Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Ten days,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
Ten more days of careful navigation through his own house followed, timing his movements to avoid crossing paths with Miss Graham. Ten days of eating in his study like a bloody monk, taking alternative routes through hallways, and feeling like a fool in his own home.
Morgan pulled at his cravat as his carriage rolled through the darkened streets of Mayfair, returning from yet another interminable dinner party.
Lord Ashford’s cook had outdone herself with a seven-course meal that Morgan had barely tasted, and Lady Ashford had seated him between two eligible young ladies who’d giggled their way through every attempt at conversation.
He was exhausted, irritated, and increasingly convinced that avoiding Ellie was doing absolutely nothing to diminish his preoccupation with her.
The carriage came to a halt in front of his townhouse. Morgan stepped down, nodding his thanks to the driver, and let himself in through the front door.
The house was quiet, most of the servants retired for the evening. A single lamp burned in the entrance hall, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
He had to go straight to bed. Tomorrow would bring another round of social obligations, another day of maintaining the careful facade of the Duke of Kirkhammer.
But he found himself drawn to his study instead.
The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. Morgan frowned. He distinctly remembered extinguishing the lamps before leaving for dinner. He pushed the door open…
And stopped.
Ellie stood at his desk, a cloth in one hand, carefully polishing the dark wood surface.
She’d removed her cap, and her dark blonde hair was pinned up simply, a few loose tendrils framing her delicate face.
The lamplight cast a golden glow across her features, softening the careful guardedness she usually wore like armor.
Even in such simplicity, she was a vision.
She looked up at the sound of the door, and her eyes widened like saucers.
“Your Grace,” she said quickly, straightening. “I apologize. I thought you’d retired for the evening. I was just finishing up, I did not mean to disturb—”
“It’s all right,” Morgan said, his voice rougher than he intended. “You’re not disturbing me.”
A lie. Her mere presence disturbed him in ways he was desperately trying not to examine—yet he craved it.
She set down the cloth, her movements precise and controlled. “I’ll leave you to your privacy, Your Grace.”
“There’s no need to rush.” The words were out before Morgan could stop them. “Unless you have other duties?”
“No, Your Grace. I was nearly finished here.”
Silence fell between them, thick and charged with something primal. Morgan stepped further into the room, closing the door partially behind him. He didn’t need a passing servant witnessing whatever this was going to be.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow despite himself.
Her hands stilled on the cloth. “I’ve been performing my duties, Your Grace.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and Morgan saw the conflict in her eyes. Fear warring with something else. Something that made his pulse quicken.
She feels it too… I knew it.
“Yes,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I…I have been avoiding you.”
“As have I,” Morgan admitted.
“Your Grace, I—”
“Morgan.” He took a step closer. “When we’re alone, you may call me Morgan.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate, Your Grace.”
“None of this is appropriate, Miss Graham. If we’re being honest, it never was.” Another step. “And yet here we are.”
Ellie’s breath hitched. She retreated slightly, her back coming up against the desk. “Your Grace, please. We agreed that… it would be easier if…”
“I know what we agreed.” Morgan stopped, maintaining a careful distance between them even as every instinct urged him closer. “And I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But I can’t stop thinking about…”
A sharp knock at the front door echoed through the house.
They both froze.
“Are you expecting someone, Your Grace?” Ellie asked, her voice unsteady.
“No.”
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Morgan heard the shuffle of footsteps, his night footman, roused from wherever he’d been dozing.
Voices in the entrance hall. A woman’s voice, bright and imperious.
“I don’t care if he’s retired. Tell His Grace that Lady Fairfax is here.”
Morgan’s blood ran cold.
Arabella.
“Your Grace?” Ellie was watching him, confusion and something that looked like alarm crossing her features.
Before Morgan could respond, the study door swung open fully.
Arabella Penrose, the young widow of Lord Fairfax, stood in the doorway, resplendent in deep burgundy silk, her dark hair artfully arranged, a knowing smile on her painted mulberry lips. She swept into the room as though she owned it, her gaze sliding from Morgan to Ellie and back again.
“Morgan, darling,” she purred, incredibly improper. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
The way she said important made it clear she considered Ellie about as important as a piece of furniture.
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “Lady Fairfax. This is unexpected.”
“Is it?” Arabella’s smile widened. She moved closer, her perfume, something heavy and cloying, filling the space between them. “I was at a card party in the neighborhood and found myself thinking of you. I thought perhaps we could share a late-night drink.”
Her meaning was unmistakable.
Morgan felt Ellie tense beside him. When he glanced at her, she had her head bowed, her face carefully blank and cheeks red as a macintosh. But her hands were trembling.
“Lady Fairfax,” Morgan said, his tone carefully controlled. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. I’m not receiving visitors this evening.”
Arabella laughed, a practiced, almost musical sound. “Oh, Morgan. Don’t be tedious. We both know I’m not a visitor.” She reached out, trailing one gloved finger along his cravat. “We have such a pleasant history, you and I. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
He hadn’t. Arabella had been his lover for several months, two years ago.
The affair had been convenient, uncomplicated, and entirely physical.
When it ended, by mutual agreement, they’d parted on good terms, ready to seek out other…
carnal companions. He thought their little nightly visits were done for good. Or so he’d thought.
“That was in the past,” Morgan said, gently but firmly removing her hand from his chest and crossing his arms. “Things change.”
“Do they?” Arabella’s gaze flicked to the maid again, something sharp and assessing in her eyes. “Or perhaps you’ve simply found a new… distraction?”
Ellie went rigid.
“Miss Graham is a member of my household staff,” Morgan said coldly. “Nothing more.”
The words were meant to protect her, to deflect Arabella’s suspicion. But he saw the way she flinched, saw the hurt flash across her features before she masked it.
“Of course she is,” Arabella said, her tone dripping with false sweetness and a click of her tongue. She leaned closer to Morgan, lowering her voice to what she clearly imagined was a seductive whisper. “Send her away, darling. We have so much to… discuss.”
Morgan felt disgust rise in his throat. Had he truly found this woman appealing once? Had he actually enjoyed her company?
“Miss Graham,” he said, not looking at Ellie. He couldn’t. “You… You’re dismissed.”
“Your Grace,” Ellie replied, her voice carefully neutral.
She curtsied to him, then to Arabella, and moved toward the door, but as she passed Arabella, the widow’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” Arabella asked suddenly.
“No, my lady,” Ellie replied as she froze mid step.
“Are you certain? There’s something familiar about you.”
“I’m quite certain, my lady. I would remember.”
“Hm.” Arabella studied her for another long moment, then waved her hand dismissively. “Run along, then, girl.”
And with that, Ellie fled—there was no other word for it. She moved quickly and quietly, but Morgan could see the panic in the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her hands clenched in her skirts. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Arabella turned back to Morgan, her cheshire smile returning. “Now then. Where were we?”
“You were leaving,” Morgan said flatly.
Her smile faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you were leaving.” Morgan moved past her, opening the study door pointedly. “I appreciate your… interest, Lady Fairfax. But I’m not interested in renewing our acquaintance.”
“Morgan…”
“I’ll have my footman call your carriage.”
Arabella’s expression shifted from surprise to indignation. “You’re dismissing me? For a maid?”
“I’m dismissing you because I choose to,” Morgan said, his voice hard now. “The reasons are my own.”
“This is absurd.” Arabella drew herself up, her eyes flashing. “Eight months ago, you couldn’t keep your hands off me. And now you’re turning me away for some common servant girl?”
“Lady Fairfax.” Morgan’s tone turned glacial. “I will ask you once more, politely even, to leave. If you refuse, I will have you escorted out. The choice is yours.”
For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her face had gone red, her hands trembling. But then she laughed, a bitter, ugly sound.
“Fine,” she spat. “But don’t think this will go unnoticed, Morgan. People talk. And when they learn that the Duke of Kirkhammer has developed a taste for his own servants—”
“Watch your tongue, Arabella. You would do well not to threaten me.”
“I did not mean to—”
“Get out. Now.”
The command was quiet but absolute. Arabella’s mouth snapped shut. She stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether to push further. Then, with a final venomous look, she swept past him and out into the hallway.
Morgan rang a bell by his desk and a footman appeared immediately, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Your Grace?”
“Lady Fairfax is leaving. Please see her to her carriage.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Morgan stood in the doorway, watching as Arabella descended the stairs, her spine rigid with fury. She didn’t look back.
The front door closed behind her with a satisfying thud. Morgan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair.
That was… unpleasant, but necessary.
He turned back into his study, intending to pour himself a very large brandy. But his eyes caught on something. The polishing cloth Ellie had been using, still draped across the corner of his desk.
And just visible beneath it, a single hairpin. Simple, unadorned. The kind a maid might wear.
Morgan picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.
Nothing more, he’d said. A member of my household staff. Nothing more.
In the servants’ quarters, Eliza sat on the edge of her narrow bed, her hands pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound of her ragged breathing.
Lady Arabella Fairfax.
She knew that woman. Not personally, they’d never been formally introduced—but she’d seen her at dozens of balls, soirees, dinner parties.
Lady Fairfax was a fixture of the ton, a widow of independent means who made no secret of her numerous liaisons with rich and powerful men.
And she’d almost recognized Eliza, she was certain of it.
Have we met? she asked, the words echoing in Eliza’s clouded mind.
Her heart was still racing, her skin clammy with cool fear. If Lady Fairfax remembered where she’d seen her, if she connected the maid in the Duke’s study with Lady Eliza Newmont…
No. She couldn’t think about that. Eliza forced herself to breathe slowly then, to calm the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
I must leave. Soon. Before anyone else recognizes me. Before my disguise crumbles completely. I just need a little more time. A few more weeks of wages…
Eliza lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She tried very hard not to think about the way the Duke had looked at her before Lady Fairfax arrived—or the way her traitorous heart had responded.
Or even the cold, final words that had shattered whatever fragile thing had been building between them.
Nothing more.
She repeated it to herself like a prayer.
Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing more.
But no matter how many times she said it, it felt like a lie.