Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

“ A re you two stalking me now?” Morgan drawled, leaning back in his chair as Colin and Sterlin were ushered into his study. His voice carried a note of mockery, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed his pleasure at seeing them. “Clearly you’ve run me to ground like hounds after a fox.”

“Hardly stalking, Giltford,” Colin replied with his usual irreverence. “Merely ensuring you don’t wither away in solitude.”

Morgan arched a brow, gesturing for them to take the seats opposite him. “And what brings you to my humble castle in the middle of the season, Sterlin?” he asked, directing his attention to the Duke.

Sterlin settled into the chair with practiced ease. “I’ve been in the country to survey a property I’ve taken a fancy to—a quaint little estate not far from here,” he explained. “And once I concluded my business, this one”—he nodded toward Colin—“insisted we invade your peace and quiet.”

Morgan smirked, shaking his head as Colin interjected. “You cannot expect me to pass up the opportunity to see if your famed hermit’s shell has cracked. Besides,” Colin added with a glint in his eye, “if the Duchess does not object to our presence, who are we to deprive you of our company?”

Sterlin chuckled his tone light but teasing as he leaned forward. “Well, at least it seems you’ve abandoned your rusticating ways for the moment. A commendable step.”

Morgan shot them both a dry look. “Do you two conspire to vex me, or is it simply instinctual?”

“Speaking of,” Colin began, his eyes suddenly gleaming with the unmistakable light of mischief. Morgan’s posture stiffened imperceptibly, his shoulders bracing against the inevitability of whatever Colin had planned to say.

“He was at the country ball I told you about,” Colin said, turning to Sterlin with exaggerated delight.

Sterlin straightened, a spark of intrigue lighting his expression as he glanced at Morgan. “You? At a ball?” he asked, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Surely I’ve misheard.”

Morgan sighed, his fingers tapping idly on the edge of his desk. “The Duchess wished to honor the invitation,” he replied evenly.

“Ah,” Sterlin said, a knowing grin spreading across his face. He exchanged a look with Colin, whose grin mirrored his own. “I see what’s happening here.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “I’d thank you not to draw ridiculous conclusions.”

Sterlin ignored him, his grin widening. “Marriage humbles even the proudest of men,” he mused with exaggerated wistfulness. “A Duke braving a country ball? Clearly, matrimony is working its magic.”

“Or its mischief,” Colin added, laughter underscoring his words. “Though, I must say, it suits you, Giltford.”

Morgan cast them both a long-suffering look, though there was no denying the faint warmth creeping into his expression. “It was a mere formality,” he said, his tone clipped, as though to dismiss their teasing. “A gesture of courtesy, nothing more.”

“Of course,” Sterlin replied with mock solemnity, though the sparkle in his eye said otherwise. “Our women rarely leave us much choice in such matters, do they?”

“No, indeed,” Morgan murmured, inclining his head in agreement. Sterlin’s fond chuckle filled the room, and Morgan noted the softened expression that crossed his friend’s face. There was no mistaking it—the man was utterly besotted with his wife.

“Quite persistent, I must agree,” Morgan nodded.

“Let me offer you some advice, Giltford,” Sterlin began, leaning forward in his chair with an expression of exaggerated solemnity.

Morgan raised a brow, his tone dry. “Because that is precisely what I needed today—unsolicited advice.”

Sterlin ignored the jab entirely, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Do not fight it.”

Morgan’s brow arched higher. “And what, precisely, am I not to fight?”

Sterlin waved a hand as though the answer were obvious. “Whatever winds your marriage brings—be it a mellow breeze or a tempestuous storm—e mbrace every bit of it.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. “You’ve taken to philosophy now, have you?”

“It is hardly philosophy,” Sterlin retorted with a chuckle. “It is common sense, though I suspect it is an uncommon commodity where you are concerned.”

Morgan’s lips twitched, though he managed to suppress a full smile. “How generous of you, Sterlin. Your wisdom is truly a gift.”

“It is hard-earned, I assure you,” Sterlin replied, his tone softening. “And well worth sharing. I know you, Giltford. You are far too inclined to lock yourself away, to resist what could bring you joy.” He paused, his expression growing earnest. “Marriage changes a man—but if you let it, it can change him for the better.”

Morgan tilted his head, considering Sterlin’s words. There was no denying the contentment etched across his friend’s face, the ease with which he spoke of his wife. It was a rare thing to see, and while Morgan was loath to admit it, the sight stirred something faint and unfamiliar within him.

Before he could respond, a sudden clatter shattered the quiet of the study. Both men turned sharply toward the source of the noise, their gazes landing on Broughton, who stood before the liquor cabinet, a decanter in one hand and a glass in the other. His sheepish grin did little to mask the guilt in his expression.

“Ah,” Broughton said, glancing between them. “Do carry on. I was simply acquainting myself with your excellent selection, Giltford.”

Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose, a low groan escaping him. “Have you no decorum, Broughton?”

“None whatsoever,” Broughton replied cheerfully, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy.

Sterlin chuckled, his earlier gravity giving way to amusement. “And here I thought we had lost you to polite silence.”

“Hardly,” Broughton said, taking a deliberate sip. “I was merely exercising patience, a virtue neither of you seem particularly acquainted with.”

Morgan shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “If only you applied such virtues to your manners.”

Broughton raised his glass in a mock toast. “What fun would that be?”

Sterlin laughed, shaking his head. “Marriage discussions are clearly wasted on the likes of him.”

“Indeed,” Morgan agreed, though his thoughts lingered on Sterlin’s words.

Morgan leaned over his desk an hour after Sterlin and Broughton’s departure, his attention half-heartedly focused on the ledger before him. Numbers blurred together, his mind too restless to find clarity. He had barely begun to regain his equilibrium when a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” he called, his tone more resigned than curious.

Mrs. Hallewell stepped inside, her movements measured and precise, as always. A tray rested in her hands, bearing the unmistakable cup of her herbal concoction. Morgan’s brow furrowed as she approached and set it carefully on the desk.

“This is unexpected,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You usually administer this after dinner, and only twice a week at most. What has prompted this deviation?”

Mrs. Hallewell paused, folding her hands neatly before her. For the briefest moment, her usual composure faltered, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her features. “Your nightmares, Your Grace,” she said steadily. “They have been more persistent of late.”

Morgan’s gaze sharpened, his posture stiffening. “What makes you think so?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion.

She met his gaze directly, her expression calm yet firm. “The Duchess found you two nights ago,” she said. “You were standing by the door again.”

Morgan froze, his hand tightening over the arm of his chair. “Standing?” he repeated, disbelief lacing the word. “By the door?”

Mrs. Hallewell nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. The Duchess came across you there in the early hours. She was understandably alarmed. Barrow and I handled the matter as we always do, but the sight left her confused.”

Morgan’s chest tightened, the weight of her words pressing down on him. The idea of Margaret finding him in such a state—disoriented, vulnerable—left him both shaken and frustrated. He had long accepted the torment of his nightmares as his burden to bear, a private demon he refused to inflict on anyone else. But now Margaret had seen him, and he could not deny the sting of exposure.

“She said nothing of it,” he muttered, half to himself, though his voice carried a note of incredulity.

“No, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell confirmed. “She made her concerns known to me but did not wish to trouble you.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling. Margaret’s silence was uncharacteristic—she was far too curious and tenacious to simply let such a thing pass. And yet she had chosen to remain quiet, to leave him his pride, even as she sought answers elsewhere. The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Mrs. Hallewell, ever composed, continued, “I would like to try a new approach with the herbs. Administering them earlier in the day may encourage a more restful night. It might also lessen the intensity of the dreams.”

Morgan nodded curtly, though his mind remained elsewhere. He reached for the cup and swallowed the brew in a single gulp, grimacing as the acrid taste assaulted his tongue.

“This keeps getting nastier by the day,” he muttered, setting the cup down with a clink.

The faintest curve touched Mrs. Hallewell’s lips, though it was far from mirthful. It was a fleeting expression, one Morgan could not quite name but had seen often enough to know it wasn’t amusement.

She gathered the tray and inclined her head. “Good day, Your Grace,” she said before retreating with her usual precision.

Left alone in the quiet of his study, Morgan stared at the spot where Mrs. Hallewell had stood. Margaret’s image lingered in his mind, her confusion and concern now so vividly imagined it twisted in his chest. She had seen him—truly seen him—and yet chosen to keep her silence.

For reasons he could not yet fathom, the thought unsettled him far more than the nightmares themselves.

“Lady Aleshire did not join us at the parish today,” Margaret said, her fork hovering just above her plate. “Her grandson has taken ill, the poor thing.”

Morgan looked up from his roast, an eyebrow arching. “That must be quite frightening for the family.”

“Indeed, and he is the heir, too,” she replied.

He nodded, though his attention was only half on her words. Something was off. Margaret’s tone lacked its usual brightness, her laughter too fleeting to be genuine. Her movements were listless as she absently prodded the potatoes on her plate, and the lively spark in her green eyes was conspicuously absent.

Morgan’s stomach tightened. Was this about the nightmares? Had seeing him that night unsettled her more than she let on? He found himself scrutinizing her, his gaze flicking between her downturned eyes and the faint frown tugging at her lips.

Yet, for all his anticipation, she said nothing. No curious questions, no probing remarks, no veiled inquiries. If anything, Margaret seemed quieter than usual, and the silence between them felt strange—wrong.

It struck him then how much he missed her vivacity. The way her words tumbled over one another, her hands dancing through the air as she spoke. He missed the ease of her conversation, the way her laughter filled the empty spaces of the manor. And if he was being truly honest, a part of him—one he scarcely recognized—wished she would ask about his nightmares.

The thought unsettled him. He had locked away the pain of his past for so long, built walls so high they had become a part of him. Yet now, faced with her quiet retreat, he found himself yearning to let her in. She had, unwittingly, been handed a key—a glimpse into his torment—and he wished she would use it. Not because he possessed the courage to open those gates himself, but because he needed her to push them open for him.

But Margaret said nothing. She continued to push her food around her plate, the faint clink of her fork against the porcelain a cruel reminder of her distraction. Her spirits were sunken, her brightness dulled. Something was wrong.

He set down his own fork, his voice steady but edged with concern. “Margaret, what troubles you? Are you quite alright?”

Her hand paused, hovering over her plate. She seemed hesitant, her lips parting as if to speak but no sound coming. At last, she set her fork down and looked up at him, her expression uncertain.

“There is nothing wrong with me, precisely,” she began tentatively. “But I had... a rather trying encounter at the charity meeting today.”

Morgan tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “What sort of encounter?”

She hesitated again before exhaling softly, her gaze dropping to her plate. “Mrs. Pattons saw fit to make an unkind remark about you.”

Morgan stilled, his jaw tightening. “Did she now?”

Margaret glanced up at him, her eyes searching his face. “She implied that... that you might be difficult to live with. It was so sudden, so improper. I was too taken aback to respond.”

The tension in his chest eased slightly, replaced by something cooler—determination. “Well,” he said, his tone even but edged with resolve, “in that case, I must simply change Mrs. Pattons’s opinion of me.”

Margaret blinked at him, surprise flickering across her features. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“Relax, dear wife. I do not intend to unleash the beast upon the woman,” Morgan said, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He shrugged lightly. “Well, not at his full potential, at least.”

“Morgan,” she admonished, her voice sharp with disapproval.

Her expression, however, held no humor, and his laughter faltered. She wasn’t sharing in his mirth. Did she truly think him monstrous enough to harm the matron? The notion lingered in his mind, gnawing at his composure. And what was more troubling—he could not quite fathom why it hurt.

He wanted her, above all, to see him in a light others did not. To see something good, something worth admiring, or at the very least respecting. It struck him suddenly just how much he valued her opinion, how much her perception of him mattered.

Margaret had fallen silent, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of her plate. Her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Then, after a long pause, she straightened, her chin lifting in that familiar way that signaled her mind had settled on a course of action.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, her tone decisive, “I think I will take care of this matter myself.”

Morgan tilted his head, studying her. “Are you certain you do not need my help?”

“This may be about you, Morgan,” she began, her green eyes fixed intently on his, “but I believe it is my battle to fight. Your dignity is my dignity now. And those words were said to my face. They were meant for me. She merely used you as a shield—cowardly, at that—to deliver her insult.”

A spark of fire glinted in her eyes, and Morgan felt something unexpected swell in his chest: pride. Fierce, unyielding pride at the protective resolve that radiated from her. His wife was far from docile, and in this moment, she looked every inch the duchess she was.

He inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I trust you will keep me informed of your progress, then.”

Margaret flushed, a delightful color blooming on her cheeks at his words of encouragement. It softened her fierceness, just enough to remind him of the warmth that always seemed to linger beneath her determination.

“I intend to host my sisters and brother-in-law for dinner,” she announced after a moment, her tone lightening.

He arched a brow. “Oh, do you?”

“And we shall invite the Marquess of Broughton as well,” she added, her spirits visibly returning.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his expression wry. “Why do I have a feeling I have little choice in this matter?”

“Oh, you have none,” she replied with a mischievous smile. Her laugh was soft and musical as she continued, “I have already made up my mind. I am simply informing you, Your Grace, so you can prepare yourself to smile and play the perfect host when the time comes.”

Despite himself, Morgan laughed—a genuine, hearty sound that startled him with its ease. He seemed to be doing quite a bit of that in her company lately, and it left him with an odd warmth in his chest that he couldn’t quite ignore.

As her laughter faded, he watched her with a quiet fondness that surprised him. What is she doing to me?

His chest tightened. Margaret deserved nothing but the truth from him, and she must have many questions.

If he could bear to answer them.