Later that night, after the opera had ended and they’d said their goodbyes to Ambrose and Imogen, Eliza turned to Morgan in the carriage.
“That was incredibly improper,” she said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. “Dangerous territory, Morgan.”
“It was,” Morgan agreed, completely unrepentant. “You are correct.”
“We could have been caught.”
“But we weren’t.”
“Ambrose and Imogen were right there!”
“I know. That was part of the thrill.” He pulled her onto his lap, his hands settling on her waist as he held her tight. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy it and I will never do it again.”
“Well…”
“Say it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. “I… may have enjoyed it. A little.”
“A little?” His hands slid up her sides. “Darling, you were trembling. You bit your lip so hard I thought you might draw blood. And the way you clenched around my fingers, like you never wanted me to leave…”
“All right, all right!” Eliza’s face was burning. “I enjoyed it. Very much. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He kissed her, slow and deep. “I love discovering all the ways I can make you lose control. It’s become my favorite pastime.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“God help me, I do.”
“You are mine. Do not forget that.”
After dropping Imogen at home, Ambrose had circled back to Kirkhammer townhouse and convinced Morgan to join him for a nightcap at White’s. They sat in a quiet corner, brandy in hand, the club mostly empty at this late hour.
“You’re different,” Ambrose observed. “It’s remarkable.”
“Oh really?” Morgan looked up from his glass. “Different how?”
“Happier. Lighter. Less…” Ambrose gestured vaguely. “Less like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“Marriage suits me, apparently.”
“It’s more than that.” Ambrose’s expression turned serious. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, Morgan. I’ve seen you with women before. With Cecilia, with Arabella, with all the others. But this, what you have with Eliza, this is different.”
Morgan was quiet for a long moment, swirling the brandy in his glass. “It is different.”
“You’re in love with her.”
“Oh, I most certainly am.” Morgan met his friend’s eyes. “Completely. Irrevocably. Terrifyingly in love with her.”
“Terrifyingly?”
“Because I’ve never felt this way before. With Cecilia, I thought I was in love. But it was… comfortable. Safe. This—what I feel for Eliza—it’s not comfortable. It’s consuming. It makes me want to be better, do better. It makes me feel vulnerable in ways I’ve spent years avoiding.”
Ambrose smiled. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
“Is it?” Morgan laughed, but there was uncertainty in it. “How do you know when it’s real versus when you’re just… caught up in the intensity of it all?”
