But when she entered, her optimism crumbled. The room was empty, save for the neatly laid breakfast spread that seemed to mock her solitude. A small sigh escaped her lips, her hands tightening on the folds of her skirt. She crossed to the sideboard and reached for a slice of toast, but her hand hovered over the silver tongs.
No. Not today.
Peggy turned sharply, her skirts swishing as she left the room. Determination flared anew. She did not marry to dine alone for the rest of her days.
The butler, Mr. Barrow, appeared at the far end of the hallway, his expression as impeccably composed as ever.
“Mr. Barrow,” Peggy called, quickening her steps.
“Your Grace,” he replied with a bow. “How may I be of service?”
“Where might I find the Duke?” she asked, her tone measured, though her pulse quickened.
Barrow hesitated. It was so slight Peggy might have missed it had she not been watching closely. “His Grace is in his study,attending to correspondence. Is there something I might assist you with instead, Your Grace?”
There was something in his voice—a careful edge, as though he disapproved of her plan. Peggy tilted her head slightly but dismissed the notion just as quickly.
“No, thank you, Mr. Barrow. I shall find His Grace.”
The butler cleared his throat immediately, and Peggy paused mid-step. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your Grace, we have orders not to disturb the Duke when he is in his study,” Barrow replied, his gaze lowered.
Unbelievable!
“Youhave those orders, Barrow.” The Duke would see her this morning whether he liked it or not.
The butler inclined his head, his face betraying nothing, and Peggy followed his directions to the study. She stood before the heavy oak door for a moment, smoothing her skirts and gathering her courage. Then, with a decisive breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Morgan sat at the desk, his dark head bent over a pile of papers. He did not look up. “Morning,” he grunted, the scratch of his quill continuing unabated.
Peggy hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the doorframe. She waited, hoping he might glance up or offer her some acknowledgment. But the silence stretched, and her hope waned.
“It’s time for breakfast,” she said at last, her voice warm but firm as she stepped further into the room.
Morgan’s quill froze mid-stroke. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his dark eyes meeting hers with a mixture of mild irritation and curiosity.
“I have plenty of timepieces to take me through my days, Margaret,” he said flatly. “I do not need a walking, breathing one too.”
Peggy’s lips twitched, her chin lifting slightly. “Oh, I am not here to tell you the time.”
“No?” he replied, arching a brow. “Then what, pray tell, is the purpose of this interruption?”
“To remind you to eat,” she said, undeterred. “After all, many people believe that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into something that might have been amusement—or irritation. “Those people clearly have nothing better to do.”
“I can hardly think of anything more important,” she countered, crossing her arms lightly over her chest.
He let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “I am not surprised.”
Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, his tone clipped, “that I am not eating.”
“Surely you do not want me to dine alone again?” she pressed, her voice softening with a note of genuine pleading.
