Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Eliza woke alone. She reached across the bed, finding Morgan’s side cold, the sheets undisturbed.
He must have left hours ago, or perhaps he never came to bed at all…
The morning after Whitfield’s arrest dawned cold and grey, rain pattering against the windows of the Kirkhammer townhouse.
She sat up slowly, the small bandage on her neck pulling at the skin.
It was a physical reminder of the ordeal she had endured.
The scratch itself was minor, just as she’d told Morgan.
What hurt more was reaching for him in the night and finding only empty sheets.
She pulled a robe around her and walked down the hall. She found him in his study, still in yesterday’s clothes, staring out at the rain.
“Morgan?” she said softly from the doorway.
He turned, and something in his expression made her heart clench. His face was carefully blank, his eyes distant.
“You’re awake,” he said without affect. “Good. I’ve had Mrs. Dawson prepare a full breakfast. You should eat.”
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, moving into the room.
“I had work to attend to.” He turned back to the window. “Hartley sent word this morning. Whitfield has been formally charged with three counts of murder. The trial will likely begin within the month.”
“That’s… that’s wonderful news.”
“Yes. Justice will be served.” His tone remained flat, emotionless.
Eliza moved closer, reaching for his arm. “Morgan, what’s wrong?”
He stepped away before she could touch him. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m simply tired. It’s been a trying few weeks.”
“Then come to bed. Rest. Surely you have no—”
“I have things to attend to.” He moved to his desk, shuffling papers that were already organized. “You should eat breakfast. And perhaps call on Imogen today. I’m sure she’ll want to hear about last night’s events.”
“I’d rather spend the day with my husband.”
“I’ll be occupied with work all day.” Still, he didn’t look at her. “We can speak at dinner.”
But they didn’t speak at dinner.
Morgan sent word through Jenkins that he was dining at his club. He didn’t return home until well past midnight, long after Eliza had given up waiting and retreated to her chambers. Not their chambers, but the Duchess’s rooms she’d barely used since their wedding.
“His Grace left for Parliament quite early this morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dawson informed Eliza over breakfast the following day. “He said not to expect him for luncheon.”
Eliza set down her tea with trembling hands on the saucer, her hazel eyes downcast. “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Dawson.”
When Morgan returned that evening, he was polite enough. But distant.
“How was your visit with the Duchess of Welton?”
“It was fine. Imogen sends her congratulations on Whitfield’s arrest.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Silence.
“Morgan—”
“I’m quite tired. I think I’ll retire early.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No need to disturb your reading. I know you were in the middle of that novel.”
“But I would rather—”
He was gone before she could say another syllable, retreating to his chambers and closing the connecting door between them. Not locking it. But the message was clear anyway.
Eliza tried to tell herself she was imagining it.
That Morgan was simply preoccupied with the aftermath of Whitfield’s arrest, with Parliamentary business, with any of a dozen legitimate concerns.
But she couldn’t ignore the way he avoided looking at her.
The way he found excuses to leave any room she entered.
The way he flinched when she reached for him.
By the third day, the hurt had crystallized into something harder.
She found him in the library that evening, a book open in his lap that he clearly wasn’t reading.
“We need to talk,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Eliza, I’m rather busy—”
“You’re not busy. You’re avoiding me.” She crossed her arms, fighting to keep her voice steady. “And I want to know why.”
Morgan set down the book, but he didn’t look at her. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve simply had a great deal on my mind.”
“For three whole days? Three days where you can barely look at me? Where you won’t touch me, won’t talk to me, won’t even sleep in the same bed as me?”
“I didn’t realize I was required to account for every moment of my time.”
The coldness in his voice made her flinch, as if being burned after touching a hot stove.
“That’s not what I… Morgan, what happened? Was it something I did? Something I said?”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Then why are you acting like you can’t stand to be near me?”
Finally, he looked at her. And the anguish in his eyes took her breath away.
“Because I can’t,” he said quietly.
“What?” Eliza whispered.
Morgan stood, pacing to the window. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of this. Our marriage was supposed to be… practical. A solution to a problem. I was supposed to protect you, provide for you, and maintain an appropriate distance.”
“Appropriate distance?” Eliza’s voice rose. “Morgan, we’ve been sharing a bed for weeks. We’ve… we’ve been happy. Or at least I thought we were.”
“That’s the problem!” He whirled to face her, his composure cracking. “I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. I wasn’t supposed to care this much. When I saw that blade at your throat, when I thought…” His voice broke. “I can’t do this, Eliza. I’m not built for it.”
“Built for what? For loving me?”
“Yes!” The word exploded from him. “I can’t love you like this. It’s too much. It’s consuming. It terrifies me.”
Eliza felt tears burning behind her eyes. “So, what are you saying? You want to end our marriage?”
“No. I’m saying we need to establish proper boundaries. Live as many married couples of our station do. Separate lives, separate bedrooms. Cordial but distant.”
“I. Don’t. Want. That.”
“What you want isn’t the point.”
“Then what is the point, Morgan?” Her voice shook with anger and hurt. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re running away. Just like you ran from Cecilia’s rejection, just like you’ve run from every deep feeling you’ve ever had.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’d rather hurt me first. Push me away before I can leave you.”
“I’m trying to protect you!”
“From what? From loving you? From being bloody happy?” Eliza moved closer, desperate to make him understand. “I’m not going anywhere. I chose you. I choose you every day.”
“You shouldn’t.” His voice was ragged. “You deserve better than this. Better than a man who’s too broken to give you what you need.”
“You’re not broken!”
“I am!” He slammed his hand against the bookshelf, making her jump.
“Don’t you see? Caring for you this much, it’s not sustainable.
It makes me reckless. Desperate. When Whitfield had that blade to your throat, I would have burned the world down to save you.
That kind of feeling…it’s dangerous, Eliza. It makes me weak.”
“It makes you human,” she said softly.
“It makes me vulnerable.” He turned away. “And I can’t, no I won’t live like that. I’m constantly terrified that something will happen to you. That I’ll lose you. That this happiness we’ve built will be ripped away.”
“So instead, you’ll destroy it yourself? That’s your solution?”
Morgan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled once more. It set Eliza’s blood on fire.
“I want you to be safe. To live the life your parents took from you. To be free,” he said smoothly.
“I am free. With you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not in the way you need. Not in the way you deserve.”
Eliza felt something break inside her chest. “Are you saying you don’t care about me?”
“I’m saying…” He stopped, took a breath. “I’m saying that caring this much was never part of the plan. I married you to protect you from your parents. To give you my name and my resources. Not to,” he gestured helplessly between them. “Not this. This is too much… investment.”
“Can that life include you?” Eliza pressed once more, her voice barely above a whisper. “The life you want me to have—does it include you in it?”
Morgan met her eyes, and she saw the answer in his deep green eyes before he spoke another word.
This is it…
“Not in the way you need,” he said quietly. “I am sorry, but this is beyond my control. I cannot… I cannot do this.”
The tears Eliza had been holding back finally spilled over.
“I see.”
“Eliza—”
“No.” She held up a hand, stopping him. “You’ve made yourself abundantly clear, Your Grace. You want a marriage of convenience now that things have become hard.”
“I’m doing this for you—”
“Separate lives. Cordial distance.”
“Many marriages are this way. It is for the best. I am who I am, I was foolish to think another alternative would be possible.”
Her voice broke on the last word. “I understand.”
“This… arrangement will benefit you. You will have freedoms as a woman, you will be able to—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharp, cutting. “Don’t you dare tell me this is for my benefit. This is about you, Morgan. Your fear. Your inability to trust in anything good because you’re so convinced it will be taken away. This is of your making, not mine.”
She moved to the door, her vision blurred with tears.
“Eliza, wait—”
But she didn’t wait. She walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
Morgan sat in his study the following day, mid-morning, staring at the same page he’d been staring at for the past hour.
He hadn’t seen Eliza since their argument.
She’d taken breakfast in her rooms. Skipped luncheon entirely.
And when dinner time came, Jenkins had quietly informed him that Her Grace would be dining in her chambers.
The house felt wrong without her presence.
Too quiet. Too empty. But… this is for the best. Creating distance now will save pain later.
But the words felt hollow. He kept seeing the look on her face when he’d said those words. The hurt. The betrayal. He’d done that. He’d put that look in her eyes.
Not in the way you need.
“Your Grace?”
Morgan looked up to find Jenkins in the doorway, holding a tray with biscuits and hot tea. While the scent hit his nose pleasantly, it made his stomach turn.
“I thought you might require some sustenance, sir. You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nevertheless.” Jenkins set the tray down, then hesitated. “If I may speak freely, Your Grace?”
Morgan almost said no. But something in Jenkins’s expression stopped him. “Go ahead,” he growled.
“I’ve been in your service for many years, sir. And in that time, I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been these past few weeks with Her Grace.” Jenkins met his eyes. “It would be a shame to see—”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Jenkins’s took a step forward. “Forgive me for overstepping, sir. But from where I stand, it seems quite simple indeed. You love her. She loves you. Everything else is just… noise.”
After Jenkins departed, Morgan sat alone with those words.
You love her. She loves you.
It should be simple.
But nothing in Morgan’s life had ever been simple. That was his normal, not peace and stability. And the thought of trusting in that love, of letting himself be that vulnerable…
His hand shook as he reached for the brandy.
Eliza stood at the window of her chambers, watching rain streak down the glass for the fifth day in a row.
She’d barely slept or ate. Her body ached from crying, from the weight of misery that seemed to have settled into her very bones.
She’d truly believed that she and Morgan had something real. Something worth fighting for.
But how can you fight for someone who doesn’t want to be fought for?
“Your Grace?”
Mary stood in the doorway, “Concern” all but written in bold letters across her pretty face.
“I’ve brought fresh tea, Your Grace. And perhaps you might consider coming downstairs? The fresh air might do you good.”
“I’m fine here, thank you, Mary.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you’re not fine. You’ve have not eaten in three days. You haven’t left this room. And…” She hesitated.
“And what, Mary? You may always speak freely here.”
“His Grace isn’t faring much better.”
Eliza’s heart clenched despite her anger toward her husband. “What do you mean?”
“He’s holed up in his study. Won’t eat, won’t sleep. Jenkins is beside himself with worry.” Mary set down the tea tray. “If you’ll forgive me saying so, Your Grace, you both seem rather miserable without each other.”
“That’s his choice,” Eliza said, her voice small. “He made it quite clear he doesn’t want…”
“My mother used to say that the people we love most are the ones who can hurt us most,” Mary said after a moment.
“Because we’ve given them our hearts to hold.
But that doesn’t mean we should take our hearts back, Your Grace.
It just means we have to be brave enough to keep offering them, even when we’re scared. ”
After Mary left, Eliza sat with those words.
Brave enough to keep offering.
Am I brave enough for that? To keep loving Morgan even when he pushes me away?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that the emptiness without him was unbearable. And that something had to change. Before they both drowned in this misery of their own making.
They passed each other in the hallway the following day.
Morgan was leaving his study just as Eliza was descending the stairs.
They stopped. Stared at each other. Morgan looked terrible.
His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. Eliza knew she looked no better.
“Eliza,” he said, his voice rough.
“Morgan.”
They stood there, three feet of hallway between them that might as well have been an ocean.
“I—” Morgan started.
“I should—” Eliza said at the same time.
Silence.
“You first,” Morgan offered.
But Eliza shook her head. Whatever needed to be said, whatever might fix this or end it forever, she couldn’t say it here. Not in the hallway where servants might overhear. Not when she was barely holding herself together.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “Excuse me.”
She walked past him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to catch his familiar scent.
Close enough to see his hand reach for her, then fall back to his side.
She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because if she did, if she saw the same misery in his eyes that she felt in her heart, she’d break entirely.
And she needed to stay whole. At least until she figured out how to survive loving a man who was too afraid to love her back.