Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

M organ urged his horse onward, the pounding of hooves echoing his own relentless thoughts. The cold wind whipped against his face, but he barely felt it, his focus consumed by the image of an empty house—her absence a palpable ache.

He had arrived in London in a whirlwind of anger and worry after hearing that Margaret had left for Town. Finding their house vacant had only deepened his turmoil, but a few inquiries had revealed her whereabouts: she had lodged with her family.

The knowledge settled heavily in his chest. She had sought refuge among her own instead of retreating to her Town house—a house he had painstakingly arranged for her independence. The bitter irony twisted in his gut. He had driven her to this, had pushed her away in the name of protecting her, yet he had not anticipated the hollowness her absence would leave behind.

His grip tightened on the reins as he swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat. He recalled their last conversation, the coldness he had forced into his words, and the wounded look in her eyes. He had hurt her, shattered the delicate connection they had begun to build. And in doing so, he had broken himself as well.

Slowing his horse, Morgan turned toward White’s, seeking solace—or perhaps oblivion—in the familiar confines of his club. By the time he was seated in the privacy of his snug, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, his mood had darkened further. The bustling atmosphere of the club, with its pretentious conversations and hollow laughter, grated on his nerves, though he welcomed the solitude of his corner.

He refilled his glass from the decanter before him, the amber liquid catching the dim light. The burn of the liquor as he drank did little to dull the ache in his chest. The future stretched before him, bleak and uninviting, without Margaret by his side. Yet, for all his torment, he resolved to honor what he believed to be her desire for space.

But God help him, he wanted to see her again. Needed to see her.

“What are the odds of finding you back in Town, least of all drinking at the club?” came a familiar, sardonic voice.

Morgan glanced up, his expression darkening further. “Good day to you, Broughton,” he said gruffly, raising his tumbler in a half-hearted salute.

Colin Caldwell, the Marquess of Broughton, arched a brow as he took the seat opposite. “You certainly do not sound like you are having a good day,” he observed. “And it is rather surprising to find you here at all. I trust all is well?”

Morgan let out a sigh, unable to summon the energy to deflect the question. “What happened to you?” Colin pressed, leaning forward with a glint of amusement tempered by genuine curiosity.

“Not now, Colin. I am in no mood for one of your inquisitions.”

Colin smirked, leaning back. “That bad, is it? Come now, Giltford, I’ve known you far too long. What have you done this time?”

“Why must it always be assumed that I am the guilty party?” Morgan retorted, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

“Because you are more stubborn than a mule,” Colin replied easily, settling back in his chair.

Morgan’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, but it faded as quickly as it appeared. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, staring into its depths as if it might hold the answers he sought. “It was my only option,” he said quietly. “To protect her.”

Colin’s brow furrowed, his expression turning serious. “Protect her from what, exactly? Herself?”

Morgan hesitated, then relented. He recounted the events of the past days, his voice steady but heavy with the burden of his choices. “She chose to lodge with her family when she arrived in Town,” he said finally, the admission almost inaudible. “It cannot be clearer that she does not wish to see me.”

Colin scoffed, sitting forward. “Do you hear yourself? You practically banished her, Morgan. What did you expect? That she would remain at your beck and call while you walled yourself off like some martyr?”

Morgan stiffened at the rebuke but said nothing.

“She is probably already giving you the space you appear to desire ,” Colin added pointedly, his voice rising slightly. “Did you expect her to come running back to you after you cast her aside?”

Morgan’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to refute the accusation.

Colin leaned forward, his gaze steady. “Do not let a good woman like that slip through your fingers, man. There are not many like her. If you cannot see that, then you deserve the misery you are inflicting on yourself.”

Morgan remained silent, his mind churning with Colin’s words.

“For the love of God, man, admit it,” Colin said, leaning closer. “You’re terrified of her. Of how much you care for her. Because loving her means risking something—risking yourself.”

Morgan flinched, his chest tightening as the truth of the words struck him. He drained his tumbler in one swift motion, setting it down with a clink. “It is not that simple,” he muttered.

“Isn’t it?” Colin challenged, his gaze unwavering. “You love her, Giltford. And that terrifies you.”

Morgan stared at him, the words ringing in his ears. Love her? The thought had haunted him for days, unspoken and unacknowledged. He had told himself he was protecting her, but the truth—raw and undeniable—was that his fear of losing her had driven him to push her away.

After a moment, Colin straightened and shifted the topic. “Are you attending the Sterlin ball tomorrow evening?”

Morgan frowned, his brow creasing. “What ball?”

“Why, the Duke and Duchess of Sterlin are closing the season with a grand event,” Colin said, swirling his drink lazily. “And since you are in Town now, I’ve no doubt they will extend the invitation. You are, after all, family now.”

“I am not going,” Morgan replied, his voice firm as he stared into his tumbler.

Colin’s brows lifted in mild surprise. “Surely the Duchess of Sterlin would want her sister to attend. Do not deny your wife this, too, Morgan.”

Morgan’s grip on his glass tightened. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, Broughton?” he asked, his tone carrying a trace of impatience. “Margaret does not wish to see me. Do you truly believe she would enjoy an entire evening in my company?”

Each word twisted like a dagger in his chest, the bitter truth of his own making too painful to ignore.

Colin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “These are conclusions of your own making,” he said steadily. “Have you asked her? Or are you merely assuming the worst because it suits your self-flagellation?”

Morgan’s jaw clenched. He turned his gaze to the window, his thoughts churning with a mixture of guilt and frustration. “I have no intention of parading through a ball while my marriage lies in tatters,” he muttered.

“You are in no state of mind to socialize,” Colin agreed, his voice softening slightly. “But perhaps this is an opportunity to mend what you’ve broken—if you would only stop convincing yourself that it is irreparable.”

Before Morgan could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them. He turned as the door opened, revealing the elderly Viscount Milton, who peered inside with a jovial expression.

“So it is true,” Lord Milton declared as he stepped inside. “My wife mentioned she saw the Duchess of Giltford at the park earlier today, and upon my arrival here, I heard word that the Duke himself had returned to Town.”

Morgan rose politely, suppressing a sigh. “Lord Milton,” he greeted, his tone civil despite his reluctance.

The Viscount continued with an easy smile, though his words carried thinly veiled curiosity. “What a delight to have you back in Town so soon, Your Grace,” he said, the emphasis on soon leaving no doubt as to his meaning. “Society will be most pleased to see you—and the Duchess, of course.”

Morgan inclined his head, though his smile was strained. “You are most kind.”

Lord Milton prattled on for another minute about the Sterlin ball and his expectations of seeing them both there before bidding farewell. As the door closed behind him, Morgan sank back into his chair, his hand rubbing at his temple.

“I told you,” Colin said with a smug nod, raising his glass in triumph. “Society’s wheels turn faster than you might like, my friend. Surely you did not expect to return to Town without obliging its whims and events?”

Morgan huffed, leaning back in his chair. “The speed at which word of my return has traveled is alarming.”

Colin chuckled, shaking his head. “Given your reclusive reputation, it is no wonder. Add to that your recent marriage, and I suspect no one expected you to return to Town at all—much less so soon. You should not be surprised that your presence has stirred such interest.”

Morgan frowned, but Colin continued, undeterred. “Moreover, Sterlin is your brother-in-law, and you are obligated to honor his invitation. Surely you cannot imagine the Duchess would wish her sister absent at such an event?”

Morgan let out a long sigh, Colin’s words pressing heavily upon him. As much as he detested the idea of parading through the ball, he saw no way of excusing himself. Refusing the invitation—or worse, attending without Margaret—would fuel society’s gossip. And he would not, under any circumstances, make her the object of further speculation.

“Very well,” he muttered, the words grudging but resolute. “I must go.”

Colin smirked, clearly pleased, but Morgan paid him no mind. His thoughts had already shifted to the challenge ahead. He needed to speak with Margaret, to convince her to join him.

It was, after all, her sister’s ball. Surely, she would not refuse to attend. Yet the greater question remained.

Would she be willing to play the part of his perfect Duchess? Pretend, as society would demand, that all was well between them?