“Lady Fairfax.” Morgan’s tone turned glacial. “I will ask you once more, politely even, to leave. If you refuse, I will have you escorted out. The choice is yours.”
For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her face had gone red, her hands trembling. But then she laughed, a bitter, ugly sound.
“Fine,” she spat. “But don’t think this will go unnoticed, Morgan. People talk. And when they learn that the Duke of Kirkhammer has developed a taste for his own servants?—”
“Watch your tongue, Arabella. You would do well not to threaten me.”
“I did not mean to?—”
“Get out. Now.”
The command was quiet but absolute. Arabella’s mouth snapped shut. She stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether to push further. Then, with a final venomous look, she swept past him and out into the hallway.
Morgan rang a bell by his desk and a footman appeared immediately, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Your Grace?”
“Lady Fairfax is leaving. Please see her to her carriage.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Morgan stood in the doorway, watching as Arabella descended the stairs, her spine rigid with fury. She didn’t look back.
The front door closed behind her with a satisfying thud. Morgan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair.
That was… unpleasant, but necessary.
He turned back into his study, intending to pour himself a very large brandy. But his eyes caught on something. The polishing cloth Ellie had been using, still draped across the corner of his desk.
And just visible beneath it, a single hairpin. Simple, unadorned. The kind a maid might wear.
Morgan picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.
Nothing more, he’d said.A member of my household staff. Nothing more.
In the servants’ quarters, Eliza sat on the edge of her narrow bed, her hands pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound of her ragged breathing.
Lady Arabella Fairfax.
She knew that woman. Not personally, they’d never been formally introduced—but she’d seen her at dozens of balls, soirees, dinner parties. Lady Fairfax was a fixture of the ton, a widow of independent means who made no secret of her numerous liaisons with rich and powerful men. And she’d almost recognized Eliza, she was certain of it.
Have we met?she asked, the words echoing in Eliza’s clouded mind.
Her heart was still racing, her skin clammy with cool fear. If Lady Fairfax remembered where she’d seen her, if she connected the maid in the Duke’s study with Lady Eliza Newmont…
No. She couldn’t think about that. Eliza forced herself to breathe slowly then, to calm the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
I must leave. Soon. Before anyone else recognizes me. Before my disguise crumbles completely. I just need a little more time. A few more weeks of wages…
Eliza lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She tried very hard not to think about the way the Dukehad looked at her before Lady Fairfax arrived—or the way her traitorous heart had responded.
Or even the cold, final words that had shattered whatever fragile thing had been building between them.
Nothing more.
She repeated it to herself like a prayer.
Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing more.
But no matter how many times she said it, it felt like a lie.
