Ellie.
Morgan’s breath caught. Even from a distance, even in the shadows, he recognized her. The way she moved, the tilt of her head, the quiet grace that set her apart from every other woman he had ever known.
For a moment, he considered following her, speaking to her—ending this absurd avoidance that had plagued them both for the past week.
But then, he remembered the kiss. The way she’d looked at him afterward, shocked, dismayed, as though he’d betrayed some unspoken trust.
No.
It was better this way. Better to keep his distance. Better to let whatever this was between them fade into nothing before it became something he couldn’t control.
Morgan turned and entered his chambers, closing the door firmly behind him.
Yet even as he undressed and climbed into bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About her eyes and their kiss. About the way she’d felt in his arms, for just one perfect, suspended moment.
Sleep, when it finally came, brought no relief. Only dreams of a woman he couldn’t have, and shouldn’t want.
But did.
Chapter Twelve
“Ten days,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
Ten more days of careful navigation through his own house followed, timing his movements to avoid crossing paths with Miss Graham. Ten days of eating in his study like a bloody monk, taking alternative routes through hallways, and feeling like a fool in his own home.
Morgan pulled at his cravat as his carriage rolled through the darkened streets of Mayfair, returning from yet another interminable dinner party. Lord Ashford’s cook had outdone herself with a seven-course meal that Morgan had barely tasted, and Lady Ashford had seated him between two eligible young ladies who’d giggled their way through every attempt at conversation.
He was exhausted, irritated, and increasingly convinced that avoiding Ellie was doing absolutely nothing to diminish his preoccupation with her.
The carriage came to a halt in front of his townhouse. Morgan stepped down, nodding his thanks to the driver, and let himself in through the front door.
The house was quiet, most of the servants retired for the evening. A single lamp burned in the entrance hall, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
He had to go straight to bed. Tomorrow would bring another round of social obligations, another day of maintaining the careful facade of the Duke of Kirkhammer.
But he found himself drawn to his study instead.
The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. Morgan frowned. He distinctly remembered extinguishing the lamps before leaving for dinner. He pushed the door open…
And stopped.
Ellie stood at his desk, a cloth in one hand, carefully polishing the dark wood surface. She’d removed her cap, and her dark blonde hair was pinned up simply, a few loose tendrils framing her delicate face. The lamplight cast a golden glow across her features, softening the careful guardedness she usually wore like armor.
Even in such simplicity, she was a vision.
She looked up at the sound of the door, and her eyes widened like saucers.
“Your Grace,” she said quickly, straightening. “I apologize. I thought you’d retired for the evening. I was just finishing up, I did not mean to disturb?—”
“It’s all right,” Morgan said, his voice rougher than he intended. “You’re not disturbing me.”
A lie. Her mere presence disturbed him in ways he was desperately trying not to examine—yet he craved it.
She set down the cloth, her movements precise and controlled. “I’ll leave you to your privacy, Your Grace.”
“There’s no need to rush.” The words were out before Morgan could stop them. “Unless you have other duties?”
“No, Your Grace. I was nearly finished here.”
