“You are impossible,” she muttered, though her voice held no true bite.
The music swirled to a close, and Morgan bowed, offering her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked, inclining his head toward the garden doors.
She nodded, letting him lead her into the cool night air. The garden was quiet save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of laughter from the ballroom. The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over the manicured hedges and gravel paths.
“I had no idea you were actively seeking a wife,” Margaret said as they strolled.
Morgan shrugged lightly. “I would not call it an active search. More a… passive acknowledgment of necessity.”
Margaret stopped, turning to face him. “Necessity?”
“As a Duke,” he began, his voice steady, “I needed a Duchess. Even if only in name.”
She stared at him, her brow furrowing. “In name only?”
He met her gaze, his expression softening. “It was what I thought at the time.”
Her heart twinged at his honesty. She folded her arms. “That is hardly a romantic notion, Morgan.”
He chuckled, stepping closer. “And yet, it brought me to you.”
She rolled her eyes, though a smile threatened to break through. “You are fortunate that I have a forgiving nature.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he agreed, his tone wry. “Though I must say, Margaret, you have an uncanny ability to turn any conversation into an interrogation.”
“An interrogation?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “I was merely seeking clarity.”
“Ah,” he said with mock seriousness. “How could I have mistaken it for anything else?”
Her laughter rang out, light and free, as he took her hand. They continued their stroll, the earlier tension melting away into the quiet comfort of the evening.
The charity ball had been an unequivocal triumph. As Peggy climbed into bed that night, she felt a profound sense of satisfaction settle over her. The evening had been filled with laughter, camaraderie, and generosity, and she couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.
Yet, it was not merely the success of the event that left her feeling so content. Morgan had surprised her—pleasantly so. Forthe first time since their marriage, he seemed to be stepping out from the shadows of his self-imposed seclusion. He had conversed, laughed, and even danced with her.Perhaps,she thought as she sank into her pillows,there is hope yet.
The idea brought a warmth to her chest, and she clasped it tightly as her eyes fluttered shut. Sleep claimed her swiftly, her mind carrying her into dreams where her husband was no longer distant, where their partnership grew stronger with each passing day.
But that peace was short-lived.
Curious sounds pierced her slumber, dragging her back into wakefulness. Peggy’s eyes flew open, her heart racing as she sat upright in her bed. The room was dim, the moonlight streaming faintly through the curtains casting long shadows on the walls. She held her breath, listening.
The sound came again. Low, guttural grunts, like those of someone in distress. Her pulse quickened as she strained to locate the source. And then it struck her—these sounds were coming from Morgan’s chambers.
Alarm surged through her, erasing any remnants of drowsiness. She threw back the covers and slipped her feet into her slippers. Wrapping her dressing dress tightly around her, she moved swiftly to the adjoining door, her heart pounding with each step.
Peggy did not expect to find the room occupied. Since their marriage, Morgan had spent most of his nights in his study,retreating to the sanctuary of his solitude. But when she let herself into his chamber, candle in hand, she stopped short.
Her husband was there, reclined on a chaise lounge near the hearth, his cravat loosened and his waistcoat unbuttoned. The soft glow of the dwindling fire cast flickering shadows across his features, but something was unmistakably wrong.
He was shaking.
Low, agitated grunts escaped his lips, his brow furrowed deeply as if he were in great torment. Peggy rushed to his side, her heart thundering in her chest. Kneeling before him, she gently placed a trembling hand on his forehead, her fingers brushing against the dampness of his skin.
“Morgan?” she called softly. He didn’t stir, his head tossing lightly against the cushion as more incoherent mumbles left his lips. Whatever he was trapped in, it was consuming him.
Her chest tightened as she leaned closer, her hands coming to rest on his arm. “Morgan, can you hear me?” she tried again, more urgently now. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”
But it was no use. He shook harder, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his entire frame wracked with the silent echoes of some unseen agony. The rawness in his muffled cries pulled at something deep within her, filling her with a desperate need to pull him out of whatever darkness held him captive.
