Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“The Ashfords are hosting a ball next Friday,” Morgan mentioned over breakfast the following day as he brought a piece of toast to his mouth and crunched on it.
“Oh?” Eliza said nervously as she looked at her husband.
“We’ve been invited.”
“Have we?” Eliza’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “A ball?”
“Yes. I know we’ve been keeping to ourselves since returning to London, but I thought… perhaps it’s time we made an appearance. Show the ton that we have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Eliza set down her fork, her appetite suddenly gone. “Morgan, I don’t know if I’m ready. What if… Oh, what if people stare? What if they whisper?”
“They will stare. They will whisper. That’s what they do.” Morgan reached across the table to take her hand. “But they’ll stare and whisper whether we attend events or hide away. At least this way, we control the narrative.”
“What narrative?”
“That we’re happily married. That you’re my Duchess, and I’m proud to have you by my side.
That whatever scandal surrounded our marriage, it’s old news now.
” His thumb stroked over her knuckles. “But if you’re truly not ready, we won’t go.
I’ll never force you into something that makes you uncomfortable. ”
Eliza was quiet for a long moment, warring with herself.
Part of her wanted to refuse, to stay hidden in the safety of their townhouse.
But another part, the part that had run away from home, that had survived weeks as a maid, that had stood up to her parents, that part knew Morgan was right. She couldn’t hide forever.
“All right,” she said finally. “We’ll go to the ball.”
Morgan’s face lit up. “Are you sure?”
“No. But I’m doing it anyway.” She managed to smile. “Besides, I have you. And if anyone dares to say something cruel, my husband is a duke. That must count for something.”
“It counts for a great deal, actually.” Morgan’s smile turned wicked. “And if anyone is foolish enough to insult you in my presence, I’ll make sure they regret it.”
“My hero,” Eliza said, only half-teasing.
“Always, darling. Always.”
As Morgan returned to his newspaper, Eliza sipped her tea and tried to quell the anxiety churning in her stomach.
A ball. I am going to a bloody ball as the Duchess of Kirkhammer. No hiding. No running. Just me, Morgan, and whatever the ton throws at us.
Eliza stood before the mirror in her chambers, barely recognizing the woman staring back at her.
The gown was exquisite, a deep sapphire silk that brought out the blue rings in her hazel eyes, with delicate beading that caught the light from the fireplace.
Mary had styled her hair in an elaborate arrangement of curls and pearls, and the Kirkhammer sapphires.
They had been Morgan’s gift to her that morning and they glittered at her throat and ears like celestial beings.
She looked every inch a duchess. Yet, she felt like she might be sick.
“You’re beautiful,” Morgan said from the doorway.
Eliza turned to find him watching her, resplendent in his black evening coat, his emerald eyes warm with admiration.
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“I know.” He crossed to her, taking her hands in his. “But you’re also brave. You’ve survived far worse than a ballroom full of gossips.”
“Have I?”
“You escaped Whitfield. You built a new life from nothing. You faced down your parents.” He squeezed her hands. “And those are just the beginning of your accolades. A few cutting remarks from bitter society matrons? That’s nothing compared to what you’ve already overcome.”
Eliza managed a weak smile. “When you put it that way…”
“Besides,” Morgan’s expression turned fierce, “I’ll be with you the entire evening. And if anyone and I mean anyone, dares to insult you, they’ll answer to me.”
“My fierce protector. My lion. My husband.”
“Always.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now, shall we? Our carriage is waiting.”
Eliza took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Yes. Let’s go show the ton what we’re made of.”
“That’s my girl.”
The Ashford ball was in full swing when they arrived, fashionably late.
The ballroom glittered from the chandeliers that hung over them like diamonds, the air thick with perfume and gossip.
As they were announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Kirkhammer, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Kirkhammer” a hush fell over the assembled guests. Every eye turned to them.
Eliza felt her steps falter, but Morgan’s hand was steady at the small of her back.
“Chin up,” he murmured, so quietly only she could hear. “Let them look. Let them see that you belong here. That you belong with me.”
She lifted her chin and met the stares head-on. The whispers began immediately. She could hear snatches of conversation as they moved through the room.
“Scandalous circumstances, did you know…”
“She was working as his maid, can you imagine!”
“She forced him into marriage, no doubt some ploy…”
Morgan’s hand tightened on her waist, but his expression remained pleasant, unaffected.
Lady Ashford descended upon them, her smile bright and calculating. “Your Graces! How delightful that you could attend. We were so pleased to receive your acceptance.”
“Lady Ashford,” Morgan said smoothly. “Thank you for the invitation. You know my wife, of course.”
“Of course! Lady Eliz- I mean, Your Grace.” Lady Ashford’s eyes raked over Eliza, assessing. “What a lovely gown. Italian, is it?”
“English, actually,” Eliza said, finding her voice. “From Madame Bisset on Bond Street.”
“How… patriotic of you.” Lady Ashford’s smile was sharp. “Well, do enjoy the evening. There’s champagne and refreshments, and the dancing will begin shortly. Ah yes, there is the quartet now,” she said as she swept away.
Morgan leaned close to Eliza. “See? You’re doing wonderfully. I’ve got you.”
“She looked at me like I was something she’d found on her shoe.”
“Lady Ashford looks at everyone that way. It’s not personal.”
They continued through the ballroom, and slowly, painfully, the initial shock of their arrival began to wear off. Several people approached to offer congratulations on their marriage, their curiosity barely masked by politeness.
“Your Grace,” Lord Powley said, bowing to Eliza. “May I say, marriage clearly agrees with you. You’re positively glowing.”
“Thank you, Lord Powley. You’re very kind.”
“And Kirkhammer,” He said as he clapped Morgan on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I’m well aware,” Morgan said, his eyes on Eliza. “Very lucky indeed. Not sure who would say otherwise.”
“Of course!” He laughed as he moved away.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the din. It was cold, smooth, unmistakable.
“Your Graces. What a pleasant surprise.”
Eliza’s blood turned to ice. Lord Whitfield stood before them, impeccably dressed, his expression one of polite interest. But his eyes, his eyes held something darker and serpentine.
“Lord Whitfield,” Morgan said, his voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t expect that you’d be in attendance. I would assume you’d be in mourning.”
“I wouldn’t miss Lady Ashford’s ball for the world. She throws the most… interesting gatherings.” Whitfield’s gaze shifted to Eliza. “Lady Eliza… I mean… Oh goodness, forgive me, Your Grace. How lovely you look this evening. Marriage suits you.”
Eliza forced herself to meet his eyes, to keep her voice steady. “Thank you, Lord Whitfield.”
“I must confess, I was quite surprised by the announcement of your nuptials after your engagement. All of it has been so sudden. So… unexpected.” His smile was thin, cold. “But then, life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” Morgan said, moving closer to Eliza in a subtle but unmistakable claim. “Some more pleasant than others.”
“Quite.” Whitfield’s eyes lingered on Eliza for a moment longer, assessing, calculating, then he bowed. “Well, I shan’t keep you. I’m sure you have many people to greet. Do enjoy your evening, Your Graces.”
As he walked away, Eliza realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled shakily.
“You did beautifully,” Morgan murmured. “He was trying to intimidate you, and you didn’t let him.”
“I wanted to run. Perhaps vomit.”
“But you didn’t. That’s what matters.” Morgan’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. “And if Bartlett finds what we’re looking for, Whitfield won’t be attending balls for much longer. He’ll be rotting in a cell.”
The thought gave Eliza strength. She nodded, squaring her shoulders once more.
“Your Graces!”
They turned to find Ambrose and Imogen approaching, both smiling warmly.
“Thank God you’re here,” Ambrose said. “I was about to die of boredom.”
“We arrived ten minutes ago,” Imogen pointed out.
“Ten minutes too long.” Ambrose turned to Morgan and Eliza. “You both look spectacular. And I see you’ve already run the gauntlet of whispers and stares.”
“With grace and dignity,” Imogen added, embracing Eliza. “I’m proud of you. I know how difficult this must be.”
“It’s getting easier somehow,” Eliza said. And surprisingly, it was true. With Morgan beside her, with friends nearby, the whispers seemed less sharp, less painful.
“Dance with me,” Morgan said suddenly.
Eliza blinked. “What?”
“Dance with me. Right now. Let them see that we’re happy, that we have nothing to hide.”
The music was just starting, a waltz. Perfect timing.
“I’d be honored,” Eliza said.
Morgan led her onto the dance floor, and as his hand settled at her waist, as they began to move together in perfect synchronization, Eliza felt the last of her anxiety melt away.
This is so right.
They moved together as though they’d been dancing all their lives, anticipating each other’s movements, lost in their own world.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” Eliza said. “You move in perfect time with the music.”
“So are you. Though I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. You were raised for this, after all.”
“I was raised for a lot of things. Most of them involved sitting quietly and looking decorative.”
“Well, you’re certainly decorative. But you’re also brilliant, brave, and far too good for a ballroom full of people who can’t see past scandal to the remarkable woman in front of them.”
Eliza felt tears prick her eyes. “Morgan…”
“I mean it. Every word.” He pulled her slightly closer than propriety dictated. “I’m the luckiest man in this room. In all of London. And I don’t care who knows it.”
As the waltz ended, Morgan brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. The gesture was intimate, romantic, and utterly unmistakable in its meaning. Around them, Eliza saw faces soften. Whispers shift from scandalous to intrigued to… envious?
“They do look quite happy… perhaps there is such a thing as a happy ending?”
“They are a handsome couple…”
They’d done it. They’d faced the ton together and emerged victorious.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of dancing, conversation, and champagne. By the time they climbed back into their carriage near midnight, Eliza was exhausted but elated.
“That wasn’t so terrible,” she admitted as Morgan helped her with her cloak.
“I told you it wouldn’t be. You will always be under my protection.”
“You were right. For once.”
“For once?” Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “I’m right quite frequently, I’ll have you know.”
“Keep telling yourself that, darling.”
He pulled her close, kissing her deeply. “Take me home, wife. I have plans for you that don’t involve ballrooms or gossip.”
Eliza laughed against his lips. “Home it is.”