“You have time for coffee and a piece of bread,” Ambrose said firmly. “Trust me, you don’t want to have this conversation drunk. You’ll only make it worse.”
So, Morgan let Ambrose drag him to a nearby coffee house, force bitter black coffee and bread down his throat until the world stopped tilting quite so badly. And then he ran. Through London’s streets, not caring about dignity or propriety or the stares he received. Just running, his heart pounding, his mind racing with all the things he needed to say, all the apologies he owed, all the love he’d been too afraid to show.
Please, he thought as Kirkhammer Townhouse came into view.Please let it not be too late. Please let her still be there. Please let her give him one more chance to make this right.
He burst through the front door, startling Jenkins who was setting down a vase.
“Your Grace! I wasn’t expecting?—”
“Where is she?” Morgan demanded. “Where’s Eliza?”
“Her Grace is in her rooms, sir. But?—”
Morgan didn’t wait to hear the rest. He threw open the door. And there she was. Eliza stood by the window, backlit by the afternoon sun, and she was so beautiful it made his chest ache. She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes widening.
“Morgan?”
He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees before her in prayer.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, Eliza. I was wrong. About everything. I was a coward and a fool and I?—”
“Morgan, you’re in your cups?—”
“I’m sober. Or sober enough. Please.” He took her hands in his, looking up at her with everything he felt written on his face. “Please… listen. Nothing more. I only need you to hear this.”
Eliza stared down at him, her expression unreadable. But she didn’t pull away. And for now, that was enough.
He pressed her hands to his lips, then he saw it and stopped dead.
Trunks lay open on the floor. Dresses were draped over chairs.
Mary stood at the wardrobe, carefully folding chemises and placing them in tissue paper.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Morgan?”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The evidence of her departure was everywhere, in the half-packed trunks, in the traveling clothes laid out on the bed, in the way Mary had immediately stopped working and was now looking between them with barely concealed concern.
She is really leaving.
“I need—” His voice came out rough, strangled. “May I speak with you? Please? Alone?”
Eliza stared at him for a long moment. He watched her face cycle through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been hope before settling on careful neutrality.
“Mary,” she said quietly, not taking her eyes off Morgan. “Could you give us a moment, please?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mary curtsied quickly and hurried from the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
He’d rehearsed what to say during the frantic journey home, but now, faced with Eliza’s guarded expression and the damning evidence of her departure, every carefully planned word fled his mind.
“You’re leaving,” he said stupidly.
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes.”
