Morgan was quiet, staring into his glass.
“I made the mistake of caring once,” he said finally. “Of letting myself be vulnerable. And when it ended, when she left…” His voice cracked. “It nearly destroyed me, Ambrose. I can’t go through that again.”
“So you’d rather be alone? Miserable? Drinking yourself to death in a Cheapside pub of all places?”
“At least this way I’m in control?—”
“Control?” Ambrose laughed bitterly. “Morgan, look at yourself. You’re a mess. You haven’t slept. You haven’t eaten. You look like you’re one bad day away from complete collapse. That’s not control. That’s surrender.”
“I’m protecting myself!”
“You’re killing yourself! Slowly, methodically, destroying everything good in your life because you’re too afraid to risk being happy.” Ambrose’s voice softened. “Listen to me. Really listen. Eliza is not Cecilia. She’s nothing like Cecilia.”
“I know that!”
“Do you? Because Cecilia left you for a richer title. Eliza likely fell for you first when you were pretending to be nothing but a gentleman on the road. Cecilia wanted grand gestures and passion. Eliza has stood beside you through investigation, danger, and scandal. Cecilia abandoned you the moment something better came along. Eliza is planning to leave the country rather than force you into a marriage you claim not to want.”
“She’s leaving?” he whispered.
“Yes, I had said that earlier. In less than two weeks from what Imogen tells me. Traveling across Europe with her lady’s maid.” Ambrose’s expression was grim. “Because you’ve made it clear you don’t want her here.”
“That’s not…I never said…”
“You didn’t have to say it. You showed her. Through your coldness, your distance, your refusal to let her in.” Ambrose leaned forward. “Morgan, I’ve known you for fifteen years. And in all that time, I’ve never seen you as happy as you were with Eliza. Not once. You were lighter. More open. More yourself than I’ve ever seen you.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” he rasped as he drained his glass.
“Most people spend their entire lives searching for what you had with her. And you’re throwing it away because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then what would you call it?.”
Morgan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Ambrose is right. About all of it.
“What if I’ve already lost her?” he asked quietly. “What if it’s too late?”
“Then you fight for her. You grovel. You beg. You do whatever it takes to make her understand that you were wrong. That you were an idiot. That you love her more than you’re afraid.”
“She won’t forgive me. I have been cruel.”
“You don’t know that. But you’ll never know unless you try.” Ambrose stood, tossing some coins on the table. “Now get up. Go home. Talk to your wife. And for God’s sake, stop wasting time drinking in a pub when the woman you love is preparing to leave the country. And take a bath.”
“What if she doesn’t want to hear it? What if I’ve hurt her too badly, Ambrose?”
“Then at least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll know you fought for what you wanted instead of running away like a coward. It’s not your style,” Ambrose said as his expression softened.“Morgan, you told me once that real courage is risking your heart. That it’s choosing love even when it terrifies you. Don’t you think it’s time you took your own advice?”
“I’m an idiot,” Morgan said, realization dawning on him like a new day.
“Yes. But a fixable one, I think.”
Morgan stood abruptly, the room spinning slightly. “I need to go home.”
“You need to sober up first. Coffee. Food. Then home.”
“I don’t have time?—”
