“And if I’m not fast enough? If I fail her?”
“Then you’ll have done everything you could. But Morgan, this constant catastrophizing… it’s not helping. You need to trust yourself the way she trusts you. I hate to see you this way, my friend.”
Morgan wanted to argue. But looking at his concerned face, he realized Ambrose was right. His anxiety wasn’t protecting Eliza, it was only making him less prepared.
“How do you do it?” Morgan asked quietly. “How do you live with loving someone so much that the thought of losing them is unbearable?”
“You don’t think about losing them. You focus on the present. On being the best version of yourself for them right now.” Ambrose smiled slightly. “And you trust that love is stronger than fear.”
Later that night, Morgan held Eliza in bed, his arms wrapped around her, his heart beating hard against her back.
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered into the darkness. “We could still call it off. Find another way.”
“There is no other way,” Eliza said gently. “You know that.”
“I could just kill him myself. Challenge him to a duel!”
“And hang for murder? No, Morgan. This is the right way. The only way.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his hand splayed over her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For being impossible these past few days. For snapping at you, at the servants. For being so consumed by fear that I’ve been terrible company.”
“You haven’t been terrible. You’ve been terrified. There’s a difference.” She turned in his arms to face him. “But tomorrow, I need you present. Can you do that for me?”
He looked into her hazel eyes, seeing not fear but determination. Trust. Faith in him.
“Yes,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Good.” She kissed him softly. “Because this is going to work, Morgan. We’re going to get justice for Abigail. We’re going to stop Whitfield from ever hurting anyone again. And then we’re going to go home and live our lives without looking over our shoulders.”
She is right. I know she is right.
Yet the notion did not make it any easier to accept that tomorrow night, the woman he loved would deliberately walk into the lion’s den. And all he could do was watch and pray she made it out alive.
After they made sweet love to each other, tender and full and promising as the heavens themselves, Eliza drifted to sleep in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Pemberton ballroom glittered with a thousand candles, their light reflecting off mirrors and crystal until the whole room seemed to shimmer. But Morgan barely noticed any of it. His attention was fixed on the careful choreography they’d planned, the subtle movements that would set their trap in motion.
As he and Eliza were announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Kirkhammer, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Kirkhammer”, Morgan nodded almost imperceptibly to Lord Pemberton, who stood near the entrance. Pemberton understood his charge and within moments, he’d moved to a cluster of gossiping matrons, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard.
“…such shocking allegations about Lord Whitfield… quite shocking!”
“…three beautiful, young wives, all dead under suspicious circumstances…”
“…heard the Duke of Kirkhammer himself has engaged investigators…”
“…at least someone is taking this seriously, even if the authorities are not!”
The whispers spread like wildfire through the ballroom. Morgan watched as heads turned, eyes seeking out Whitfield, who stood near the refreshment table. Morgan gave another subtle nod to Pemberton.
It is done.
The effect was immediate. Conversations stuttered to a halt as Whitfield passed. People who’d been perfectly cordial moments before now avoided his gaze, turned away, formed new groups that deliberately excluded him. Morgan saw the exact moment Whitfield realized what was happening. His jaw tightened, his hand clenching around his champagne glass hard enough that Morgan expected it to shatter.
“It’s working,” Eliza murmured beside him, her hand tight on his arm.
