Part of her could scarcely believe he loved her. It felt like a dream, almost too wonderful to be real, and she could not shake the lingering sensation that at any moment, she would wake to discover Morgan loved her only in her fanciful imagination.
Her husband alighted from the phaeton first and then reached a hand up to help her descend, as well. She met his gaze as she did so, searching. “Are you certain you wish to face Alessandro today?”
His jaw hardened, a hint of the shadows haunting him crossing over his features. “He is your half-brother, Leonie. I must face him, for your sake, and put an end to the bad blood between us. What better day to do so than the day I was meant to duel him?”
Gratitude filled her then at the effort he was making on her behalf, for she knew what it must cost him. Giving up on the vengeance that had propelled him for so long could not be easy. Nor, she suspected, was swallowing his pride before Alessandro, the man he held responsible for his captivity and torture.
“Thank you, Morgan,” she said softly.
“You need not thank me for doing what is right,” he said wryly. “In truth, I allowed my anger and hatred to consume me, and it is I who is thankful to you for loving me enough to see me through it.”
“Always,” she promised.
Arm in arm, they approached Riverford House. They had scarcely crossed the threshold and waited while the somber butler announced them. But what they found within the familiar drawing room was not Alessandro at all. Rather, it was Mama, her face pale and stained with tears.
“Oh, Leonora,” her mother cried, rushing to her and throwing herself into her arms with a sob, “it is horrible news, is it not? I do not know what we shall do now.”
Frowning, Leonora cast a look over Mama’s shoulder at an equally perplexed looking Morgan. She patted her mother consolingly. “Whatever is the matter, Mama?”
“Did you not receive my note?” Mama’s voice bordered on hysterical now as she clutched Leonora tightly. “I thought it was why you had come. Rayne has killed the Duke of Montrose.”
Horror warred with disbelief. “Good heavens, Mama. What are you talking about?”
“The duel.” Her mother released her and spun about suddenly, facing Morgan. “That accursed duel was your fault, and you refused to fight it. Now we must all pay the price.”
Morgan’s face lost color, going ashen, and she could see him shuttering himself off, the old demons inside him mingling with an onslaught of new, prompted by the news Mama had just delivered. News which, if true, would be…
Devastating, to say the least.
“Where are my smelling salts?” Mama asked weakly, the cap on her head fluttering beneath the strength of her dudgeon, as if she stood in a stiff breeze.
“Do settle down, Mama,” Leonora urged, trying to remain calm herself. “There was no duel, for Searle instructed Montrose to cry off on his behalf yesterday.”
“Of course there was.” Mama sniffled, then held a handkerchief to her nose. “Rayne went off to Battersea Fields before dawn this morning, though I begged him to act with care for the law and for his title both. And now, he has returned with a bleeding Montrose.”
Here was some information she could work with at last. “Where has the duke been taken, Mama?”
“I must sit.” Mama sobbed into her handkerchief. “Oh, it is not to be born. The Duke of Montrose is a scoundrel, but Rayne shall be arrested for murder over this.”
Leonora met her husband’s gaze, silently urging him to remain strong. Mama was in histrionics, and surely there was more to the story than she had shoddily relayed. She led her mother to a chaise lounge, then helped her to settle herself upon it. “There now, Mama. Think, if you please. Where was the Duke of Montrose taken?”
“To your old chamber,” Mama answered, her voice pale.
“I will show you the way,” she told Morgan grimly. Turning back to her distraught mother, she promised, “I shall send your maid Hendricks to you at once, and bid her bring the smelling salts. We will return soon.”
“Thank you, my daughter.”
*
It seemed almostfitting that after Morgan had finally realized what was important in life, it was about to slip through his fingers after a mere twenty-four hours. As he followed Leonie grimly through Riverford House, one litany repeated itself in his mind, a strident chorus of denial.
It cannot be.
It cannot be.
It cannot be.
But whilst Leonie’s mother seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, she did not appear to be confused about what she had seen, a bleeding Monty being carried into the townhome. Pray God he wasn’t dead. Pray God Rayne, that vicious bastard, had not refused to back down from the duel and faced Monty instead. It was almost too ludicrous to believe.
