“This keeps getting nastier by the day,” he muttered, setting the cup down with a clink.
The faintest curve touched Mrs. Hallewell’s lips, though it was far from mirthful. It was a fleeting expression, one Morgan couldnot quite name but had seen often enough to know it wasn’t amusement.
She gathered the tray and inclined her head. “Good day, Your Grace,” she said before retreating with her usual precision.
Left alone in the quiet of his study, Morgan stared at the spot where Mrs. Hallewell had stood. Margaret’s image lingered in his mind, her confusion and concern now so vividly imagined it twisted in his chest. She had seen him—truly seen him—and yet chosen to keep her silence.
For reasons he could not yet fathom, the thought unsettled him far more than the nightmares themselves.
“Lady Aleshire did not join us at the parish today,” Margaret said, her fork hovering just above her plate. “Her grandson has taken ill, the poor thing.”
Morgan looked up from his roast, an eyebrow arching. “That must be quite frightening for the family.”
“Indeed, and he is the heir, too,” she replied.
He nodded, though his attention was only half on her words. Something was off. Margaret’s tone lacked its usual brightness, her laughter too fleeting to be genuine. Her movements were listless as she absently prodded the potatoes on her plate, and the lively spark in her green eyes was conspicuously absent.
Morgan’s stomach tightened. Was this about the nightmares? Had seeing him that night unsettled her more than she let on? He found himself scrutinizing her, his gaze flicking between her downturned eyes and the faint frown tugging at her lips.
Yet, for all his anticipation, she said nothing. No curious questions, no probing remarks, no veiled inquiries. If anything, Margaret seemed quieter than usual, and the silence between them felt strange—wrong.
It struck him then how much he missed her vivacity. The way her words tumbled over one another, her hands dancing through the air as she spoke. He missed the ease of her conversation, the way her laughter filled the empty spaces of the manor. And if he was being truly honest, a part of him—one he scarcely recognized—wished shewouldask about his nightmares.
The thought unsettled him. He had locked away the pain of his past for so long, built walls so high they had become a part of him. Yet now, faced with her quiet retreat, he found himself yearning to let her in. She had, unwittingly, been handed a key—a glimpse into his torment—and he wished she would use it. Not because he possessed the courage to open those gates himself, but because he needed her to push them open for him.
But Margaret said nothing. She continued to push her food around her plate, the faint clink of her fork against the porcelain a cruel reminder of her distraction. Her spirits were sunken, her brightness dulled. Something was wrong.
He set down his own fork, his voice steady but edged with concern. “Margaret, what troubles you? Are you quite alright?”
Her hand paused, hovering over her plate. She seemed hesitant, her lips parting as if to speak but no sound coming. At last, she set her fork down and looked up at him, her expression uncertain.
“There is nothing wrong with me, precisely,” she began tentatively. “But I had... a rather trying encounter at the charity meeting today.”
Morgan tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “What sort of encounter?”
She hesitated again before exhaling softly, her gaze dropping to her plate. “Mrs. Pattons saw fit to make an unkind remark about you.”
Morgan stilled, his jaw tightening. “Did she now?”
Margaret glanced up at him, her eyes searching his face. “She implied that... that you might be difficult to live with. It was so sudden, so improper. I was too taken aback to respond.”
The tension in his chest eased slightly, replaced by something cooler—determination. “Well,” he said, his tone even but edged with resolve, “in that case, I must simply change Mrs. Pattons’s opinion of me.”
Margaret blinked at him, surprise flickering across her features. “And how do you intend to do that?”
“Relax, dear wife. I do not intend to unleash the beast upon the woman,” Morgan said, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He shrugged lightly. “Well, not at his full potential, at least.”
“Morgan,” she admonished, her voice sharp with disapproval.
Her expression, however, held no humor, and his laughter faltered. She wasn’t sharing in his mirth. Did she truly think him monstrous enough to harm the matron? The notion lingered in his mind, gnawing at his composure. And what was more troubling—he could not quite fathom why it hurt.
He wanted her, above all, to see him in a light others did not. To see something good, something worth admiring, or at the very least respecting. It struck him suddenly just how much he valued her opinion, how much her perception of him mattered.
Margaret had fallen silent, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of her plate. Her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Then, after a long pause, she straightened, her chin lifting in that familiar way that signaled her mind had settled on a course of action.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, her tone decisive, “I think I will take care of this matter myself.”
Morgan tilted his head, studying her. “Are you certain you do not need my help?”
