Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

“ S he has suffered a concussion, but fortunately, it is not severe,” the physician said, his tone calm but firm as he addressed Morgan in the dimly lit study.

Morgan stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And she will recover fully?” he pressed, his voice low but tinged with urgency.

“With rest and the prescribed medication, Your Grace, she will be well,” the doctor replied. “I have administered a pain remedy, and she is presently asleep. Bed rest is essential during the coming days, but I do not foresee complications.”

Morgan exhaled, though the tightness in his chest barely eased. “Thank you,” he said, the words clipped but sincere.

“I have also instructed Mrs. Hallewell on her care,” the physician continued. “I shall return in the morning to assess her condition, but should any concerns arise before then—though we fervently hope they do not—please send for me immediately, no matter the hour.”

Morgan nodded curtly. “You have my gratitude,” he said as the doctor took his leave, offering a final bow before departing the manor.

Left alone in the study, Morgan hesitated for a moment before ascending the stairs to his wife’s chamber. The castle was quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant ticking of the hall clock.

When he entered the room, the sight before him stilled his breath. Margaret lay motionless in the grand bed, her auburn hair fanned against the pillow. The soft rise and fall of the blankets over her chest was the only sign of life, and yet it was enough to steady the ache in his heart.

He stepped closer, his boots soundless against the plush rug, and stood at her bedside. The doctor’s words echoed in his mind. Thankfully it wasn’t worse. But the thought offered little comfort. It could have been worse. Far worse.

He sank into the chair by her side, his elbows braced on his knees as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her pale face. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with unspoken guilt. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead before pressing a kiss to the smooth skin.

As he straightened, his throat tightened, and a bitter thought surfaced: Once again, I have failed.

He turned and left the room, each step away from her feeling heavier than the last. By the time he reached his study, the sensation of failure had wrapped itself around him like an iron chain. He slumped into the chair at his desk, his head falling into his hands.

He cared for her. That much was undeniable now, though he hadn’t realized the full extent until the sight of her lying still and injured had nearly broken him. Margaret, with her boundless curiosity and warm laughter, had become more than a duty, more than a presence in his home. She was… his.

And yet, he had failed to protect her. Just as he had failed before.

His jaw tightened as the familiar wave of grief threatened to consume him. But he would not let it. Not this time. Perhaps fate had given him a second chance, and he would not squander it.

No, he resolved. He would protect Margaret. Whatever it took.

With renewed purpose, Morgan reached for his quill, the nib glinting faintly in the candlelight. He dipped it into the inkwell and began to write a letter to his solicitor. Whatever measures were necessary—financial, legal, or otherwise—he would see them enacted.

His pen moved with precision, the scratching sound punctuating the stillness of the room. By the time he set the quill down, his determination was absolute. He had failed once, but he would not fail her again.

Margaret’s eyes fluttered open, her surroundings a hazy blur as her senses stirred from slumber. Slowly, shapes sharpened into focus—the delicate details of her room coming into view. Near the window, her lady’s maid stood arranging flowers in a porcelain vase, her movements careful and precise.

Hydrangeas. Margaret blinked, taking in the array of colors—mauve, powder blue, blush pink, and soft periwinkle. They were breathtaking, their blooms full and vibrant.

The sight stirred a faint memory. Hydrangeas… the last thing she remembered was the sound of her horse’s frantic whinny, the jolt as she was thrown, and then Morgan’s panicked voice cutting through the haze. The doctor’s visit felt like a fleeting fragment of a dream.

As her thoughts gathered, so too did the dull ache radiating from her temple. She winced and instinctively raised a hand to her head, only to pause at the slight dizziness that swayed her world. Steeling herself, she attempted to sit up, though a wave of vertigo forced her back against the pillows with a frustrated huff.

“Your Grace!” Her maid Daisy’s cry of relief startled her, and the girl hurried to her side. “Oh, thank heavens you are awake! We’ve been so worried.”

Margaret offered a faint smile as the maid propped her up with care, the pillows adjusted to support her. The young woman fussed about, smoothing the blankets and all the while exclaiming how glad she was to see her mistress awake.

“Thank you, Daisy ,” Margaret murmured, her voice still weak. “You are very kind.”

Her gaze wandered the room, searching for something—or someone. Her chest tightened as she realized who it was she wished to see most. But Morgan was nowhere in sight. Her eyes fell again on the hydrangeas, their beauty a quiet comfort amidst her disappointment.

“The Duke thought you would like them,” Daisy said softly, following her mistress’s gaze to the flowers.

Margaret’s fingers brushed the edge of the coverlet as warmth spread through her chest. Morgan had sent the flowers—of course he had. They were just as stunning as the one he’d handed her on the cliff. She wondered fleetingly if these had come from the same place or from the garden. Either way, the gesture was unmistakably thoughtful.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Mrs. Hallewell bustled in, her expression a mixture of relief and authority. “Your Grace, awake at last,” she said, her hands clasping together briefly before she turned her attention to the maid. “Daisy , you ought to have summoned me at once.”

“I was just about to, Your Grace,” Daisy replied with a slight curtsey.

“‘Just about to’ does not suffice,” Mrs. Hallewell admonished, her tone brisk. “See that the physician is sent for immediately.”

The maid nodded and scurried off, leaving Margaret to Mrs. Hallewell’s care. The housekeeper tutted gently as she adjusted the blankets, her movements surprisingly tender for a woman of such stern countenance.

It wasn’t long before the physician arrived, his presence filling the room with professional gravity. After a careful examination, he straightened and offered Margaret a reassuring smile. “You are out of danger, Your Grace,” he said with confidence. “The concussion was mild, and I see no alarming signs. You shall recover fully with proper rest.”

Margaret sighed softly, both relieved and exasperated. “And the pain?” she asked, gesturing lightly toward her temple.

“There will be some discomfort for a few days, but it shall pass,” he replied. “You must, however, adhere to strict bed rest. Overexertion will not serve you.”

Margaret nodded dutifully, though inwardly she bristled. The thought of lying idle, confined to her bed, was maddening. Despite the ache that lingered, she already felt restless.

As the doctor gathered his things and Mrs. Hallewell escorted him out, Margaret’s gaze returned to the hydrangeas. They were a testament to Morgan’s care, a small but undeniable reminder that he had thought of her even when she hadn’t been conscious to see it. It brought a flicker of warmth to her otherwise frustrated heart.

After the doctor’s departure, Margaret’s thoughts wandered unbidden to her husband. Her gaze drifted toward the door, as though expecting him to appear at any moment. She tried to temper the inexplicable pang of disappointment that he had not already done so, but the feeling persisted, stubborn as the dull ache at her temple.

As Mrs. Hallewell entered with fresh linens, Margaret seized the opportunity. “Mrs. Hallewell,” she began, her voice soft but insistent, “might I inquire as to the Duke’s whereabouts?”

The housekeeper hesitated for only a moment, adjusting the tray she carried. “His Grace is engaged with his solicitor, Your Grace.”

Margaret nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. The explanation was reasonable enough, though it did little to soothe the restless energy stirring within her. Why, she wondered, did she feel such a desperate need to see him? She was safe, tended to, and yet… yet she wished for him .

She pushed the thought aside and thanked the housekeeper, resolving not to dwell on it further. But as the day stretched on and the hours dragged with agonizing slowness, her resolve faltered. The light outside her window faded into the soft hues of evening, and still, Morgan did not come.

Surely he knew she was awake by now? The staff would not withhold such news from him—of that she was certain. The doctor himself had returned for a second visit; it was inconceivable that Morgan had not been informed. And yet, his absence lingered like a shadow over her thoughts.

When Mrs. Hallewell arrived with her dinner tray, Margaret could no longer contain her curiosity. “Is His Grace still occupied with his solicitor?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the coverlet.

The housekeeper nodded, her expression unchanging. “Yes, Your Grace. He remains in his study.”

“This late?” Margaret’s brows lifted in surprise. “It must be an urgent matter.”

“I could not say, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell replied, setting the tray down with practiced efficiency.

Margaret offered a polite smile and dismissed her, though her thoughts churned with increasing unease. What could require such lengthy deliberation? Was something amiss? She tried to shake off the rising sense of apprehension but found herself unable to quell it entirely.

She glanced at the hydrangeas once more, their soft colors offering a fleeting comfort. Curious.

She hoped all was well.