“It is an honor to be your friend,” Imogen said, and Eliza watched her eyes prickle with unshed tears. “Such a loss and I look forward to you telling me more stories of her in the years to come.”
“I would like that.”
“So, have you told Morgan?”
“Not yet. But I will. He deserves to know that his wife is leaving the country for an indefinite period I suppose.”
“And if he asks you to stay?”
Eliza was quiet for a long moment. She thought about Morgan’s eyes when he’d said those words.
Not in the way you need.
“He won’t,” she said finally. “He’s made his choice. Now I’m making mine.”
As she rode home in the carriage that afternoon, Eliza looked out at London’s streets. She took in the city that had been both prison and sanctuary, the place where she’d lost everything and found everything and lost it all over again. In two weeks, she’d leave it all behind. The scandal. The memories. The ghost of a marriage that might have been.
I’ll go to Paris first, she decided.Walk along the Seine. Visit the Louvre. Eat pastries in sidewalk cafés and practice my French and try to remember what it feels like to be happy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Morgan had chosen the pub deliberately. He settled on a small, dingy establishment in Cheapside where no one from the ton would ever venture. Where he could drink himself into oblivion without judgment, without well-meaning friends offering advice, without having to maintain the carefully constructed facade of the Duke of Kirkhammer. He was on his fifth whiskey when a familiar voice cut through the smoky haze.
“Well. This is truly pathetic.”
Morgan looked up to find Ambrose standing over him, his expression a mixture of concern and disgust.
“How did you find me?” Morgan asked, his words slightly slurred.
“Jenkins. He’s worried about you. As am I.” Ambrose pulled out the chair across from him and sat without invitation. “What the hell happened, Morgan?”
“Nothing happened. I’m simply enjoying a quiet drink. That wasn’t a crime last I checked,” he said as he pulled out his watch.
“In a pub that smells like piss and desperation? At three in the afternoon? On a damn Tuesday?” Ambrose signaled the barkeep. “I’ll have whatever he’s having. And bring him some food while you’re at it. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.”
“I don’t need food. Or company.”
“Too bad. You’re getting both.” Ambrose leaned back, studying Morgan with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. “Where’s Eliza?”
Morgan’s hand tightened on his glass. “At home, I presume.”
“You presume? You don’t know where your own wife is?”
“She’s a grown woman. She’s capable of managing her own affairs.”
“Morgan.” Ambrose’s voice hardened. “Don’t lie to me. What happened between you and Eliza?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Bullshit.” The profanity was so uncharacteristic of Ambrose that Morgan actually looked up. “You’ve been avoiding your own home for nearly two weeks. You look like death warmed over. And according to Imogen, Eliza is planning to leave the country for an extended tour of Europe. Alone. So, I’ll ask you again.What the hell happened?”
Morgan drained his glass, signaling for another. “We simply… came to an understanding about the nature of our marriage.”
“An understanding.”
“Yes. We married under unusual circumstances. It was always meant to be a practical arrangement. We’re simply… returning to that.”
“Practical arrangement?” Ambrose’s laugh was harsh. “Morgan, I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you. There’s nothing practical about it. You caught the bad guy, the knight in shining armor that you are. It is time to carry the princess off to the castle.”
