Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’ve never been to the opera,” Eliza confessed as their carriage pulled up to the Royal Opera House the following weekend.
“Really, darling?” Morgan looked surprised. “Never?”
“My parents preferred theater. They said opera was too… emotional. Not refined enough.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. Though I should warn you, this particular production can be quite… intense.”
The Kirkhammer box was one of the finest in the house. It had plush velvet seats and a perfect view of the stage. Ambrose and Imogen were joining them, and the four of them settled in just as the overture began.
The opera was beautiful, with sweeping music, passionate performances, and a tragic love story that had Eliza on the edge of her seat. But she was acutely aware of Morgan beside her, his presence a constant warmth.
During the first intermission, Ambrose leaned over. “What do you think so far?”
“It’s incredible,” Eliza said honestly. “I had no idea it could be so moving. I am holding back tears!”
“Wait until the second act. That’s when things really heat up.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The second act featured an illicit love scene between the leads, all yearning looks and passionate embraces.
The music swelled, the soprano’s voice soaring as she sang of desire and forbidden love.
Eliza felt Morgan’s hand settle on her knee beneath the curtain that partially concealed their box from view.
She glanced at him. His eyes were on the stage, his expression perfectly neutral.
Then, his hand began to move. Slowly, deliberately, and up her thigh. Eliza’s breath caught. She shot him a warning look, but he ignored it, his hand continuing its journey beneath her skirts.
“Morgan,” she hissed under her breath.
“Shh,” he murmured. “You’ll miss the performance.”
His fingers found the slit in her drawers, and Eliza had to bite her lip to keep from gasping. She put her hands on the chair to hold herself steady. Around them, the audience was entranced by the opera. Ambrose and Imogen sat just feet away, completely unaware.
With expert movements, Morgan’s fingers began to circle that sensitive spot, the pressure perfect, maddening. Eliza gripped the armrests of her chair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
“Look at the stage,” Morgan whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t let anyone see what I’m doing to you. That’s an order, good girl.”
“Yes…” she whispered and she bit her tongue as her blood began to race.
It was torture. Sweet, exquisite torture. The music swelled around them, the soprano’s voice rising in ecstasy that matched what Eliza was feeling. She focused on the stage with every ounce of willpower she possessed, even as Morgan’s skilled fingers brought her closer and closer to the edge.
When the pleasure crested along with the crescendo, she barely managed to stifle her cry, turning it into a small cough. Her body shuddered, and Morgan’s hand gentled, working her through the aftershocks.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful when you come undone.”
As the act ended and the curtain fell, Morgan withdrew his hand, his expression once again perfectly composed.
“Intermission,” Ambrose announced, standing. “Shall we get some refreshments?”
“Excellent idea,” Morgan said smoothly. “Eliza?”
She could only stare at him, stunned, aroused, and slightly scandalized. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes glassy. Luckily she had the excuse of the performances for such a state.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she managed. “I need a moment to… process the performance.”
Morgan’s smile was pure wickedness. “Of course, darling. Take all the time you need.”
Later that night, after the opera had ended and they’d said their goodbyes to Ambrose and Imogen, Eliza turned to Morgan in the carriage.
“That was incredibly improper,” she said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. “Dangerous territory, Morgan.”
“It was,” Morgan agreed, completely unrepentant. “You are correct.”
“We could have been caught.”
“But we weren’t.”
“Ambrose and Imogen were right there!”
“I know. That was part of the thrill.” He pulled her onto his lap, his hands settling on her waist as he held her tight. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy it and I will never do it again.”
“Well…”
“Say it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. “I… may have enjoyed it. A little.”
“A little?” His hands slid up her sides. “Darling, you were trembling. You bit your lip so hard I thought you might draw blood. And the way you clenched around my fingers, like you never wanted me to leave…”
“All right, all right!” Eliza’s face was burning. “I enjoyed it. Very much. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He kissed her, slow and deep. “I love discovering all the ways I can make you lose control. It’s become my favorite pastime.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“God help me, I do.”
“You are mine. Do not forget that.”
After dropping Imogen at home, Ambrose had circled back to Kirkhammer townhouse and convinced Morgan to join him for a nightcap at White’s. They sat in a quiet corner, brandy in hand, the club mostly empty at this late hour.
“You’re different,” Ambrose observed. “It’s remarkable.”
“Oh really?” Morgan looked up from his glass. “Different how?”
“Happier. Lighter. Less…” Ambrose gestured vaguely. “Less like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“Marriage suits me, apparently.”
“It’s more than that.” Ambrose’s expression turned serious. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, Morgan. I’ve seen you with women before. With Cecilia, with Arabella, with all the others. But this, what you have with Eliza, this is different.”
Morgan was quiet for a long moment, swirling the brandy in his glass. “It is different.”
“You’re in love with her.”
“Oh, I most certainly am.” Morgan met his friend’s eyes. “Completely. Irrevocably. Terrifyingly in love with her.”
“Terrifyingly?”
“Because I’ve never felt this way before. With Cecilia, I thought I was in love. But it was… comfortable. Safe. This—what I feel for Eliza—it’s not comfortable. It’s consuming. It makes me want to be better, do better. It makes me feel vulnerable in ways I’ve spent years avoiding.”
Ambrose smiled. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
“Is it?” Morgan laughed, but there was uncertainty in it. “How do you know when it’s real versus when you’re just… caught up in the intensity of it all?”
“You don’t, not really. But I can tell you this.
You know the way you look at her? The way you light up when she enters a room?
The way you defended her at that ball, the way you touch her like she might disappear if you let go?
” Ambrose shook his head. “That’s real, Morgan.
That’s the kind of love people spend their whole lives searching for. ”
Morgan was quiet, processing his best friend’s words.
“I never thought I’d have this,” he admitted.
“After Cecilia, I convinced myself that this kind of love wasn’t in the cards for me.
That I was too cautious, too controlled.
But Eliza. The woman has broken through every wall I’ve built.
And I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
Even if she had been a maid, we would have ended up here. ”
“Then be both,” Ambrose suggested. “I was. Hell, I still am sometimes. Loving someone this much means they have the power to destroy you. But it also means they have the power to make you whole.”
“And if I fail her? If I can’t protect her from Whitfield, from the ton, from all the things she’s running from?”
“Then you’ll figure it out together. That’s what marriage is, Morgan. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about choosing each other, every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
“Wait a minute.” Morgan drained his brandy, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “When did you become so wise?”
“I married Imogen. She’s rubbed off on me. And I have you partially at least to thank for that. I am returning the favor.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.
“Thank you,” Morgan said finally. “For the advice. For the friendship. For putting up with my brooding all these years.”
“That’s what friends are for.” Ambrose stood, clapping Morgan on the shoulder. “Look at us. A couple of saps.”
“I’ll take it,” he said with a laugh.
“Now go home to your wife. I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”
Morgan smiled. “She is.”
The carriage ride home felt longer than usual, though whether that was due to the late hour or Morgan’s eagerness to return to Eliza, he couldn’t say.
He settled into the seat, watching London roll past the window, gas lamps casting pools of gold on wet cobblestones, the occasional late-night pedestrian hurrying home.
“Goodnight Morgan,” Ambrose said as he dropped him off.
“Goodnight Ambrose, and thank you.”
As he walked up the stairs, his mind drifted back to Ambrose’s words.
Choosing each other, every day, even when it’s hard.
Had he been doing that? Or had he been so focused on protecting Eliza, on bringing Whitfield to justice, on managing the scandal of their marriage, that he’d forgotten to simply… be with her?
No. That wasn’t quite right. He’d been present, attentive, loving. But perhaps there was a difference between protecting someone and partnering with them. Between solving their problems and facing those problems together.
Eliza was strong. Brave. She’d survived things that would have broken most people. Maybe what she needed wasn’t just his protection, maybe she needed his trust. His belief that she could handle whatever came next.
Together.
The word settled into his chest like a promise.
Jenkins opened the door before Morgan could reach for the handle. The man always had an uncanny ability to anticipate his employer’s arrival.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Jenkins said with a slight bow. “I trust your evening was pleasant?”