And then, just before Ellie disappeared from view, their eyes met.
Imogen’s expression was unreadable, but there was something there.
Recognition? Suspicion?
Morgan couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was, it made his pulse quicken and Ellie’s face went pale as alabaster. She lowered her gaze immediately and hurried out of sight like a scared mouse.
Morgan turned to Imogen, searching her face for answers. But she simply smiled politely, and said nothing.
“Well then,” Ambrose said, oblivious to the silent exchange that had passed. “We should be off. The boys need their rest, and it’s a long journey back to London. Hopefully they sleep all the way home.”
“Of course,” Morgan said, forcing a smile. “I won’t be far behind you. See you in town.”
The remaining farewells were warm, the boys waving enthusiastically from the carriage windows as it rolled down the drive. Morgan stood on the steps, watching until they disappeared.
But his mind wasn’t on the boys. It was on the way Imogen had looked at Ellie.
And the way Ellie had looked back.
Chapter Eleven
Eliza stood at the window of the servants’ quarters of the Kirkhammer House in London, watching the street below with mounting dread. Carriages rolled past in an endless parade, all gleaming black lacquer, golden crests emblazoned on doors, liveried footmen standing at attention.
The heart of bloody Mayfair! The center of the ton! The very last place I should be.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging the pane. What had she been thinking? She’d been so desperate to escape, so relieved to have employment, that she hadn’t fully considered the danger of being employed by a duke and the chances of a return to London. And so soon…
Here, in the Duke’s townhouse, she was mere blocks away from her parents’ residence. A short walk from the ballrooms where she’d once danced. A stone’s throw from Lord Whitfield’s hunting grounds…
Anyone could recognize me. Anyone could expose me.
The thought made her stomach turn.
“Miss Graham?”
Eliza turned to find Mrs. Dawson in the doorway, her expression mildly concerned.
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson?”
“His Grace requires fresh linens in the drawing room. The blue set.”
“Of course. Right away.”
Eliza curtsied and hurried past the housekeeper, grateful for the distraction.
Work. She could focus on work. Keep her head down. Avoid notice. Save every penny of her wages until she had enough to disappear again, and properly this time. Somewhere far from London, perhaps the north, perhaps Scotland.
And in the meantime, she would stay invisible as a ghost.
At least when I leave this time, I will have a reference from a duke. That alone will open doors that would otherwise remain closed to a woman with no connections, no family, no past.
She just needed to survive long enough to earn it.
Morgan had been avoiding Miss Graham as if it were a vocation.
It was cowardly, he knew. Ungentlemanly. Beneath him. And yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Every time he caught sight of the maid in the hallway, he found a reason to turn the other direction. Every time she entered a room to perform some task, he suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere. He’d even taken to having his meals served in his study rather than the dining room, simply to minimize the chances of crossing paths with her.
