Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Eliza stood at the window of the servants’ quarters of the Kirkhammer House in London, watching the street below with mounting dread. Carriages rolled past in an endless parade, all gleaming black lacquer, golden crests emblazoned on doors, liveried footmen standing at attention.
The heart of bloody Mayfair! The center of the ton! The very last place I should be.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging the pane. What had she been thinking? She’d been so desperate to escape, so relieved to have employment, that she hadn’t fully considered the danger of being employed by a duke and the chances of a return to London. And so soon…
Here, in the Duke’s townhouse, she was mere blocks away from her parents’ residence. A short walk from the ballrooms where she’d once danced. A stone’s throw from Lord Whitfield’s hunting grounds…
Anyone could recognize me. Anyone could expose me.
The thought made her stomach turn.
“Miss Graham?”
Eliza turned to find Mrs. Dawson in the doorway, her expression mildly concerned.
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson?”
“His Grace requires fresh linens in the drawing room. The blue set.”
“Of course. Right away.”
Eliza curtsied and hurried past the housekeeper, grateful for the distraction.
Work. She could focus on work. Keep her head down. Avoid notice. Save every penny of her wages until she had enough to disappear again, and properly this time. Somewhere far from London, perhaps the north, perhaps Scotland.
And in the meantime, she would stay invisible as a ghost.
At least when I leave this time, I will have a reference from a duke. That alone will open doors that would otherwise remain closed to a woman with no connections, no family, no past.
She just needed to survive long enough to earn it.
Morgan had been avoiding Miss Graham as if it were a vocation.
It was cowardly, he knew. Ungentlemanly. Beneath him. And yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Every time he caught sight of the maid in the hallway, he found a reason to turn the other direction.
Every time she entered a room to perform some task, he suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere.
He’d even taken to having his meals served in his study rather than the dining room, simply to minimize the chances of crossing paths with her.
Because every time he saw her, he thought of the kiss.
That damned kiss.
It had been a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by moonlight, and proximity, and the intoxicating mystery of Miss Ellie Graham. And her haunting hazel eyes, framed by thick black eye lashes that danced as she blinked them.
He had apologized. She’d forgiven him. They’d agreed to forget it ever happened.
Except… Morgan couldn’t forget.
He couldn’t forget the softness of her lips. The way she’d gasped against his mouth, startled but not unwilling. The brief, electric moment when she’d kissed him back before reality had crashed down. He replayed it endlessly in the privacy of his mind, dissecting every detail, torturing himself.
It was maddening. Distracting. Completely inappropriate.
And apparently, inescapable.
With the return to London, he resolved to throw himself into his social obligations with renewed determination, hoping that the glittering whirl of the ton would provide sufficient distraction—dinners, musicales, soirées.
The same faces, the same conversations, the same tedious rituals he’d endured for years.
But even there, he couldn’t escape her.
The second night after his return, Morgan found the Countess of Harrington’s musicale as predictable as it was insufferable. The drawing room was packed with posh, elegantly dressed guests, all pretending to appreciate the off-key soprano currently butchering a Mozart aria.
Morgan stood near the back with Ambrose and Imogen, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to look engaged.
“She sounds like a strangled cat,” Ambrose murmured under his breath. “Couldn’t they find anyone more suitable?”
Imogen elbowed him gently. “Be kind, husband. She is clearly doing her best.”
“I am being kind. I didn’t say it loudly.”
Morgan bit back a smile. At least Ambrose’s dry commentary made these events bearable.
A movement near the door caught his attention. Lady Tayham had arrived, dressed in a shimmering emerald silk, her fan fluttering as she scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Morgan, and she smiled. It was a practiced, calculating smile that he recognized all too well.
“Oh no,” Morgan muttered. “Good luck runs out for everyone I suppose.”
“What?” Ambrose followed his gaze. “Ah. Lady Tayham has arrived and her eyes are set on you. My condolences.”
“She’s been pursuing you for months,” Imogen observed, her tone amused. “Perhaps you should simply accept the inevitable and dance with her. What harm could it do to humor the poor woman? She must be terribly lonely since her husband passed last year.”
“I’d rather swim in the Thames.”
But Lady Tayham was already making her way toward them, her skirts swishing with purpose.
“Your Grace,” she purred, executing a perfect curtsy. “What a delight to see you this evening.”
“Lady Tayham,” Morgan replied politely, raising a rakish eyebrow yet his heart wasn’t in it. “You look well.”
“How kind of you to notice.” She moved closer, angling herself so that her ample décolletage was prominently displayed. “I was hoping we might have a chance to speak privately later. There’s an important… matter I wished to discuss with you.”
Morgan doubted very much that the matter in question was anything he wanted to hear.
“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full this evening,” he said smooth as silk. “Perhaps another time.”
Her smile tightened, but she recovered quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall hold you to that.”
She drifted away, and Morgan exhaled in relief, not realizing he had been holding his breath.
“You’re being hunted,” Ambrose observed.
“I’m aware.”
“Half the women in this room are circling like sharks,” Imogen added, not unkindly. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
Morgan did realize. It was the same at every event, which didn’t usually bother him so.
Women smiling at him with calculated interest, mothers pushing their daughters into his path; widows and debutantes alike angling for his attention, his title, his fortune.
None of it held any appeal. Not anymore. Not even for a brief distraction.
Surely, he went through the motions of polite conversation, the occasional dance, the requisite charm, but his heart wasn’t in it. His mind kept drifting back to hazel eyes and guarded smiles. To a woman who wanted nothing from him except to be left alone.
“Morgan?”
He blinked.
“Are you all right?” Ambrose asked.
“Fine,” Morgan lied. “Just distracted.”
“Clearly.”
Before Ambrose could press further, a new group approached. A husband and wife, accompanied by a portly gentleman Morgan vaguely recognized as Mr. Dorney, a merchant with high aspirations.
“Your Grace,” Lord Ramersby said, bowing stiffly. “What a pleasure. I have only seen you in passing at other parties. Please allow me to introduce myself and my dear wife, I am Lord Ramersby and this is Lady Ramersby.”
Morgan inclined his head politely. He’d heard of the Ramersbys before, an earl with a fondness for cards and a wife with a fondness for gossip.
“Lord Ramersby. Lady Ramersby.” Morgan turned to the third member of their party. “Mr. Dorney.”
“Your Grace, it’s an honor,” Mr. Dorney said, beaming. “I was just telling Lord Ramersby how much I admire your work in Parliament. Your recent speech on agricultural reform was quite brilliant.”
Morgan murmured something appropriately modest, though he could barely remember the speech in question or what he had even said. The conversation drifted to the usual topics, politics, the weather, the upcoming season.
And then Mr. Dorney said, “I was sorry to hear about Lady Eliza, by the way.”
Morgan’s attention sharpened.
Lady Eliza?
Lord Ramersby coughed awkwardly. Lady Ramersby’s expression froze, her smile becoming brittle, as if it would break at any moment. Morgan was intrigued.
“Yes, well,” Lady Ramersby said quickly. “These things happen. She’s recovering nicely.”
“Recovering?” Mr. Dorney frowned. “I heard she had… disappeared.”
“A ridiculous rumor spread by gossips,” Lady Ramersby complained.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Dorney said. “From what, exactly? She will be all right, won’t she?”
“A fever,” Lady Ramersby said smoothly, though her voice trembled ever so slightly. “Nothing serious, but we thought it best for her to convalesce in the countryside. The air in London can be so oppressive, you understand.”
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Dorney nodded. “Please send her my regards when you write to her.”
“I shall.”
Lady Ramersby’s tone was too smooth, too practiced. Lord Ramersby looked distinctly uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on the floor.
They are lying… but why?
“I see. And where is she staying?”
“With family,” Lord Ramersby interjected quickly. “Distant relatives. In… in the north.”
“The north?” Imogen spoke for the first time, her tone polite but curious. “How lovely. Which part?”
“Yorkshire,” Lady Ramersby said at the same time Lord Ramersby said, “Derbyshire.”
An awkward silence fell.
“That is,” Lady Ramersby amended, her smile strained, “she’s traveling between both. Visiting various relatives.”
Morgan didn’t believe a word of it, but filed it away.
As the group dispersed, Morgan turned to Ambrose and Imogen.
“That was odd,” Imogen murmured.
“Very,” Morgan agreed. “Do you know the Ramersbys well?”
“Only in passing,” Ambrose said. “Ramersby’s deep in debt, from what I’ve heard. Gambling, mostly. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Morgan filed the information away as he often did. It likely had nothing to do with him, but something about the entire exchange had left him uneasy.