Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

A fter finishing her breakfast, Margaret could no longer suppress the question that had lingered on her tongue since she awoke.

“Daisy ,” she began, her tone carefully even as her maid cleared away the tray. “Have you any notion where the Duke might be this morning?”

She hesitated only briefly before replying, “I saw His Grace leaving the castle earlier with the steward and his solicitor.”

Margaret’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly. “Did he say where he was bound?”

“I overheard mention of a nearby property he intended to inspect,” Daisy offered, her tone bright as though she believed this would please her mistress.

But it did not. Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line as disappointment unfurled within her chest. A property inspection? She could not help but wonder if bricks and mortar had somehow become a greater priority than visiting his wife, still recovering under his roof.

Her thoughts flitted to their time at the cliff. The quiet connection they had shared, the warmth in his eyes—it had felt genuine. But now, with each passing hour of his absence, doubt crept in. Perhaps it had meant little to him after all.

Forty-eight hours came and went. Each drawn-out moment without so much as a glimpse of Morgan left her restless and disheartened. By the second morning, her patience had worn thin.

“Mrs. Hallewell,” she asked as the housekeeper entered with a fresh bouquet for the room, “have you seen the Duke today?”

Mrs. Hallewell paused, her hands adjusting the vase with undue precision. “His Grace has been most occupied, Your Grace, overseeing the renovations to the property he visited,” she replied, her gaze conspicuously fixed on the flowers.

Margaret narrowed her eyes, her suspicion rising. Mrs. Hallewell was a woman of unflinching candor; her avoidance was out of character. The realization stung. He is deliberately avoiding me, she thought, the hurt intertwining with a budding irritation.

By the third day, Margaret had endured quite enough. Ignoring Mrs. Hallewell’s well-meaning protests, she rose from her bed, determined to find her husband and demand answers.

Her steps were brisk as she made her way to his study, her heart a mixture of resolve and trepidation. She pushed the door open without ceremony, finding Morgan seated behind his desk, a pile of papers before him.

At the sight of her, he glanced up with an expression that was, disappointingly, devoid of surprise or warmth. “Ah, Margaret,” he said, his tone maddeningly impassive. “I was just about to find you.”

“Well, here I am,” she replied crisply, lowering herself into one of the chairs opposite him. She clasped her hands neatly in her lap, though her fingers tightened slightly over one another. “And I am fully recovered, thank you for your concern.”

Her words carried a deliberate edge, each syllable sharp enough to cut. His brow lifted slightly, but he did not rise to the bait. “We thank God for that,” he said, nodding as though her recovery were a matter of polite formality rather than personal relief.

Before she could retort, he pushed a stack of papers across the desk toward her, his movements efficient and unfeeling. His demeanor was as distant as it was disconcerting, and Margaret’s heart sank. The warmth she had come to crave from him seemed entirely absent.

For all her determination, Margaret could not ignore the chill in his voice and manner. And for the first time since her fall, she found herself truly questioning what had gone so terribly wrong.

“What are these?” Margaret asked, her voice clipped as she shuffled through the stack of papers before her. She barely glanced at the documents, her focus wholly elsewhere. Her heart pounded with confusion and unease. She was not interested in paperwork—she was here to uncover the reason for his sudden, baffling coldness toward her.

“The deeds to your new residence,” Morgan replied evenly, his tone devoid of emotion.

Margaret stilled, her fingers halting mid-turn as she raised her gaze to his. “My new residence?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on her in that impenetrable way that made her chest tighten. “The property is mine, unentailed, and I have transferred full ownership to you. Renovations are already underway, and you shall be able to take possession as soon as they are completed.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed deeply, her mind struggling to grasp his meaning. “Take possession?” she echoed, her voice trembling faintly.

“It will be yours to do with as you please,” he continued, his tone maddeningly composed. “A home entirely your own. We shan’t be under each other’s feet any longer.”

The words struck her like a blow, her breath catching as disbelief washed over her. “I… I beg your pardon?” she whispered, hoping— praying —she had misunderstood him.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady but utterly detached. “It was always the arrangement, Margaret,” he said calmly. “You will have your independence, as we agreed.”

Margaret’s chest constricted, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the papers. “So, while I lay recovering, you were… planning my exile?” Her voice cracked, the hurt lacing her words undeniable. “You never even bothered to come to me. Not once. And now this?”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his expression remained unyielding. “This is hardly exile,” he replied, his voice as cool as the frost seeping into her chest. “You shall have a fine home, entirely your own. It is more than most women in your position are afforded.”

“Is this about what happened at the cliff?” she asked, unable to stop the tremor in her voice. Her heart ached with a mixture of hurt and humiliation, yet she pressed on. “Are you regretting what we shared? Is that it, Morgan?”

His gaze flickered, just for a moment, but whatever emotion had surfaced was swiftly buried. “Was this not our arrangement from the beginning, Margaret?” he returned, his tone so indifferent it sent a chill down her spine.

“But—” she began, her voice rising with the desperation of someone grasping at fragments of hope.

“Need I remind you,” he interrupted smoothly, cutting her words like a blade, “you agreed to these terms before you said your vows.”

Margaret’s breath faltered. The dispassion in his voice was more painful than anger could have ever been. She sat back, the papers slipping from her fingers, her gaze fixed on the man before her—the man who had kissed her with such warmth, held her as though she meant something, and now spoke to her as though she were little more than a nuisance to be managed.

For a moment, all she could do was stare, her heart aching as realization settled in her chest like a stone. Whatever she thought they had begun to build, Morgan had just dismantled it with unrelenting precision.

“Terms you practically shoved down my throat, Morgan,” Margaret shot back, her voice trembling with frustration. “I had little choice in the matter to begin with, need I remind you ?”

Her words hung in the air, but they seemed to have no effect on him. Morgan’s expression remained as cold and unyielding as ever. It was clear—painfully, heartbreakingly clear—that he had already resolved himself to this course of action.

Margaret’s chest tightened as she stared at the man before her. Only days ago, he had been warm, even tender. He had been her friend, perhaps something more. But now? Now, he was a stranger, distant and unreachable. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream in exasperation or surrender to the tears threatening to spill over.

Had their relationship truly meant nothing to him?

“Very well, Your Grace,” she said at last, the words escaping her lips with a hollow finality. She rose to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate as though she were holding herself together by sheer will. “If that is what you wish.”

She left the room, her back straight and her head high, but the moment the door closed behind her, her composure crumbled. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, the betrayal cutting deeper than she had thought possible.

By the afternoon, Margaret had begun to pack. The housemaids moved about silently, their sympathetic glances only deepening her resolve to leave as quickly as possible. But it wasn’t until the dawn of the day before her scheduled departure that she made her decision.

“Have the carriage brought around,” she instructed the butler in a clipped tone, avoiding his curious gaze. She donned her traveling cloak and left the estate without ceremony, the rising sun casting a pale light over the grounds she once thought might become her home.

Her family in London was, predictably, delighted by her unexpected arrival. Peggy fabricated a reason for her visit as easily as one might don a bonnet, though the lie felt brittle even as she spoke it.

“Oh, with Anna and Lizzy both gone, I simply couldn’t bear to stay away,” she said brightly during dinner. “I missed you all far too much.”

Her father and siblings seemed content with her explanation, their smiles warm and welcoming. But as the evening wore on, Margaret struggled to maintain the mask of cheer. The storm within her—of anger, disappointment, and heartbreak—threatened to spill over.

Unfortunately for her, Anna, ever the scrutinizing cousin, saw right through it.

That night, as Peggy sat in her old bedroom, brushing her hair before the vanity, Anna appeared at the door. Without invitation, she entered and perched on the edge of the bed, her arms crossed and her brow arched in pointed curiosity.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” Anna asked without preamble. “This cannot be a mere visit, Peggy.”

Margaret hesitated, keeping her back to Anna as she carefully placed the brush down. “You are far too quick to jump to conclusions, Anna,” she said, her voice steady but lacking its usual vibrancy.

Anna snorted softly. “You are an atrocious liar, Peggy. You know that, don’t you?”

Peggy sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. She turned at last, her expression carefully composed but her eyes betraying the turmoil within.

“What happened?” Anna pressed, her tone softening as she leaned closer. “You need not bear it alone.”

Peggy’s lips parted, the words on the tip of her tongue, but for a moment, she faltered. The thought of unburdening herself was as tempting as it was terrifying. She swallowed hard, unsure if she could face the truth aloud—unsure if she could bear to hear it herself.

Margaret’s mind replayed Morgan’s words, his cold dismissal, and the dispassion in his eyes as he had pushed those papers toward her. She thought of his kiss, the warmth of his touch on the cliff—the fleeting moments when she had believed he cared. Moments that now seemed like cruel illusions.

“Did that ghoulish Duke do something to you, Peggy?” Anna’s voice cut through her reverie, sharp with both concern and indignation. “Is that why you are here? Has he been mistreating you?”

Margaret’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You speak of him as though he were a cruel beast, Anna,” she said, her voice measured but tinged with disapproval.

Anna leaned forward, her expression unrelenting. “Why, any man who would send his wife away like this must be a cruel one indeed.”

Margaret’s hands clenched the edge of her dressing gown. “He did not send me away, Anna,” she replied, her voice taut. “I came of my own accord.”

Anna’s eyes flashed with stubborn determination. “Because of something he must have done to you,” she insisted. “Come now, talk to me, Peggy dear. What did he do?”

But the question—laden with implication—only added to the tempest within Margaret. It wasn’t Anna’s concern that grated on her; it was the disrespect in her words about Morgan, a man Margaret herself could hardly defend at the moment but still felt bound to shield from insult.

“I would appreciate it,” Margaret said, her voice sharp as the edge of a blade, “if you refrained from such disrespectful words about my husband, Anna.”

Anna’s eyes widened, and she leaned back as though struck. The warmth of her earlier concern faded, replaced by a flicker of hurt and surprise. For a moment, she seemed unsure of how to respond, her lips parting only to close again.

“I’m sorry, Peggy,” Anna said at last, her tone subdued. She rose from the bed with deliberate grace, smoothing her skirts as though regaining her composure. “I will let you sleep now.”

Margaret watched as her cousin left the room, the door closing softly behind her. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down on her like a weight. She sank onto the edge of the mattress, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed them against her lap.

Anna had only been trying to help, to draw her out of the shell of hurt she had built around herself. And yet, Margaret had all but slammed that effort back in her face with cold indifference. Guilt coiled tightly in her chest, and her stomach churned at the thought of the hurt she had caused someone who had only wanted to protect her.

She turned toward the window, the moonlight casting long shadows across the room. Her gaze lingered on the hydrangeas on her bedside table, their soft colors dulled by the night. She felt as though she were unraveling, each strand of emotion slipping through her grasp.

Margaret closed her eyes, but sleep felt like a distant luxury. The storm within her refused to abate, and she knew—deep down—that it was far from over.