He looked out the window toward the sea. He had to put distance between them.
For her sake, if not his own.
Over the next few days, Morgan made himself scarce. He threw himself even more into estate business, spending long hours with his steward inspecting properties. He accepted dinner invitations from neighboring families he would not ordinarilysocialize with. He kept to his study when he was home and avoided the parts of the house where Ellie might be working.
One evening, restless and unable to sleep, he rode to a tavern several villages over. It was late, and the crowd was thin, a few locals, a handful of travelers.
He ordered a drink and sat in a corner, nursing it slowly. Two young women at the bar had noticed him. They whispered to each other, then one approached, a pretty blonde with a coy smile and curvy hips.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said.
Morgan looked up. “No, dear,” he said, the flirtation coming out of his mouth like sheer habit.
“Passing through?”
“Something like that,” He said, letting his eyes rove up and down her body.
She leaned against the table, her intent clear. “I could show you around. If you’d like.”
A month ago, Morgan would have said yes without hesitation. Would have gone with her, spent a pleasant few hours forgetting his name and not learning hers, and rode home with nothing more than a faint headache and a lighter purse. Yet something about the proposition didn’t quite tempt him.
“Thank you,” he said. “But not tonight, beauty. Perhaps another time.”
She pouted prettily, then shrugged and returned to her friend.
Morgan finished his drink, realizing he had only had one. It was barely enough to feel, and he had no desire for more.
And so, he left. He rode home slowly, the night air cool against his face.
Eliza couldn’t sleep.She’d tried her best, tossing and turning for an hour. Eventually, she gave up and slipped out of bed. She wrapped a shawl over her nightgown and padded downstairs to the kitchens.
The house was silent. The servants were asleep, the fires banked, the corridors dark. Eliza lit a single candle and found the tin of biscuits Cook kept in the pantry. She settled at the main counter, spreading a clean towel beneath the book she had borrowed from His Grace. She didn’t want to risk damaging it with crumbs.
She opened to her favorite section, the story of Persephone, and lost herself in the familiar words. She was so absorbed in fact that she didn’t hear the footsteps until a voice spoke from the doorway.
“Miss Graham.”
Eliza nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, clutching the book to her chest.
The Duke stood in the doorway, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, his hair slightly disheveled, likely from riding and at such a late hour. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Your Grace!” Eliza scrambled to her feet and curtsied. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… Oh goodness, can I prepare something for you?”
“No, no. I only meant to make some tea.” He gestured vaguely toward the stove. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I can make it for you!”
“Please don’t.” He held up a hand. “You’re not working right now. You’re entitled to some peace.”
“But Your Grace, I must insist. It is nor proper, and?—”
“I’m perfectly capable of making my own tea, Miss Graham. Sit. Finish your reading.”
Eliza hesitated, then sank back onto the stool, feeling awkward and oddly vulnerable in her nightclothes, her dark blonde locksloose around her shoulders, curling down her back toward her backside.
The Duke moved to the stove and began heating water with surprising ease. He glanced at her. “Would you like some tea as well?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose!”
