“You don’t, not really. But I can tell you this. You know the way you look at her? The way you light up when she enters a room? The way you defended her at that ball, the way you touch her like she might disappear if you let go?” Ambrose shook his head. “That’s real, Morgan. That’s the kind of love people spend their whole lives searching for.”
Morgan was quiet, processing his best friend’s words.
“I never thought I’d have this,” he admitted. “After Cecilia, I convinced myself that this kind of love wasn’t in the cards for me. That I was too cautious, too controlled. But Eliza. The woman has broken through every wall I’ve built. And I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. Even if she had been a maid, we would have ended up here.”
“Then be both,” Ambrose suggested. “I was. Hell, I still am sometimes. Loving someone this much means they have the power to destroy you. But it also means they have the power to make you whole.”
“And if I fail her? If I can’t protect her from Whitfield, from the ton, from all the things she’s running from?”
“Then you’ll figure it out together. That’s what marriage is, Morgan. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about choosing each other, every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
“Wait a minute.” Morgan drained his brandy, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “When did you become so wise?”
“I married Imogen. She’s rubbed off on me. And I have you partially at least to thank for that. I am returning the favor.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.
“Thank you,” Morgan said finally. “For the advice. For the friendship. For putting up with my brooding all these years.”
“That’s what friends are for.” Ambrose stood, clapping Morgan on the shoulder. “Look at us. A couple of saps.”
“I’ll take it,” he said with a laugh.
“Now go home to your wife. I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”
Morgan smiled. “She is.”
The carriage ride home felt longer than usual, though whether that was due to the late hour or Morgan’s eagerness to return to Eliza, he couldn’t say. He settled into the seat, watching London roll past the window, gas lamps casting pools of gold on wet cobblestones, the occasional late-night pedestrian hurrying home.
“Goodnight Morgan,” Ambrose said as he dropped him off.
“Goodnight Ambrose, and thank you.”
As he walked up the stairs, his mind drifted back to Ambrose’s words.
Choosing each other, every day, even when it’s hard.
Had he been doing that? Or had he been so focused on protecting Eliza, on bringing Whitfield to justice, on managingthe scandal of their marriage, that he’d forgotten to simply… be with her?
No. That wasn’t quite right. He’d been present, attentive, loving. But perhaps there was a difference between protecting someone and partnering with them. Between solving their problems and facing those problems together.
Eliza was strong. Brave. She’d survived things that would have broken most people. Maybe what she needed wasn’t just his protection, maybe she needed his trust. His belief that she could handle whatever came next.
Together.
The word settled into his chest like a promise.
Jenkins opened the door before Morgan could reach for the handle. The man always had an uncanny ability to anticipate his employer’s arrival.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Jenkins said with a slight bow. “I trust your evening was pleasant?”
“Very pleasant, thank you.” Morgan handed over his hat and gloves. “Is her Grace still awake?”
“She retired to your chambers approximately half an hour ago, Your Grace.”
“Our chambers.”
“Yes, well. She asked that I inform you of her whereabouts upon your return.” Jenkins’s expression remained perfectly neutral, but there was a hint of warmth in his eyes. “If I may say so, Your Grace, it’s good to see you so… content.”
