was in great pain,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “I tried to wake him, but he didn’t respond. And then... he simply fell silent.”

Mrs. Hallewell did not look at her, her focus fixed on the pot as the milk began to steam gently. “Perhaps His Grace was overtired,” she said evenly, her tone offering neither reassurance nor dismissal.

Peggy’s lips pressed into a thin line, her frustration mounting at the housekeeper’s impenetrable calm. “I know what I saw,” she said, her voice firmer now. “And this isn’t the first time. He’s been... unwell.”

Mrs. Hallewell turned then, holding Peggy’s gaze for a moment, her expression as unreadable as ever. “The Duke has his burdens, Your Grace,” she said simply. “But I am pleased to hear that he’s been sleeping at least. ”

Peggy blinked, her brow furrowing in disbelief. “ With the nightmares?” she asked.

“It’s the best he ever gets,” Mrs. Hallewell replied, her tone devoid of emotion but carrying a weight that settled heavily over the room.

Peggy felt herself go limp in her seat, the back of her chair offering little comfort against the ache that had suddenly taken root in her chest. Something wrenched at her heart—a deep, unfamiliar sorrow for the man she called her husband. This was not mere fatigue or the odd disturbed night; it was a relentless torment. A tragic reality she had not fully comprehended until now.

“How long has he had them?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling slightly as she watched the housekeeper add a spoonful of honey to the steaming milk.

Mrs. Hallewell paused for a moment before replying, her gaze fixed on her task. “I cannot say…” she said at last, her tone clipped.

Peggy straightened slightly, narrowing her eyes. Cannot—or will not? The woman’s reluctance was palpable, and though Peggy yearned to press further, something held her back. A feeling that any more questions tonight would only meet the same unyielding wall of silence.

Instead, she waited quietly as the milk was prepared, her fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve, her thoughts racing. When Mrs. Hallewell turned with the cup in hand, Peggy managed a faint smile as she reached for it.

“Shall I see you back to your chambers, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked, her tone formal and impersonal once more.

“Oh, it’s fine. It’s just a glass of milk, Mrs. Hallewell,” Peggy said almost sheepishly, shaking her head. She lifted the cup to her lips and took a tentative sip right there in the kitchen.

“Oh, this is good,” Peggy murmured, her eyes fluttering shut briefly as she savored the sweetness and warmth of the delightful beverage. The honey added just the right touch, complementing the creamy milk in a way that felt as much a balm for her spirit as it was for her body.

She opened her eyes and offered a small, sincere smile to Mrs. Hallewell. “Thank you,” she said softly, inclining her head. The housekeeper nodded, her expression inscrutable as ever, before returning to her tasks.

Peggy left the kitchen with her thoughts still tumbling with the events of the night. She made her way back to her chambers, and though sleep remained elusive, she felt steadier as she prepared herself for the day ahead.

The following morning, Peggy descended to breakfast, determined to meet the day with purpose. But as she approached the entrance to the morning room, her steps faltered, and she came to an abrupt halt.

She stood still, her breath catching slightly as she took in the sight before her.