Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Mr. Blackwood, Your Grace,” a footman announced.
The next morning, Mr. Blackwood arrived for another meeting. Morgan was in his study, reviewing correspondence, when the solicitor was announced.
“Very well,” Morgan said as he welcomed the distraction.
He’d spent half the night thinking about hazel eyes and soft fingers, the way Miss Graham had smiled when discussing Montaigne.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Blackwood said, settling into his chair and bringing Morgan back to the present.
“Good morning, Blackwood,” he ground out.
“Shall we begin with the accounts then?”
“Please.”
They worked through the business efficiently. Morgan signed documents, approved expenditures, and listened to reports on various properties and tenants based on their prior meeting.
This was familiar ground, the practical work of managing a duchy. He was good at it when he focused, and he knew it.
“The drainage project is proceeding well,” Blackwood was saying. “The tenants are pleased. And the harvest projections are quite favorable. We will be well supplied through the winter, which is anticipated to be harsh.”
“Excellent.”
“Your steward also mentioned that you’ve been quite present on the estate lately. Visiting tenants, inspecting properties. He’s impressed.”
Morgan leaned back and stared out the window. He’d spent years perfecting the art of the charming void, a rake with a quick wit and an even quicker exit strategy.
It was always another night, another ballroom, another pair of eyes looking for a promise I had no intention of keeping, he thought back. It’s an easy dance. No weight, no anchors.
He’d sworn off anything of substance like a man avoiding a plague. But the silence in his bachelor townhouse between parties had begun to ring with a hollow, mocking tone. Then came the boys.
The arrival of his nephews had been a chaotic intrusion into his carefully curated boredom.
He had expected to be miserable, tethered to the estate like a prisoner.
Yet, as he watched them play and enjoy his familial home so much, he realized the restless itch under his skin had finally stopped.
Having the boys here had forced him to stay put in the country, to engage with the responsibilities he usually delegated to a harried land agent.
I should be bored out of my mind, he admitted to himself, watching them on the lawn.
I should be dreaming of White’s and a deck of cards.
But I actually know the name of the tenant in the south cottage now.
I know that the roof in the stables needs thatch, and for some reason, I care that it gets done right.
And he’d found, to his surprise, that he didn’t mind it. In fact, the weight of the estate felt less like a burden and more like a foundation.
I don’t mind steady ground so much after all, it seems.
Blackwood’s tone shifted subtly, bringing Morgan back to their conversation. “I heard you took the boys to the village fair.”
“I did. They enjoyed it.”
“I’m sure they did. Good for them to be seen enjoying themselves. Good for your reputation as well.”
“Pardon me, Blackwood?” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “My reputation hardly needs burnishing in a village fair.”
“No, but it doesn’t hurt is all.” Blackwood paused. “I also heard that apart from the governess, your newest maid accompanied you.”
“Miss Graham. Yes. The boys are fond of her,” He said as his chest grew heavy at the thought of Miss Graham.
“I see.” Blackwood set down his quill and met Morgan’s gaze. “Your Grace, what I’m about to say comes from a place of respect and duty. You know I’ve served your family for many years.”
“Spare me the preludes, Blackwood.” Morgan’s jaw tightened. “Say what you need to say.”
“You have a reputation, Your Grace. I say this not as judgment, but as fact. You’re known for your… shall we say, unconventional lifestyle. The parties, the women, the—”
“I’m aware of what people say about me. This is not news. It is hardly an odd occurrence for a duke to enjoy such things.”
“Surely, but then you must also be aware that people notice when a duke shows particular interest in a young and appealing member of his staff.” Blackwood’s voice was gentle but firm. “Especially when that duke has never been known for… restraint in the past.”
Morgan’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair, especially at Blackwood’s acknowledgement of her pleasant appearance.
“Nothing inappropriate has occurred,” he growled.
“I believe you, Your Grace. But the appearance of impropriety can be as damaging as the thing itself. More so for her than for you, I’m afraid.
” Blackwood leaned forward. “Servants are vulnerable. Gossip travels quickly. A situation that begins lightly can become complicated in ways that reflect poorly on both parties, but will fall hardest on the woman.”
Morgan wanted to argue. To insist that Blackwood was wrong. To press that there was nothing between him and Ellie, that he was simply being kind to a member of his staff. But he knew better.
“Your counsel is noted,” he said stiffly.
“I only offer it because I care about your welfare, Your Grace. I always have and I always will. And because I’ve seen too many promising young women ruined by circumstances beyond their control.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Blackwood gathered his papers. “I’ll see myself out.”
When the door closed, Morgan remained at his desk, staring at nothing.
Blackwood is right. Of course he is right. While nothing has truly happened between me and this alluring maid, I cannot risk it. Yet a part of me cannot resist even the smallest encounter, the lightest gaze…
Morgan had already crossed into dangerous territory. Every conversation with Ellie, every lingering glance, every moment they spent together… it was building toward something. Something that would hurt her far more than it would hurt him.
And why do I care so much? He asked himself. He had ruined many a woman before, whether it was his intent or not as a careless rake. Yet, something about this Ellie had begun to stir a new feeling inside of him. It is as if I am a schoolboy, entranced and excited by this… infatuation.
He looked out the window toward the sea. He had to put distance between them.
For her sake, if not his own.
Over the next few days, Morgan made himself scarce.
He threw himself even more into estate business, spending long hours with his steward inspecting properties.
He accepted dinner invitations from neighboring families he would not ordinarily socialize with.
He kept to his study when he was home and avoided the parts of the house where Ellie might be working.
One evening, restless and unable to sleep, he rode to a tavern several villages over. It was late, and the crowd was thin, a few locals, a handful of travelers.
He ordered a drink and sat in a corner, nursing it slowly. Two young women at the bar had noticed him. They whispered to each other, then one approached, a pretty blonde with a coy smile and curvy hips.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said.
Morgan looked up. “No, dear,” he said, the flirtation coming out of his mouth like sheer habit.
“Passing through?”
“Something like that,” He said, letting his eyes rove up and down her body.
She leaned against the table, her intent clear. “I could show you around. If you’d like.”
A month ago, Morgan would have said yes without hesitation. Would have gone with her, spent a pleasant few hours forgetting his name and not learning hers, and rode home with nothing more than a faint headache and a lighter purse. Yet something about the proposition didn’t quite tempt him.
“Thank you,” he said. “But not tonight, beauty. Perhaps another time.”
She pouted prettily, then shrugged and returned to her friend.
Morgan finished his drink, realizing he had only had one. It was barely enough to feel, and he had no desire for more.
And so, he left. He rode home slowly, the night air cool against his face.
Eliza couldn’t sleep. She’d tried her best, tossing and turning for an hour. Eventually, she gave up and slipped out of bed. She wrapped a shawl over her nightgown and padded downstairs to the kitchens.
The house was silent. The servants were asleep, the fires banked, the corridors dark.
Eliza lit a single candle and found the tin of biscuits Cook kept in the pantry.
She settled at the main counter, spreading a clean towel beneath the book she had borrowed from His Grace.
She didn’t want to risk damaging it with crumbs.
She opened to her favorite section, the story of Persephone, and lost herself in the familiar words. She was so absorbed in fact that she didn’t hear the footsteps until a voice spoke from the doorway.
“Miss Graham.”
Eliza nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, clutching the book to her chest.
The Duke stood in the doorway, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, his hair slightly disheveled, likely from riding and at such a late hour. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Your Grace!” Eliza scrambled to her feet and curtsied. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… Oh goodness, can I prepare something for you?”
“No, no. I only meant to make some tea.” He gestured vaguely toward the stove. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I can make it for you!”
“Please don’t.” He held up a hand. “You’re not working right now. You’re entitled to some peace.”
“But Your Grace, I must insist. It is nor proper, and—”
“I’m perfectly capable of making my own tea, Miss Graham. Sit. Finish your reading.”
Eliza hesitated, then sank back onto the stool, feeling awkward and oddly vulnerable in her nightclothes, her dark blonde locks loose around her shoulders, curling down her back toward her backside.
The Duke moved to the stove and began heating water with surprising ease. He glanced at her. “Would you like some tea as well?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose!”
“Why not?”
“It’s not appropriate, and…”