Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“Eliza.”
She looked up at Morgan, startled by the sound of her name, her real name, from his lips.
“Is that what you would like to be called?” he asked with a smile. “Perhaps Your Grace?”
“I am just Eliza,” she said quickly. She gestured vaguely at herself, at the wedding dress she still wore, at the carriage carrying them away from London.
Morgan nodded slowly. “Eliza, then.”
Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words. Eliza twisted her new ring around her finger, the gold band foreign against her prickly skin.
“Morgan, I… Well…” She took a shaky breath.
“No need to be nervous with me, Eliza. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I need to apologize. Again.”
“Eliza—”
“Properly. I never wanted to entangle you in this mess. I never meant for any of this to happen. If I’d known that Lady Fairfax would…
that the ball would…” Her voice cracked.
“I’m so sorry. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I’ve repaid that kindness by dragging you into a scandal and forcing you into a marriage you never wanted—”
“Stop.”
Morgan’s voice was firm but not unkind. He shifted to face her more fully.
“Eliza, look at me.”
She did, reluctantly.
“I don’t believe for one moment that you orchestrated any of this to trap me into marriage,” he said.
“If that had been your goal, there are far more traditional methods. Getting caught alone with me at a ball, for instance. Manufacturing a compromising situation that would require me to offer for you. You didn’t do any of those things. ”
“I would never—”
“I know.” His expression softened. “That’s precisely my point.”
Eliza’s throat tightened. “But you’re married to me now because of my mistakes. Because I was too cowardly to tell you the truth from the beginning! Everything happened so fast and now I…”
Morgan was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his emerald eyes intense.
“Yes, you are right. You should have told me,” he said quietly.
“On your first day, when I hired you. If I’d known what you were running from, who you were running from, I could have taken more appropriate measures to help you.
Protected you properly. Instead of…” He gestured vaguely. “All of this.”
Eliza felt tears prick her eyes as she blinked them back.
“I didn’t want to involve you. The position was supposed to be temporary.
I was planning to save my wages, get a reference, and go somewhere far away.
Scotland, maybe. Or the north. Even America!
Somewhere I could start over completely.
A new name, a new life.” She swiped her eyes, frustrated by the tears.
“I never meant for you to become… entangled.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Yes. Here we are.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you’re stuck with me.”
“Eliza.” Morgan’s tone made her look up, something urgent beneath the surface of his tongue as he spoke.
“I proposed to you. That was my choice. Mine. You didn’t force my hand.
You didn’t manipulate me. You were cornered, exposed, and terrified, and I made a decision.
I never make decisions I do not want to. ”
“A decision you might regret.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am not a soothsayer.” He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “But either way, it’s done. And I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“What you did… running away, hiding, taking work as a maid… you did it to survive,” Morgan continued. “To escape a man who terrified you. A man who, if your suspicions are correct, murdered your best friend. You did what you had to do. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But the lies I told!”
“Were necessary. I understand that now.” He paused, his gaze holding hers. “But Eliza, I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” she said softly, never meaning anything more.
“From this point forward, no more lies. No more secrets. If we’re going to make this marriage work, and I very much intend to make it work, I need honesty. Complete honesty. Even when it’s difficult. Even when you’re afraid. Can you do that?”
Eliza nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
“I need to hear you say the words.”
“I promise,” she managed. “No more lies. No more secrets. I’ll be honest with you, Morgan. About everything.”
Yet how can I be fully honest about the doubts that swirl so deep in my chest?
I feel as though I am performing a role, smiling through a script while drowning in a reality no one else sees.
I am in over my head as a Duchess, gasping for air in a world that expects me to move on.
I cannot fathom a life of genuine joy while the air I breathe is the same air Abigail’s killer breathes as a free man.
To be happy feels like a betrayal. To find peace feels like letting her memory go unavenged.
The sun was beginning to set when the carriage finally rolled up the long drive to Kirkhammer Hall. Eliza had dozed fitfully during the journey, her head resting against the velvet cushions, exhaustion finally claiming her. She woke to Morgan’s gentle touch on her arm.
“We’re here,” he said quietly.
Eliza sat up, blinking away the fog of sleep, and looked out the window.
Kirkhammer Hall rose before them in the golden light of late afternoon, even more beautiful than she remembered.
It was different somehow in this light. The pale stone seemed to glow, the windows catching the sun like precious jewels.
She could just make out the glimmer of the sea.
It feels like coming home.
The carriage came to a halt, and Morgan stepped out first, then offered his hand to help her down. The staff had assembled to greet them. Mrs. Dawson stood at the front, her expression warm but carefully neutral.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying to Morgan. Then, to Eliza, with a deeper curtsy. “Your Grace. Welcome home.”
Your Grace. The title feels foreign, impossible.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson,” Eliza managed.
Morgan placed a hand on the small of her back, a gesture that set her blood on fire and she hoped would never become too familiar. “Mrs. Dawson, allow me to introduce my wife, the Duchess of Kirkhammer.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied tightly. “We received your letter and have prepared everything accordingly. The Duchess’s chambers are ready, and Cook has prepared a light supper for this evening.”
Eliza felt a rush of gratitude. Morgan had sent word ahead. The staff knew. No awkward explanations, no shocked faces. She hadn’t even thought to ask of the arrangements, she had been too overwhelmed by it all.
“Excellent,” Morgan said. “Thank you. That will be all for now.”
The staff dispersed, though Eliza caught several curious glances thrown her way.
Morgan turned to her. “You should rest. It’s been a long day, a long three days, actually. We can talk more at dinner.”
“What time is dinner?”
“Seven o’clock. Mrs. Dawson will send someone to fetch you.”
Eliza nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion settling over her like a blanket. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Dawson,” Morgan called. “Please show the Duchess to her chambers.”
The Duchess’s chambers were beyond breathtaking.
Eliza stood in the center of the room, slowly turning to take it all in.
The walls were papered in soft blue silk adorned with tiny gold flecks.
A massive four-poster bed dominated one wall, draped in cream and more soft gold tones.
Windows overlooked the gardens and the sea beyond.
There was a sitting area with plush chairs and a small writing desk.
A vanity. A wardrobe that looked large enough to house a small family.
It was the most beautiful room Eliza had ever seen.
And it is mine.
“This door connects to His Grace’s chambers,” Mrs. Dawson said, gesturing to a door on the far wall. “Should you need anything.”
Eliza’s cheeks heated.
The connecting door. Of course there would be a connecting door.
“A maid will be up shortly to help you bathe and change for dinner,” Mrs. Dawson continued. “Is there anything else you require, Your Grace?”
Your Grace, what a laugh. The words are foreign to my ears, especially from Mrs. Dawson’s lips.
“No, thank you,” Eliza replied. “This is… this is perfect.”
Mrs. Dawson curtsied with a raised eyebrow and departed, leaving Eliza alone in her new chambers.
She moved to the window, looking out at the sea. The waves rolled in steady rhythm, eternal and unchanging. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, was the life she’d left behind. Her parents. Whitfield. The scandal. But here, here she was safe. A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called.
A young maid entered, carrying linens and what looked like bathing supplies. She was perhaps eighteen, with a friendly face and bright eyes. She was new and Eliza took to her countenance instantly.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying. “I’m Carrie. I’ve been assigned as your lady’s maid. Mrs. Dawson thought you might like to bathe before dinner?”
A bath. God, yes.
She still felt like she was wearing the accumulated stress of the past three days on her skin.
“That would be wonderful, Carrie. Thank you.”
“Right away, Your Grace.”
As Carrie moved about the room, the air began to change, growing heavy and sweet with the scent of dried lemon verbena and sandalwood. The young maid worked, stoking the hearth until the dressing room glowed with a flickering amber light that chased the evening chill into the corners.
Then came the rhythmic, echoing slosh of steaming water. Carrie poured bucket after bucket into the heavy copper tub, the rising vapor curling into thick, lazy plumes that seemed to catch the firelight.
To Eliza, the steam felt like a physical invitation. Even before she touched the water, the invisible grit of her anxieties began to soften.
When she finally stepped into the tub, the heat was a welcome shock.
It felt as though the water was a living thing, clinging to her like a second skin and coaxing her shoulders to finally drop from around her ears.
The world outside the heavy oak door fell away, replaced by the gentle lap of water against metal and the soft, comforting crackle of the fire.
For the first time since the journey began, Eliza closed her eyes and simply breathed.
Two hours later, Eliza stood in front of the mirror in her chambers, barely recognizing herself.
The dress was simple but elegant, a deep emerald silk that brought out the hazel in her eyes and reminded her of Morgan’s. Carrie had styled her hair in a loose arrangement that was far more flattering than the severe bun she’d worn as a maid. She looked like a lady again.
No. Not a lady. A duchess.
A knock at the door. “Your Grace? His Grace is waiting in the dining room.”
Eliza took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and nodded to Carrie. “Thank you. I’m ready.”
She descended the stairs with as much grace as she could muster, her heart pounding like a timpanist against her ribs.
The dining room was smaller than she’d expected.
It was intimate, with a table set for two rather than the massive formal table that could seat thirty.
Morgan stood when she entered, and Eliza felt her breath catch.
He’d changed as well, into a deep blue coat that complemented his dark hair and emerald eyes.
He looks… so handsome. Devastatingly so.
“Eliza,” he said, his voice warm as cognac. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She felt her cheeks heat. “You look… very well yourself.”
He smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his entire face, and moved to pull out her chair. “Shall we?”
The first course was a delicate soup, savory and perfectly seasoned vichyssoise.
Eliza ate mechanically, hyperaware of Morgan sitting across from her.
Of the silence stretching between them. Of the fact that they were married now, and she had no idea what that actually meant.
That she was no long a servant, but a duchess.
“You’re nervous,” Morgan observed.
Eliza nearly dropped her spoon. “I am not… well, yes. I suppose I am.”
“So am I.”
She looked up. “You are?”
“Terrified, actually.” He set down his own spoon, his expression wry.
“I’ve faced down hostile lords in Parliament, negotiated trade agreements with men who wanted to see me fail, and once gave a speech to five hundred people while suffering from the worst hangover of my life.
But sitting across from my new wife? This might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. ”
Despite herself, Eliza felt a laugh bubble up and escape her throat as she took her napkin to dab at her lips. “The worst hangover of your life? The one where I…”
“The very same.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Though I maintain that your storytelling skills made the entire ordeal almost worth it. Almost.”
“You flatter me.”
“And I remember approximately none of it, which is a tragedy.” He leaned back in his chair, his emerald eyes glittering in the light cast from the candelabras. “But I do remember you staying. Making sure I was safe. That meant more than you know.”
Eliza felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. “You called the water a magic elixir.”
“It tasted like a magic elixir at the time.”
“And you gave a lengthy philosophical discourse on the geometric precision required for toast making.”
Morgan groaned. “Please tell me I didn’t.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.”
“I’m never drinking again.”
“That seems unlikely, Your Grace.”
“Morgan,” he corrected gently. “Just Morgan. At least when we’re alone.”
“Morgan,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue without the formality of titles between them.
The main course arrived then, roasted chicken with savory root vegetables, and the conversation flowed more easily after that as they consumed more wine.
By the time dessert arrived, a delicate lemon tart with a raspberry sauce, Eliza realized she was enjoying herself without stress.
Morgan set down his fork and looked at her, his expression growing serious.
“There’s something we should discuss,” he said.
Eliza’s stomach tightened as she set down her wine goblet. “Yes?”
“Not here.” He stood, moving around the table to offer her his hand. “Come with me.”
She took his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. Her heart was pounding again, fear and anticipation warring in her chest. He led her from the dining room, through the hallways she’d once navigated as a maid, up the grand staircase. Past the guest chambers. Past her new rooms. To his door.
He opened it, gesturing for her to enter first.
“Shall we?”
Eliza stepped into Morgan’s chambers, her breath catching. And waited to see what would happen next.