Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“ Y our Grace!” the Earl of Dowshire greeted as Morgan stepped into his study, moving around the desk with an eager hand outstretched. “This is an honor—truly, an honor.”

His dark eyes scanned the modest room, taking in the worn furnishings and the scuffed edges of the Persian rug. Morgan accepted the handshake with a curt nod, his grip firm but impersonal. “Lord Dowshire,” he replied, his voice measured. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Of course, of course.” Dowshire gestured toward the chairs flanking the hearth, his enthusiasm almost boyish. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink? Sherry? Brandy?”

“No, thank you.” Morgan crossed the room, his long strides purposeful, and settled into one of the chairs. He kept his posture straight, his demeanor commanding but not unkind. The Earl poured himself a sherry and took the opposite chair, his ruddy face flushed with a hint of anticipation.

“I must admit, Your Grace,” Dowshire began, swirling his glass, “I was not expecting a visit from you today. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Morgan studied the man before him—a figure slightly hunched with age, his clothes showing signs of careful mending. He was not unkempt, but neither did he exude the effortless polish of a man free from worry. Morgan could sense the weight of responsibility in the Earl’s tired eyes and the way his hand lingered just slightly too long on the arm of his chair, as though bracing for something unwelcome.

“I’ll be blunt, Lord Dowshire,” Morgan said, his voice low and steady. “This concerns your niece, Lady Margaret.”

The Earl stiffened slightly, his brows knitting together in surprise. “Margaret? Has she done something to offend you, Your Grace?”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. He could almost hear Lady Margaret’s voice, sharp with indignation, from their earlier exchange. Not something to offend me, perhaps, but enough to leave us both in a difficult position.

“No,” Morgan said carefully, “but the events of last night place us in an unfortunate situation. As you may know, Lady Margaret and I were... discovered in a compromising circumstance.”

The Earl’s grip on his glass faltered slightly, and he set it down on the side table with exaggerated care. “Compromising, you say?” His tone carried an edge of skepticism. “How does a man such as yourself find himself in such a position with my niece?”

Morgan’s lips twitched at the question, though he maintained his composure. “By sheer accident, Lord Dowshire. Lady Margaret and I crossed paths in the garden, and a mishap occurred—unfortunate timing— and prying eyes did the rest.”

Dowshire’s frown deepened, and he leaned forward slightly. “I see,” he said slowly. “I trust it was an innocent encounter, then. My family has always prided itself on its upright reputation, Your Grace.”

Morgan resisted the urge to arch a brow. Upright, indeed. Lady Margaret appeared to be on the hunt that night. He kept his expression neutral. Still, who am I to quibble with a man’s illusions about his family?

“Of course,” Morgan replied, his tone cool. “Which is precisely why I am here—to ensure that reputation remains unblemished.”

The Earl sat back in his chair, his hand moving to stroke his jaw. His expression softened slightly, as if weighing Morgan’s words. “And what resolution do you propose, Your Grace?”

“A marriage,” Morgan stated bluntly. “To preserve Lady Margaret’s reputation and avoid scandal.”

Dowshire’s brows lifted in surprise, though his expression quickly gave way to relief. “I see. A marriage to a Duke... That would certainly resolve any unpleasant rumors.”

Morgan watched the Earl’s reaction with the detached precision of a chess player analyzing his opponent’s next move. He could see the calculations forming in the Earl’s mind—the elevation of the family’s status, the alliance with a man of Morgan’s wealth and title.

“My niece is a spirited girl,” Dowshire said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. “Marriage to a man such as yourself would be an opportunity most would envy. But I must ask, Your Grace, do you believe the two of you... compatible?”

Morgan’s lips twitched in the barest semblance of a smile. “I believe we are capable of fulfilling the obligations required of us. Compatibility is secondary to practicality in this matter.”

The Earl nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall speak with Margaret. I have no doubt she will agree, though I would not force her into anything against her will.”

Morgan’s mouth tightened, but he inclined his head. “A week’s time,” he said, rising from his seat. “I will have the arrangements made.”

The Earl stood as well, clasping his hands together. “Very well, Your Grace. I thank you for your understanding—and for your intentions toward Margaret.”

Morgan inclined his head once more, though a faint flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossed his features. He pushed it aside as quickly as it surfaced.

“This is the best course for all involved,” Morgan said, his tone final. “Good day, Lord Dowshire.”

As he exited the study, Morgan’s thoughts churned. He had done what was necessary, what was right. Yet the bitterness in his chest remained, a stubborn weight that no amount of practicality could dislodge.

Margaret sat up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The Duke entered first, his expression impassive. Behind him came Sebastian, whose usually genial face bore a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Sebastian began, astonished. “A Duke offering for Margaret? Truly, a great honor.”

Margaret’s brows shot up. “Uncle,” she began, her tone incredulous, but before she could press further, Giltford stepped forward.

“If I may, I would like a word with Lady Margaret in private,” he announced, his calm authority leaving little room for protest.

Sebastian blinked, then nodded. “Of course.”

Margaret’s stomach dropped. “Uncle, I?—”

“It will be fine,” Sebastian assured her, patting her shoulder before retreating from the room.

Her heart thudded painfully as Giltford gestured for her to follow him to a corner of the drawing room. Margaret’s steps were hesitant, but she forced herself to appear composed.

Once they were alone, he turned to her. “Your uncle has agreed to the marriage,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were confirming a business arrangement.

Margaret’s mouth went dry. She clenched her fists, the weight of his words pressing down on her. Surely, her life had become the work of a mercilessly rushed novelist.

“We will marry in a week,” Giltford continued, his gaze steady and unyielding.

Margaret could only stare at him, her mind struggling to keep pace.

“Under certain conditions,” he added. Margaret’s spine stiffened at the Duke’s tone, each word falling from his lips with maddening precision.

Her chin lifted, defiance sparking in her eyes. “Do not speak as though you are doing me a favor,” she shot back, her voice firm despite the flutter of unease in her chest.

His brow quirked, an expression of faint amusement playing on his face. “Am I not?” The audacity of his words sent a flush of indignation rushing to her cheeks.

“It is either this, or a ruined reputation,” he added, his tone calm and measured, as though he were pointing out a simple fact of nature. Margaret bristled, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“You presume much,” she bit out, though her voice faltered slightly. The weight of his words, of the cold reality he presented, pressed heavily upon her.

He ignored her rising ire, continuing with unflappable ease. “We would marry in a sennight. After which, we would live as a married couple for one month. By then, any potential rumors would have been staunched.”

She stared at him, her thoughts a tangle of outrage and disbelief. Before she could muster a reply, he continued, his voice as even as if he were discussing the weather. “Afterward, I would settle you with a generous stipend and a home of your own. You would carry on living independently, unburdened by me.”

Margaret’s mouth fell open. Was this man serious? Did he truly believe she would agree to such a cold, transactional arrangement? “I—” she began, her voice rising, but the words died in her throat as he stepped toward her.

Her back met the edge of an end table, halting her retreat. The air between them felt charged, and her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. She forced herself to meet his gaze, though the intensity in his dark eyes made it difficult to breathe.

“Dowshire will have the contract ready for signing in two days,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. His closeness was overwhelming, and Margaret felt a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name—something sharp and unsettling.

“You have two days to consider, ” he continued, his tone softening just enough to feel like a warning. “I trust you will make the wise choice. You seem like a clever girl after all, Margaret.”

The sound of her name from his lips—spoken with such infuriating familiarity—brought her back to herself. She drew in a shaky breath, her nails digging into the fabric of her dress as she struggled to steady her trembling hands.

And then, without waiting for her reply, he stepped back, his movements unhurried as though he had all the time in the world. With a final, infuriatingly calm glance, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Margaret remained frozen in place, her thoughts spinning wildly. How had this man—this overbearing, infuriating man—turned her life on its head so completely in the span of two days? She pressed a hand to her forehead, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she tried to make sense of it all.

The Duke of Giltford, she realized, had the unnerving ability to leave her utterly astounded and helplessly confused. And it was becoming a most unwelcome pattern.

Sebastian strode into the room, his brow furrowed with concern. “Margaret, I must know—why did you not speak of this incident last night?”

Margaret stiffened, the weight of the morning’s events still pressing heavily on her. She hesitated, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, but her uncle’s expectant gaze left no room for evasion. “I felt ashamed, Uncle,” she admitted quietly, her voice trembling as she blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall since Giltford’s departure. “I did not want to trouble you—or anyone—with such an embarrassment.”

Sebastian sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he stepped closer. “My dear girl, there is no shame in an accident,” he said, his tone kind but firm. “And you must not bear such burdens alone. We are your family, Margaret.”

His words, though meant to comfort, only made her throat tighten further. “But I—” she began, only to stop herself. She swallowed hard and looked away, her hands twisting in her lap.

Sebastian’s voice softened. “This is your choice to make, Margaret. No one, not even the Duke of Giltford, can force you into something you do not wish to do.”

Margaret drew a shaky breath and finally raised her eyes to meet his. “I have to do this,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. “For Anna’s reputation, for our family’s good name. I cannot risk another scandal.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. “I would not lie to you, Margaret,” he said gravely. “The truth is, our family’s association with a second Duke—especially one of Giltford’s stature—would be of immense advantage to us.”

Margaret’s chest constricted as she absorbed his words. Though he meant well, his pragmatism felt like another stone added to the weight on her heart. She knew of the debts her father had left behind, the burden her uncle had borne to stabilize their household. Elizabeth’s marriage to the Duke of Sterlin had provided some reprieve, but it was not enough.

Her hands stilled, gripping the armrest of her chair. She had thought of herself as steadfast, but the enormity of what was being asked of her—what she was about to agree to—made her doubt her own strength.

Still, for her family’s sake, there was no other choice. “I understand, Uncle,” she said softly. “It is the right thing to do.”

Sebastian studied her carefully, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Are you certain?” he asked. “You must not decide out of obligation or guilt, Margaret. Your happiness is important.”

She forced a smile that barely reached her eyes. “I am certain,” she lied, the words hollow in her ears. “I will marry the Duke.”

Her uncle’s expression shifted, his features softening with relief. “You are a brave and sensible young lady,” he said warmly. “I am proud of you.”

Margaret inclined her head, but her chest felt tight. As Sebastian turned to leave, she remained seated, her hands now resting limply in her lap. Her thoughts churned, each one heavy with doubt.

She had secured her family’s future, yes. But at what cost to herself?

“That man is insufferable,” Peggy muttered, tossing the book she had been attempting to read onto the library table. The pages fluttered, but her frustration remained firmly bound. She pressed her fingers against her temples, hoping to quell the ache that had taken root there since morning.

The door creaked open, and Anna’s familiar voice broke the silence. “Sulking among the bookshelves, are we?”

Peggy glanced up, her cousin’s teasing smile drawing a weak response. “Hardly sulking. Simply...contemplating.”

Anna stepped inside, her pale blue evening dress swishing softly against the polished wood floor. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever known, Peggy. What’s troubling you?”

Peggy sighed, her hands falling into her lap. “Everything,” she admitted. “The Duke, this rushed marriage, the weight of it all. I—I hardly know how to feel.”

Anna perched on the armrest of Peggy’s chair, her expression softening. “You shouldn’t do this if your heart isn’t in it,” she said gently. “No matter the outcome, no matter the consequences. We are your family, Peggy, and we will support you, whatever you decide.”

Peggy’s throat tightened, and she felt the telltale sting of tears pressing against her composure. “I have to do this,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt more like a plea than a conviction.

Anna studied her for a long moment, her hand resting lightly on Peggy’s shoulder. “Do you, truly?” she asked, her eyes filled with both concern and skepticism.

Peggy gave a tiny nod, though she avoided Anna’s gaze. “For Uncle, for you. I can’t let another scandal drag us down.”

Anna exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and sadness. Her hand moved to Peggy’s, squeezing it gently. “You have a terrible habit of carrying the world’s weight, Peggy.”

“I hardly think I’m alone in that,” Peggy replied with a faint smile, her attempt at humor falling flat.

Anna tilted her head, a pensive look in her eyes. “Then perhaps it’s time to share the burden, rather than bear it all at once.” She paused, and Peggy noticed the change in her cousin’s expression—an idea forming, no doubt.

“How about you get to know him first, eh?” Anna suggested. “There’s no true haste. Society hasn’t caught wind of anything yet. You have time.”

Peggy blinked, the suggestion catching her off guard. “Get to know him? How?”

The innocence of her question made Anna smile—a warm, almost maternal smile that made Peggy feel both foolish and comforted. “For a start, you could ask him for a walk,” Anna said simply.

Peggy frowned. That was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? Even if it weren’t, was it possible? “A walk? With him?”

Anna laughed softly. “Yes, Peggy. It’s not as scandalous as you make it sound. You might find him less insufferable with fresh air and fewer witnesses.”

Peggy hesitated but found herself nodding. “Perhaps...perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Anna said, her grin widening. “I am older than you and therefore infinitely wiser.”

Despite herself, Peggy chuckled. “If you say so.”

“Write to him tonight,” Anna urged. “Make the request and see how he responds. If nothing else, it’s a start.”

The thought of corresponding directly with the Duke made Peggy’s nerves flutter, but she rose to the challenge.

That night, seated at her small writing desk, she dipped her quill into ink and wrote. Would he honor her invitation?

Would he care to?