Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The moment of quiet was shattered by a sharp knock at the study door. Morgan stiffened, his arms still around Eliza. She pulled back quickly, her face flushing, and Morgan reluctantly released her.
“Enter,” he called, his voice carefully neutral.
The door opened to reveal Lord Whitfield.
He stood in the doorway with the poised confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed, his expression one of measured concern that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.
“Your Grace,” Whitfield said smoothly, inclining his head. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but I felt I must speak with you. And with my dear fiancée, of course.”
Eliza went rigid beside Morgan. He felt her trembling and moved closer, a silent show of support.
“I’m not your fiancée,” Eliza said, her voice stronger than Morgan expected. “I never was. Not truly.”
Whitfield’s smile tightened fractionally. “My dear girl, we had an understanding. Your parents and I came to an agreement.”
“An agreement I never consented to.”
“Nevertheless,” Whitfield’s gaze shifted to Lord and Lady Ramersby, who were hovering just outside the door, clearly having followed him back. “Lord Ramersby, surely you can clarify this unfortunate misunderstanding?”
Lord Ramersby opened his mouth, peeking in from the doorway sheepishly, but before he could speak, Morgan growled.
“There is no misunderstanding, Lord Whitfield,” Morgan said. “Lady Eliza is not engaged to you. She’s engaged to me.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Whitfield’s composure cracked, just for a moment. His eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“This is…” Whitfield’s voice hardened. “Lord Ramersby, you and I had an arrangement. A binding arrangement. Your debts in exchange for your daughter’s hand.”
“Yes, well… things have… well, I…” Lord Ramersby shifted uncomfortably, clearly recognizing that antagonizing a duke was far more dangerous than antagonizing Whitfield. “Circumstances have… changed.”
“Changed?” Whitfield’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“What my husband means,” Lady Ramersby interjected, her tone attempting brightness, “is that we could never refuse such an honor as His Grace has bestowed upon our daughter. Surely you understand. A duchess! It’s far more than we could have hoped for.”
Whitfield’s hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, Morgan thought the man might actually lose control. But then that cold composure reasserted itself, settling over Whitfield like a mask.
“I see,” he said softly. “And my… compensation? The matter of the debts?”
“Will be paid in full,” Morgan said immediately. “Every penny Lord Ramersby owes you will be settled within the week. You have my word.”
Whitfield’s gaze moved past Morgan to Eliza. She stood straighter, lifting her chin, meeting his eyes with a defiance that made Morgan’s chest swell with pride.
“Lady Eliza,” Whitfield said, his voice silken. “Are you certain this is what you want? We had such plans, you and I.”
“I’m most certain,” Eliza said. “I want nothing to do with you, Lord Whitfield. Now or ever.”
For a long moment, Whitfield simply stared at her. And in that moment, Morgan saw it. The cold calculation, the rage simmering beneath the surface, the absolute certainty that this man was capable of terrible things.
Then Whitfield did the most unlikely thing. He smiled, a terrible smile. Empty. Predatory.
“I see,” he said again with a click of his tongue. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to discuss.” He turned to Morgan, executing a perfect bow. “Your Grace. I wish you… joy in your upcoming nuptials.”
The words were polite. The tone was venomous.
“Thank you,” Morgan said coolly.
Whitfield’s gaze lingered on Eliza for one more moment, a look that promised this wasn’t over, then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Morgan waited until the front door closed before releasing the breath he’d been holding.
“He won’t let this go,” Eliza whispered. “He never lets anything go.”
“Then it’s fortunate,” Morgan said grimly, “that you’ll have my name and protection before he can do anything about it.”
He turned to face Lord and Lady Ramersby, who were still hovering in the doorway like unwanted specters.
“Lord Ramersby. Lady Ramersby.” Morgan’s voice was clipped, businesslike. “I’ll be acquiring a special license tomorrow. The wedding will take place in three days at St. Anselm’s Chapel. That will be all.”
“Three days!” Lady Ramersby’s hand flew to her chest. “But Your Grace, that’s hardly enough time to prepare! The dress, the flowers, the guest list!”
“Will be handled by my capable staff,” Morgan interrupted. “You will attend for the sake of appearances. You will smile, congratulate your daughter, and behave as though this is the happiest day of your lives.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Ramersby simpered. “We wouldn’t dream of—”
“I’m not finished.” Morgan’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “After the wedding, you will leave London. Permanently.”
Lord Ramersby’s face went red. “Now—”
“You will return to your country estate and stay there,” Morgan continued, as though the man hadn’t spoken.
“If I ever, and I mean ever, see either of you near my wife again, if I hear that you’ve attempted to contact her, manipulate her, or in any way interfere with her life, there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
“Your Grace,” Lord Ramersby spluttered. “You can’t possibly, she’s our only daughter…”
“She is your daughter, whom you tried to sell to a monster to settle your gambling debts. You have forfeited any right to her.” Morgan’s eyes were hard as flint. “Consider yourselves fortunate that I’m paying those debts at all. Many men wouldn’t be so generous.”
Lady Ramersby’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air on a sandy shore.
“The wedding is in three days,” Morgan repeated. “Ten o’clock in the morning. Be there. Be civil. And then get out of my sight.”
He crossed to the door and glared, the gesture unmistakable.
“Your Grace, surely we can discuss…”
“Goodnight, Lord Ramersby.”
“Come along, dear,” he muttered to his wife, his shoulders slumped.
Lady Ramersby cast one last look at Eliza, something that might have been regret, or might have been resentment, then followed her husband out without a word.
Morgan closed the door behind them with decisive finality.
He turned back to Eliza, his expression softening as he looked at her eyes. She looked exhausted, overwhelmed, like she might collapse at any moment. Yet she was so beautiful. His future wife.
“You should rest,” he said gently. “Go upstairs to the guest chambers, the blue room, second door on the left. I’ll have someone prepare it properly for you.”
“Your Grace…”
“Morgan,” he corrected quietly. “You’re going to be my wife. You should call me Morgan. Shall it be Ellie, or Eliza?”
“Call me, Eliza,” she said softly as her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how to thank you. For everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, Morgan.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Morgan said, cutting off what was surely about to become an emotional outpouring. They’d both had enough emotion for one evening. “Right now, you need sleep. And I need to,” he gestured vaguely toward the door. “I need to salvage what’s left of this disaster of a ball.”
“I’m so sorry,” Eliza whispered. “I never meant for any of this…”
“Tomorrow,” Morgan repeated firmly. “Go. Rest. We’ll sort everything out in the morning.”
Eliza nodded, wiping at her eyes. She moved toward the door, then paused, turning back.
“Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For defending me. For…for all of it.”
He wanted to cross the room, to pull her back into his arms, to promise her that everything would be all right. But he didn’t trust himself to stop at just holding her. Not tonight. Not with emotions running this high, and a ball to tend to.
“You’re welcome,” he said instead.
She’s safe now. She’s mine. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt her ever again.
With that grim determination fortifying him, Morgan Sedgewick, Duke of Kirkhammer, walked back into the ballroom to face the consequences of the most scandalous proposal London society had seen in decades.