Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Morgan had chosen the pub deliberately. He settled on a small, dingy establishment in Cheapside where no one from the ton would ever venture.
Where he could drink himself into oblivion without judgment, without well-meaning friends offering advice, without having to maintain the carefully constructed facade of the Duke of Kirkhammer.
He was on his fifth whiskey when a familiar voice cut through the smoky haze.
“Well. This is truly pathetic.”
Morgan looked up to find Ambrose standing over him, his expression a mixture of concern and disgust.
“How did you find me?” Morgan asked, his words slightly slurred.
“Jenkins. He’s worried about you. As am I.” Ambrose pulled out the chair across from him and sat without invitation. “What the hell happened, Morgan?”
“Nothing happened. I’m simply enjoying a quiet drink. That wasn’t a crime last I checked,” he said as he pulled out his watch.
“In a pub that smells like piss and desperation? At three in the afternoon? On a damn Tuesday?” Ambrose signaled the barkeep. “I’ll have whatever he’s having. And bring him some food while you’re at it. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.”
“I don’t need food. Or company.”
“Too bad. You’re getting both.” Ambrose leaned back, studying Morgan with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. “Where’s Eliza?”
Morgan’s hand tightened on his glass. “At home, I presume.”
“You presume? You don’t know where your own wife is?”
“She’s a grown woman. She’s capable of managing her own affairs.”
“Morgan.” Ambrose’s voice hardened. “Don’t lie to me. What happened between you and Eliza?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Bullshit.” The profanity was so uncharacteristic of Ambrose that Morgan actually looked up.
“You’ve been avoiding your own home for nearly two weeks.
You look like death warmed over. And according to Imogen, Eliza is planning to leave the country for an extended tour of Europe.
Alone. So, I’ll ask you again. What the hell happened? ”
Morgan drained his glass, signaling for another. “We simply… came to an understanding about the nature of our marriage.”
“An understanding.”
“Yes. We married under unusual circumstances. It was always meant to be a practical arrangement. We’re simply… returning to that.”
“Practical arrangement?” Ambrose’s laugh was harsh. “Morgan, I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you. There’s nothing practical about it. You caught the bad guy, the knight in shining armor that you are. It is time to carry the princess off to the castle.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Am I? Because at the opera, you were so besotted with her that you…” He stopped, shook his head. “Never mind. The point is that you love her. Obviously. Painfully obviously. So, what I don’t understand is why you’re sitting here drinking yourself into a stupor instead of being with her.”
“Because it’s better this way,” Morgan said, his voice flat as he signaled for more drink.
“Better for whom?”
“For both of us.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.” Ambrose leaned forward, his expression intense. “Talk to me, Morgan. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid—”
“Don’t.” Ambrose’s voice was sharp. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re terrified. I can see it. So, tell me what happened.”
The whiskey arrived. He drank half of it before speaking.
“When Whitfield had that blade to her throat,” he said quietly, “I realized how much power she has over me. How completely she’s undone every defense I’ve ever built. I would have died for her in that moment. Would have done anything, and I mean anything, to keep her safe.”
“That’s what love is, Morgan.”
“That’s what weakness is, damn it!” Morgan’s voice turned bitter.
“I swore I’d never let myself be that vulnerable again.
Never give someone that much power over me.
And yet here I am, so consumed by her that the thought of losing her is unbearable.
So I…” He stopped, took another slug. “I ended it. Before she could.”
Ambrose stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound that ticked Morgan off.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
Morgan’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“A hypocrite,” Ambrose repeated. “Do you remember what you said to me when I was about to let Imogen go? When I was convinced that our marriage was just a business arrangement and nothing more?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You told me I was an idiot. You told me I was throwing away the best thing that ever happened to me out of fear.” Ambrose’s eyes were hard. “Sound familiar?”
“The situations are completely different!”
“How? How are they different, Morgan? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re making the exact same mistake I almost made. You’re pushing away the woman you love because you’re terrified of being hurt.”
“I’m trying to protect her!” Morgan’s voice rose. “Don’t you understand? The way I feel about her, it’s not healthy. It’s obsessive. Consuming. When I thought she might die, I-I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I can’t live like that.”
“So instead, you destroyed it yourself.”
“Better that than—”
“Better than what?” Ambrose demanded. “Better than taking the risk? Better than trusting that maybe, just maybe, this time it will be different? That she’s different?”
“She’s not different. Women always leave.”
“One woman left you, Morgan. One. And she wasn’t worth your grief then, and she’s certainly not worth destroying your marriage now.”
Morgan slumped in his chair. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me. Make me understand why you’re willing to throw away a woman who loves you, who’s stood by you, who’s braver than anyone I’ve ever met. All because Cecilia was too shallow to see what she had.”
“This isn’t about Cecilia—”
“Isn’t it? Because it sounds to me like you’re punishing Eliza for Cecilia’s sins. And that’s not fair, Morgan. Not to Eliza, and not to yourself.”
Morgan was quiet, staring into his glass.
“I made the mistake of caring once,” he said finally. “Of letting myself be vulnerable. And when it ended, when she left…” His voice cracked. “It nearly destroyed me, Ambrose. I can’t go through that again.”
“So you’d rather be alone? Miserable? Drinking yourself to death in a Cheapside pub of all places?”
“At least this way I’m in control—”
“Control?” Ambrose laughed bitterly. “Morgan, look at yourself. You’re a mess. You haven’t slept. You haven’t eaten. You look like you’re one bad day away from complete collapse. That’s not control. That’s surrender.”
“I’m protecting myself!”
“You’re killing yourself! Slowly, methodically, destroying everything good in your life because you’re too afraid to risk being happy.” Ambrose’s voice softened. “Listen to me. Really listen. Eliza is not Cecilia. She’s nothing like Cecilia.”
“I know that!”
“Do you? Because Cecilia left you for a richer title. Eliza likely fell for you first when you were pretending to be nothing but a gentleman on the road. Cecilia wanted grand gestures and passion. Eliza has stood beside you through investigation, danger, and scandal. Cecilia abandoned you the moment something better came along. Eliza is planning to leave the country rather than force you into a marriage you claim not to want.”
“She’s leaving?” he whispered.
“Yes, I had said that earlier. In less than two weeks from what Imogen tells me. Traveling across Europe with her lady’s maid.” Ambrose’s expression was grim. “Because you’ve made it clear you don’t want her here.”
“That’s not…I never said…”
“You didn’t have to say it. You showed her.
Through your coldness, your distance, your refusal to let her in.
” Ambrose leaned forward. “Morgan, I’ve known you for fifteen years.
And in all that time, I’ve never seen you as happy as you were with Eliza.
Not once. You were lighter. More open. More yourself than I’ve ever seen you. ”
“That’s precisely the problem,” he rasped as he drained his glass.
“Most people spend their entire lives searching for what you had with her. And you’re throwing it away because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then what would you call it?.”
Morgan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Ambrose is right. About all of it.
“What if I’ve already lost her?” he asked quietly. “What if it’s too late?”
“Then you fight for her. You grovel. You beg. You do whatever it takes to make her understand that you were wrong. That you were an idiot. That you love her more than you’re afraid.”
“She won’t forgive me. I have been cruel.”
“You don’t know that. But you’ll never know unless you try.” Ambrose stood, tossing some coins on the table. “Now get up. Go home. Talk to your wife. And for God’s sake, stop wasting time drinking in a pub when the woman you love is preparing to leave the country. And take a bath.”
“What if she doesn’t want to hear it? What if I’ve hurt her too badly, Ambrose?”
“Then at least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll know you fought for what you wanted instead of running away like a coward.
It’s not your style,” Ambrose said as his expression softened.
“Morgan, you told me once that real courage is risking your heart. That it’s choosing love even when it terrifies you.
Don’t you think it’s time you took your own advice? ”
“I’m an idiot,” Morgan said, realization dawning on him like a new day.
“Yes. But a fixable one, I think.”
Morgan stood abruptly, the room spinning slightly. “I need to go home.”
“You need to sober up first. Coffee. Food. Then home.”
“I don’t have time—”
“You have time for coffee and a piece of bread,” Ambrose said firmly. “Trust me, you don’t want to have this conversation drunk. You’ll only make it worse.”
So, Morgan let Ambrose drag him to a nearby coffee house, force bitter black coffee and bread down his throat until the world stopped tilting quite so badly.
And then he ran. Through London’s streets, not caring about dignity or propriety or the stares he received.
Just running, his heart pounding, his mind racing with all the things he needed to say, all the apologies he owed, all the love he’d been too afraid to show.
Please, he thought as Kirkhammer Townhouse came into view. Please let it not be too late. Please let her still be there. Please let her give him one more chance to make this right.
He burst through the front door, startling Jenkins who was setting down a vase.
“Your Grace! I wasn’t expecting—”
“Where is she?” Morgan demanded. “Where’s Eliza?”
“Her Grace is in her rooms, sir. But—”
Morgan didn’t wait to hear the rest. He threw open the door. And there she was. Eliza stood by the window, backlit by the afternoon sun, and she was so beautiful it made his chest ache. She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes widening.
“Morgan?”
He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees before her in prayer.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, Eliza. I was wrong. About everything. I was a coward and a fool and I—”
“Morgan, you’re in your cups—”
“I’m sober. Or sober enough. Please.” He took her hands in his, looking up at her with everything he felt written on his face. “Please… listen. Nothing more. I only need you to hear this.”
Eliza stared down at him, her expression unreadable. But she didn’t pull away. And for now, that was enough.
He pressed her hands to his lips, then he saw it and stopped dead.
Trunks lay open on the floor. Dresses were draped over chairs.
Mary stood at the wardrobe, carefully folding chemises and placing them in tissue paper.