Chapter 13 #2
“Your scent is intoxicating,” he whispered as they started up the stairs. “Like… like lavender. And something else. Books, maybe? Do books have a scent?”
“I suppose they do.”
“I like it. I like everything about you, actually. Your eyes. They’re like rich honey, sweet and warm.”
“Mercy me,” Eliza said as she concentrated on the stairs, trying to ignore the way her heart was fluttering. “You’re not going to remember any of this tomorrow.”
“Probably not. But it’s still true.” They reached the landing, and Morgan paused, looking down at her seriously. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, Ellie Graham…”
Her breath caught. “Your Grace…”
“And you’re kind. So kind. The way you were with Arthur and Philip. The way you are with everyone, really. Even when you’re trying to be invisible, you can’t help being wonderful. You’re radiant.”
“Please stop talking,” Eliza whispered, her throat tight.
“Why?” his brow furrowed.
“Because you’re making this very difficult.”
“Making what difficult?” he swayed towards her, his head tilting down closer to hers, closer than appropriate.
Keeping my distance. Protecting my heart. Remembering why I can never let myself care about you.
“Never mind that. You need to rest, Your Grace,” She said instead, and gently guided him down the corridor.
They made their way to his chambers and mercifully, they didn’t encounter any other servants.
Eliza managed to get the door open. The room beyond was large and masculine, all dark wood and deep colors, just as she remembered.
But seeing it at night, with him so close to her, and the massive four-poster bed dominating the space…
I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
“Here we are,” Eliza said, guiding him toward the bed and remembering her mission. “Sit down before you fall down.”
He obeyed, sitting heavily on the edge of the mattress. He looked up at her, his emerald eyes warm despite their glassiness.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.
“For what?”
“For kissing you. For avoiding you. For calling you nothing when Arabella was here.” His expression turned almost pained. “You’re not nothing, Ellie. You’re… you’re in my thoughts, in my dreams….”
Eliza shook her head. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Maybe. But I mean it anyway.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. “Stay. Just for a minute.”
“I can’t.”
“Please?”
The word was so soft, so plaintive, that it broke something in her chest. She had wanted a friend, she had been so lonely since she lost…
I cannot think of that now.
“Just until you fall asleep,” she heard herself say. “Then I’m leaving.”
Morgan smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face. “You’re wonderful.”
He laid back on the bed, not bothering to remove his boots or coat. Eliza knew she should probably help him undress, at least to make him more comfortable, but that felt far too intimate. Too dangerous. Instead, she perched carefully on the edge of the bed, keeping a safe distance.
“Tell me something,” Morgan said sleepily. “Something true.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. I just want to hear your voice.”
Eliza thought for a moment. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a pirate.”
Morgan’s eyes had closed, but he smiled. “A pirate?”
“I read a book about Anne Bonny and Mary Read. Female pirates who sailed the Caribbean. I was completely entranced by their stories.” She found herself relaxing slightly, the familiar rhythm of storytelling calming her.
“I used to pretend our garden was a ship, and I’d command my imaginary crew on grand adventures. ”
“That’s adorable.”
“My mother was horrified.”
“She sounds terrible.”
Eliza couldn’t help but laugh softly. “She had her moments.”
“What changed your mind? About being a pirate?”
“I grew up. Learned that women aren’t allowed to have adventures. We’re supposed to sit quietly and marry well and produce heirs.” The bitterness crept into her voice before she could stop it. “We’re supposed to be ornaments and nothing more.”
“You’re not an ornament,” Morgan murmured, his words starting to slur together. “You’re a pirate. A beautiful, mysterious pirate.”
Just as she was about to step back, he let out a small gagging sound followed by a groan.
“Oh,” he said, pressing a hand to his stomach. “That’s… not good.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. She’d helped care for her father on more than one occasion after he’d overindulged, and she recognized the signs. She should have known this was coming.
“Your Grace, do you feel ill?”
“Everything’s spinning a bit,” he admitted, swaying slightly even while seated. “Like I’m on a ship. Are we on a ship?”
“No, Your Grace. You’re in your bedroom.”
“That’s good.’.”
Eliza bit her lip. She couldn’t leave him like this. If he became sick in his sleep, he could choke. And despite everything, despite all the reasons she should maintain distance, she couldn’t let that happen.
“We need to get you more comfortable,” she said, reaching for his coat then. “Can you help me with this?”
He attempted to shrug out of his coat on the bed, shimmying awkwardly, but his arms seemed to have stopped cooperating with his brain. He flailed a bit, got one arm stuck, and looked at her with such bewildered consternation that she nearly laughed.
“I appear to be trapped,” he said seriously.
“So, I see. Here, let me help.”
She tugged gently at the coat, maneuvering it over his shoulders and down his arms as he wiggled on the bed. Morgan watched her with an expression of deep concentration.
“You’re very good at this,” he observed. “Have you undressed many drunk men?”
Eliza felt her cheeks flame. “No, Your Grace.”
“Good. I’d be quite jealous if that was the case.”
She set his coat aside and reached for his cravat, unwinding the hopelessly tangled linen from around his neck. He tilted his chin up obligingly, still watching her face.
“You have very gentle hands,” he said. “Like… like butterfly wings.”
Eliza pressed her lips together, fighting desperately against the laugh that wanted to escape. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I can’t stop looking at your honey eyes,” he said as he inched closer to her, a growing heat roaring between them. “They seem to hold the light of the stars in them, the way they catch the candlelight.”
Lines a rake has said a million times before, she told herself as she continued her work.
“They are just brown, Your Grace… I’m going to remove your waistcoat now.”
“Very well,,” he said quickly, his emerald eyes meeting her gaze, hot and assessing. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Your Grace.’.”
She unbuttoned the garment with fingers that trembled slightly. He tried to help by shrugging, which only went against the way she was working.
“Perhaps just stay still,” she suggested.
“I can do that,” he said, the flirtatious lilt to his voice still intact, or so Eliza thought.
Finally, the waistcoat joined the coat in a pile on the nearby chair.
Eliza eyed his shirt and trousers. The shirt she could leave, it was loose enough to sleep in.
The trousers were more problematic, but there was absolutely no universe in which she was going to attempt to remove them. His boots, however, had to go.
She knelt before him, reaching for the first boot. Morgan looked down at her, his expression softening into something almost tender.
“You’re kneeling,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t kneel for anyone, Ellie. You’re a pirate, remember?”
Her throat tightened. “I’m only removing your boots, Your Grace. Then, I will leave you to your rest.”
She tugged off the first boot, then the second, setting them aside. The Duke fell backward onto the bed with a groan, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“Would you fetch me some water, please? I think my valet has left some over there.”
“Right away,” Eliza straightened, looking down at him with concern.
She glanced around the room and spotted a tray on the bedside table, a carafe of water, two glasses, and a plate with several slices of plain toast. The valet must prepare it every time Morgan went out for the evening.
Smart man. He must be used to caring for the rakish duke and his wild ways.
“Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She brought the tray over, setting it on the table beside the bed. Then, gently, she helped him sit up, propping pillows behind his back.
“Here, Your Grace,” she said, pouring water into a glass.
Morgan took the glass and sipped.
He took a bite of toast then, chewing slowly. She noticed that his eyes never left her face. The intensity of his gaze made her nervous, made her want to look away, but she forced herself to remain calm. Professional, even in such an impossible encounter.
“You’re so much nicer than Cecilia,” he said suddenly, his voice soft and slightly slurred.
Eliza’s hand stilled on the water carafe. “Cecilia?”
“Mmm.” Morgan took another bite of toast, still watching her. “She never took care of me. Not really. She said she did, but she didn’t mean it. You mean it. I can tell.”
“Your Grace…”
“I need to lie down properly and rest,” he said then, as if he had a momentary lapse in judgment, sharing such mysterious insights with her.
She helped him shift onto his side, arranging the pillows so he was comfortable.
She retrieved the bucket from the corner of the room and placed it beside the bed where he could reach it easily.
“There’s a bucket here if you need it,” she said, pointing. “And the water and toast are on the table. Can you see them?”
“I will be fine,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Eliza said as she looked toward the door, measuring the distance, calculating her escape. But his hand was still loosely holding hers, and his eyes were following her every movement with an expression that was almost reverent.
She sighed. There was a chair near the bed, the same one where she’d laid his coat. She moved it closer and sat down, her hand still caught in his.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” she said softly. “And you’re going to close your eyes and rest, all right?”
“What kind of story?”
“The kind my nurse used to tell me when I was ill and couldn’t sleep.”
Morgan’s eyes were already starting to drift closed. “All right.”
Eliza took a breath, reaching back into memory, to a time when the world was simpler. When being sick meant warm broths and cool cloths and nursery tales of heroes and magic.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “in a land far across the sea, there lived a brave knight with dark auburn hair and emerald eyes who had lost his way…”
And so, she told him a story, a rambling tale of enchanted forests and helpful animals and a knight who learned that sometimes the thing you’re searching for has been beside you all along.
She kept voice low and soothing, falling into the rhythms her nursemaid had used, letting the words flow like water.
Morgan’s breathing gradually evened out. His grip on her hand loosened, though he didn’t let go entirely. His face relaxed into sleep, the lines of tension smoothing away.
“…and the knight returned home,” Eliza continued softly, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her anymore, “having learned that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the willingness to continue despite it. And he lived, if not happily, then at least contentedly, ever after.”
She stood then, smoothing her skirts, and allowed herself one last look at him. In sleep, with his dark hair mussed and his expression unguarded, he looked younger, almost innocent. Not at all the rakish duke he had the reputation of being.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers lingered for just a moment against his skin, warm and alive.
“Goodnight, Morgan,” she whispered.
Then she turned and slipped quietly from the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Morgan woke to sunlight stabbing directly into his skull.
He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes, and immediately regretted it as the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.
His head was pounding like someone had taken up residence inside his skull with a hammer and anvil.
His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on old leather.
And he had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten into bed.
Fragments of memory drifted through the fog… White’s, Ambrose’s concerned face, far too much brandy. A hackney cab. The front door of his townhouse.
And then…
Ellie?
Morgan forced his eyes open, squinting against the offensive brightness. He was in his room, still wearing his shirt and trousers but minus his coat, waistcoat, and boots. Someone had positioned him on his side, surrounded him with pillows.
Someone had… taken care of him.
His gaze drifted to the bedside table. The carafe of water. The plate with one remaining piece of toast. And beside the bed…
A chair. Positioned close to the bed, as though someone had been sitting there. Keeping watch.
The memories came flooding back in a mortifying rush.
You’re so pretty.
You smell like lavender and books.
You’re a beautiful secret pirate.
“Oh God,” he groaned.
He sat up too quickly, instantly regretted it, and barely made it to the bucket before his stomach emptied itself. When the world finally stopped heaving, he slumped back against the pillows, feeling utterly wretched.
He’d been completely drunk. Out of his mind. And Ellie had helped him undress. Brought him water. Stayed with him. The chair was proof enough of that, as was her sweet, lingering scent. It was not a dream.
A smile tugged at his lips despite the pounding in his head and the misery in his stomach…
yet, he’d been so pathetic. Utterly, completely pathetic.
And he’d probably said things…he definitely remembered saying something about Cecilia, though the exact words were lost in the brandy-soaked haze of his memory.
Had he made inappropriate comments? Declared something mortifying and impossible?
He had no idea.
Which was, somehow, even worse than knowing.
Morgan buried his face in his hands, groaning.
He owed her an apology. Another one now. Though at this rate, he was going to run out of ways to apologize for his increasingly ridiculous behavior.
She stayed, a small voice whispered in his mind.
Morgan reached for the water, drinking deeply, trying to wash away both the taste in his mouth and the confusion in his heart.