Silence fell between them, thick and charged with something primal. Morgan stepped further into the room, closing the door partially behind him. He didn’t need a passing servant witnessing whatever this was going to be.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow despite himself.
Her hands stilled on the cloth. “I’ve been performing my duties, Your Grace.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and Morgan saw the conflict in her eyes. Fear warring with something else. Something that made his pulse quicken.
She feels it too… I knew it.
“Yes,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I…I have been avoiding you.”
“As have I,” Morgan admitted.
“Your Grace, I?—”
“Morgan.” He took a step closer. “When we’re alone, you may call me Morgan.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate, Your Grace.”
“None of this is appropriate, Miss Graham. If we’re being honest, it never was.” Another step. “And yet here we are.”
Ellie’s breath hitched. She retreated slightly, her back coming up against the desk. “Your Grace, please. We agreed that… it would be easier if…”
“I know what we agreed.” Morgan stopped, maintaining a careful distance between them even as every instinct urged him closer. “And I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But I can’t stop thinking about…”
A sharp knock at the front door echoed through the house.
They both froze.
“Are you expecting someone, Your Grace?” Ellie asked, her voice unsteady.
“No.”
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Morgan heard the shuffle of footsteps, his night footman, roused from wherever he’d been dozing.
Voices in the entrance hall. A woman’s voice, bright and imperious.
“I don’t care if he’s retired. Tell His Grace that Lady Fairfax is here.”
Morgan’s blood ran cold.
Arabella.
“Your Grace?” Ellie was watching him, confusion and something that looked like alarm crossing her features.
Before Morgan could respond, the study door swung open fully.
Arabella Penrose, the young widow of Lord Fairfax, stood in the doorway, resplendent in deep burgundy silk, her dark hair artfully arranged, a knowing smile on her painted mulberry lips. She swept into the room as though she owned it, her gaze sliding from Morgan to Ellie and back again.
“Morgan, darling,” she purred, incredibly improper. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
The way she said important made it clear she considered Ellie about as important as a piece of furniture.
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “Lady Fairfax. This is unexpected.”
“Is it?” Arabella’s smile widened. She moved closer, her perfume, something heavy and cloying, filling the space between them. “I was at a card party in the neighborhood and found myself thinking of you. I thought perhaps we could share a late-night drink.”
