“Yes. Justice will be served.” His tone remained flat, emotionless.
Eliza moved closer, reaching for his arm. “Morgan, what’s wrong?”
He stepped away before she could touch him. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m simply tired. It’s been a trying few weeks.”
“Then come to bed. Rest. Surely you have no?—”
“I have things to attend to.” He moved to his desk, shuffling papers that were already organized. “You should eat breakfast.And perhaps call on Imogen today. I’m sure she’ll want to hear about last night’s events.”
“I’d rather spend the day with my husband.”
“I’ll be occupied with work all day.” Still, he didn’t look at her. “We can speak at dinner.”
But they didn’t speak at dinner.
Morgan sent word through Jenkins that he was dining at his club. He didn’t return home until well past midnight, long after Eliza had given up waiting and retreated to her chambers. Not their chambers, but the Duchess’s rooms she’d barely used since their wedding.
“His Grace left for Parliament quite early this morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dawson informed Eliza over breakfast the following day. “He said not to expect him for luncheon.”
Eliza set down her tea with trembling hands on the saucer, her hazel eyes downcast. “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Dawson.”
When Morgan returned that evening, he was polite enough. But distant.
“How was your visit with the Duchess of Welton?”
“It was fine. Imogen sends her congratulations on Whitfield’s arrest.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Silence.
“Morgan—”
“I’m quite tired. I think I’ll retire early.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No need to disturb your reading. I know you were in the middle of that novel.”
“But I would rather?—”
He was gone before she could say another syllable, retreating to his chambers and closing the connecting door between them. Not locking it. But the message was clear anyway.
Eliza tried to tell herself she was imagining it. That Morgan was simply preoccupied with the aftermath of Whitfield’s arrest, with Parliamentary business, with any of a dozen legitimate concerns. But she couldn’t ignore the way he avoided looking at her. The way he found excuses to leave any room she entered.The way he flinched when she reached for him. By the third day, the hurt had crystallized into something harder. She found him in the library that evening, a book open in his lap that he clearly wasn’t reading.
“We need to talk,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Eliza, I’m rather busy?—”
“You’re not busy. You’re avoiding me.” She crossed her arms, fighting to keep her voice steady. “And I want to know why.”
Morgan set down the book, but he didn’t look at her. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve simply had a great deal on my mind.”
“For three whole days? Three days where you can barely look at me? Where you won’t touch me, won’t talk to me, won’t even sleep in the same bed as me?”
“I didn’t realize I was required to account for every moment of my time.”
The coldness in his voice made her flinch, as if being burned after touching a hot stove.
