Because deep down, in a place she’d been trying desperately to ignore, she knew Imogen was right.
“I don’t know how,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to tell him.”
“You start with the truth. However messy and imperfect it is.” Imogen reached out, gently squeezing Eliza’s hand. “And you trust that he’ll listen. Really listen. The way someone who cares about you should.”
“And if he doesn’t? If he sends me away?”
“Then at least you’ll know. And you can leave with your head held high, knowing you were brave enough to be honest.” Imogen’s smile was sad but encouraging. “But I don’t think he will. I think he’ll surprise you.”
Eliza wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that Morgan could hear the truth and not turn away in disgust or disappointment.
But the fear was too strong. Too deeply rooted.
“I need time,” she said finally. “To think. To… prepare.”
“Of course.” Imogen released her hand. “But don’t wait too long, Eliza. The longer you wait, the harder it becomes. And the more it will hurt when the truth finally comes out—because it always does, eventually.”
Eliza nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Imogen moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave. Running from Whitfield, building a new life for yourself, one like this, that takes courage. But real courage isn’t running away. It’s standing still and facing the thing that terrifies you most.”
Then she was gone, leaving Eliza alone with the linens and the terrible weight of truth.
That night, long after the guests had departed and the house had fallen silent, Eliza sat on her narrow bed and stared at the wall.
Imogen is right. The truth will come out eventually. It always does.
But the thought of telling him, seeing his face when he learned who she really was, what she’d been running from…
It made her want to flee into the night and never look back. Eliza pressed her hands over her face and tried to imagine the conversation; she tried to imagine the words that would make him understand without making him pity her, without making him feel obligated to help.
But every scenario ended the same way: with him looking at her differently. Seeing her as Lady Eliza Newmont—spoiled, foolish, a liar.
She couldn’t bear it. And yet.
Don’t let fear rob you of something real.
Eliza lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
Chapter Seventeen
“Aball, Your Grace?” Mrs. Dawson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Here? In the London house?”
Morgan stood in his study, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the street below. “Yes. Two weeks from tonight. Nothing too elaborate. Perhaps a hundred guests. Can it be managed?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Though may I ask what prompted this decision? You’ve never hosted a ball before.”
That was precisely the point. Morgan had avoided hosting such events for years, finding them tedious and pointless. But lately, he’d been the subject of increasing speculation, whispers about his reclusiveness, his lack of a wife, his peculiar interest in certain members of his household staff.
A lady had cornered him at the theater last week, all but demanding to know why he never entertained. A lord had madepointed comments about Morgan shirking his social duties. And then there was Arabella. Morgan had it on good authority that she had been making her opinions known to anyone who would listen.
A ball would silence the gossip. Prove he was still an active member of society. Provide the necessary distraction. And perhaps, if he was very lucky, it would finally purge Ellie Graham from his thoughts.
“It’s time,” Morgan said simply. “Make the arrangements.”
When Eliza heard about the ball, the blood drained from her face.
“A hundred guests,” one of the other maids was saying excitedly in the servants’ hall. “Can you imagine? Lords and ladies, all dressed in their finest. It’ll be the event of the season!”
