Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

“ D amned ball,” Morgan, the Duke of Giltford, grumbled, yanking the stopper from the decanter with a sharp pop. “Should have stayed home. No, should never have returned at all.”

He poured the brandy into his glass with a deliberate hand, his movements sharp with frustration. “And the fountain. Blasted fountain.”

The events of the evening churned in his mind, each memory more infuriating than the last. The feel of cold water soaking through his clothes. The wide-eyed horror of the matron and her companions. And Lady Margaret—Lady Margaret with her sharp tongue, her fiery eyes, and her penchant for creating chaos.

Morgan scowled into his glass, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “A disaster waiting to unfold. That’s what this was. And here I am, right in the bloody middle of it.”

He threw back the drink, the warmth doing little to soothe the gnawing tension in his chest. Before he could refill his glass, a knock sounded at the door.

“What is it?” he barked, his voice sharp.

The door opened a fraction, and his butler’s composed face appeared in the gap. “Your Grace, a caller. Unexpected and rather late.”

Morgan glared at him. “Send him away. I’m in no mood for callers.”

“I would,” a familiar voice drawled from the hallway, “but that would be quite unkind of you, Giltford.”

Morgan closed his eyes briefly before turning to see Colin Caldwell, the Marquess of Broughton, stroll into the room with infuriating nonchalance.

“You finally show yourself in society after years of reclusiveness,” Colin began, his grin wide and unapologetic, “only to vanish before the evening’s revelries were done? Shocking behavior for a Duke.”

Morgan grunted and turned back to his drink, pouring another.

“For someone who hasn’t seen his good friend in ages,” Colin continued, leaning against the desk with exaggerated ease, “you’re positively brimming with warmth.”

Morgan raised his glass. “I see your tongue is still laden with its usual sarcasm.”

“And you’re still a beast,” Colin replied, laughing as he made his way to the sideboard. “How reassuring to see some things never change.”

Morgan didn’t bother offering a response, watching instead as Colin helped himself to the decanter.

“So,” Colin began, pouring a generous measure into a glass, “what flowers have you been poisoning during your exile?”

Morgan glared at him. “I didn’t offer you a drink.”

Colin smirked, raising the glass in mock toast. “Good thing I’ve always been a resourceful guest.”

“Perhaps I’m the one who’s been poisoned,” Morgan scoffed, the image of Lady Margaret flashing in his mind with startling clarity. Her fiery eyes, the sharpness of her tongue—how infuriatingly unforgettable she was.

Colin laughed, a sound full of ease and humor. “You? The poison wouldn’t dare. Too much of a challenge.”

Morgan shook his head, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Flattery as extravagant as ever, Caldwell.”

Colin leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass lazily. “Speaking of extravagance , did you know the Duke of Sterlin is married now?”

“Sterlin?” Morgan frowned, the name tugging at distant memories. “Alexander Hunton?”

“The very same,” Colin confirmed, his grin widening. “Blissfully rusticating in the country with his new Duchess, no less.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed as the news settled over him. It wasn’t surprising, not really, but it brought a peculiar weight to his chest. Life had moved on while he’d cocooned himself in Giltford Estate, wrapped in the ever-present shadows of his past.

“Sterlin…” he murmured again, his voice quieter this time. The man had always been an acquaintance, someone with whom he might have formed a closer bond had he been inclined. But that inclination had long been smothered by his own reclusiveness.

“You should get yourself a Duchess too,” Colin teased, the sparkle of mischief unmistakable in his tone.

Morgan snorted, lifting his glass to his lips. “I have no use for one.”

“Pity,” Colin sighed, leaning forward dramatically. “I had been looking forward to another free wedding breakfast banquet this season. Do you know how dreary a season is without at least one wedding to feast upon?”

Morgan couldn’t help it; his lips curved into a faint smile. “Perhaps if you got yourself a Marchioness, you could indulge in another feast.”

Colin grinned, raising his glass in mock salute. “Well played, Giltford. Touché. However, food I pay for wouldn’t taste half as good,” Colin went on , swirling his drink with exaggerated melancholy.

Morgan let out a low laugh, the sound unexpected even to himself. It rumbled deep in his chest, unfamiliar yet strangely welcome.

Colin’s brows shot up in mock astonishment. “A laugh? From the infamous Duke of Giltford? Stop the presses, we’ve a miracle on our hands!”

“Must you always be so dramatic?” Morgan replied, though his lips still held the faintest curve of amusement.

“Someone must balance your perpetual broodiness,” Colin quipped, leaning back in his chair with the practiced ease of a man who rarely took life too seriously.

Morgan shook his head, but the mirth lingered. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed this—the company, the banter, the moments of lightness. It had been so long since he allowed himself even a glimpse of it. Too long, perhaps.

Still, beneath the humor, the weight of his reality pressed at the edges of his mind. As Colin recounted the latest gossip and developments from society—most of which Morgan half-listened to—his thoughts drifted back to the fountain, to Lady Margaret, and to the witnesses who had stumbled upon them.

He took a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid burning its way down. A disaster was rearing its head, and it was choking him.

“You’ll give yourself a megrim, Victoria, squinting at that book,” Morgan called down, his voice carrying amusement as he leaned against the sturdy trunk of the old oak tree.

Victoria did not glance up from her perch on the blanket beneath the tree, her nose nearly touching the page. “And you’ll ruin your dignity, Morgan Down, behaving like a ruffian in the branches.”

Morgan smirked and reached for an acorn hanging just within his grasp. “Is that so?” he drawled before tossing it lightly at her.

The acorn struck her shoulder, and Victoria gasped, snapping her book shut as she looked up with exaggerated outrage. “Morgan! You are positively insufferable!”

He chuckled, the low sound rumbling through the stillness of the afternoon. “Am I? And here I thought I was simply rescuing you from Wordsworth’s drivel.”

“Wordsworth is not drivel,” she countered with the air of a patient schoolmistress. “You are merely devoid of appreciation for fine poetry. Now, come down here and read it properly.”

“Why should I, when you seem so content in your lecturing?” he teased, swinging one leg over the branch with lazy grace.

“Because your disdain makes it tolerable,” she replied with a grin. “And you know it.”

Morgan sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “You are impossible.”

“And you are intolerable,” she retorted, though her smile softened the words. “Come down, or I shall climb up there myself.”

“You would not dare.”

Her arched brow and pointed look dared him to contradict her further. With a reluctant sigh, Morgan began his descent, his hands and feet moving with practiced ease against the bark. “You’re fortunate I am such a devoted elder brother.”

“Oh, yes, endlessly devoted,” she said with mock gravity, closing her book as she watched him climb. “I am sure Father would agree.”

Morgan’s feet touched the ground, and he straightened, turning toward her with a retort poised on his tongue. But as his gaze fell, the words dissolved in his throat.

Victoria was gone.

The oak tree vanished into shadows, the warmth of the sunlight replaced by the cold, suffocating air of the library. Morgan’s eyes dropped, and his breath faltered. His arms now cradled Victoria’s lifeless form, her copper hair matted with blood, her green eyes forever dimmed.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “No, Victoria. Please...”

He fell to his knees, the weight of her slight frame pressing against him like an iron chain. Tears blurred his vision as he held her closer, his body shaking with the force of his grief. “I am sorry,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I should have— I should have been there sooner. I should have?—”

The library blurred, its walls dissolving into darkness. Victoria’s form grew colder in his arms, and her voice echoed faintly in the void—soft and distant, yet cutting through his heart like a blade.

“You failed me, Morgan.”

“No!” The cry tore from his throat, raw and anguished, as the shadows swallowed him whole.

Morgan woke with a jolt, his body lurching upright in the bed. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his nightshirt clinging to his damp skin. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains.

He pressed a hand to his face, his palm trembling as he tried to collect himself. “Damn it,” he muttered, the oath breaking the oppressive silence.

The nightmare had been crueler this time, more vivid in its details. His gaze flicked toward the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, but he did not rise. Instead, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Lady Margaret—her fiery green eyes, her sharp tongue, and the unexpected resolve in her bearing.

I will not fail her as well.