Morgan met his friend’s eyes. “Yes,” he growled.
Ambrose studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, surprisingly, he smiled, a small, sympathetic thing from a stoic man.
“I remember that feeling,” he said quietly. “With Imogen, before we married. Every rational thought told me I was making a mistake. That a marriage based on a business arrangement would never work. That I was too damaged, too closed off, too…” He shook his head. “But none of it mattered. She was all I could think about. You were the one who helped me realize that.”
“This is different,” Morgan said. “Yes, Imogen worked for you as well, initially, but we learned that she is a peer, after all. This is…”
“A woman you care about,” Ambrose finished. “Who happens to work in your household.”
Morgan slumped back in his chair. “What do I do?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” Ambrose picked up his glass again. “My advice, for whatever it’s worth, is to simply tread carefully. Don’t do anything that might compromise her position. If your, erm, feelings persist, perhaps consider finding her employment elsewhere. Somewhere she’d be safe and well compensated, but removed from… temptation.”
The thought of Ellie leaving, of never seeing her again, sent a sharp pang through Morgan’s chest. Which was, he supposed, answer enough.
He is right.
“You’re right,” he said aloud finally. “Of course you’re right. I’ll… I’ll figure something out. Find her a position with a respectable family. Somewhere far from London.”
Even as he said it, the words felt hollow.
Ambrose regarded him with something that looked like pity. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I wish I had better advice, but it is for the best.”
“Don’t be. This is my own fault.” Morgan finally reached for his port, downing half of it in one swallow. “I know better. I should have maintained proper boundaries from the start.”
“You’re human. We all make mistakes.”
Morgan finished the port and signaled for another. “Then let’s drink to mistakes. God knows I’ve made enough of them lately.”
Eliza had taken to spending her evenings in the kitchen after the rest of the staff retired. It was quiet there, peaceful, and most importantly was unlikely to result in any awkward encounters with the Duke.
She sat at the large wooden table, a single candle providing just enough light to read by. The book was one she’d found in the library; the Duke had told all the staff they were welcome toborrow from it, though she suspected she was the only one who took him up on the offer.
“Pride and Prejudice,” she read the title out loud.
She’d read it before, in her old life, but it felt different now. Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s struggle against social expectations, her refusal to marry for anything but love… It made Eliza forget about her life, her grief, her secrets—and a certain auburn-haired duke.
Just as Miss Elizabeth Bennet was going to Pemberley, a crash from the front of the house made Eliza jump.
Then voices. Both male.
Eliza set down her book and hurried toward the entrance hall, her heart pounding.
She stopped short at the sight before her.
The Duke was leaning heavily against a hackney driver, one arm slung around the man’s shoulders, grinning like a fool. His coat was askew, his cravat hanging loose, and his normally immaculate hair was thoroughly disheveled.
He was, quite obviously, spectacularly drunk.
“Easy there, Your Grace,” the driver said, struggling to keep Morgan upright. “Just need to get ye inside, then I’ll be on me way.”
Morgan cleared his throat. “You’re a good man, sir. The best hackney driver in all of London.”
“Right ye are, sir! Now if ye could just walk…”
“Ellie!”
Eliza froze. Morgan had spotted her, and his face lit up like she was a summer’s day.
