“Watch. Your. Tongue. In. My. House,” Morgan said, his voice a lethal growl.
Lord Ramersby stumbled backward, all bluster evaporating in an instant. Morgan held his gaze for a long moment, then turned away, disgusted. The room was silent save for Lord Ramersby’s labored breathing. Then Morgan turned to Eliza.
“Lady Eliza,” he said quietly. “I have a proposition for you.”
She could only stare at him, unable to speak.
“Marry me,” he said.
“What?” Lady Ramersby’s shriek was immediate as she began fanning herself.
Morgan ignored her, his eyes only on Eliza.
“Marry me,” he repeated. “I’ll pay your father’s debts. I’ll give you my name, my protection. You’ll never have to fear Whitfield or anyone else again. And,” his voice softened further, “you’ll be free of your parents. Free to make your own choices.”
“Your Grace,” she whispered. “You don’t…you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to. But I am doing it anyway.”
Lady Ramersby was sputtering nonsense, clearly torn between outrage at Morgan’s presumption and delight at the prospect of her daughter becoming a duchess. Lord Ramersby looked as though he might faint. Morgan watched her glance at her parents, the people who’d raised her, who should have protected her, who instead had tried to sell her to a monster. Then she looked at Morgan.
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Morgan’s expression transformed. Relief. Joy. Something that looked almost like hope.
“Good,” he said softly. “Lord Ramersby, you’ll have your money within the week. Consider the debt settled.”
“Your Grace,” her father managed, his voice weak. “This is… most generous. I do not know what to say. I-I?—”
“You’ve said plenty tonight, Lord Ramersby.” Morgan’s tone was cold again. “And now, I believe it’s time for you to leave.”
“But…”
“Both of you. Out. I’ll send word about the wedding arrangements.”
Lady Ramersby opened her mouth to protest, but one look at Morgan’s face silenced her, and so, they left.
Chapter Eighteen
The moment of quiet was shattered by a sharp knock at the study door. Morgan stiffened, his arms still around Eliza. She pulled back quickly, her face flushing, and Morgan reluctantly released her.
“Enter,” he called, his voice carefully neutral.
The door opened to reveal Lord Whitfield.
He stood in the doorway with the poised confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed, his expression one of measured concern that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.
“Your Grace,” Whitfield said smoothly, inclining his head. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but I felt I must speak with you. And with my dear fiancée, of course.”
Eliza went rigid beside Morgan. He felt her trembling and moved closer, a silent show of support.
“I’m not your fiancée,” Eliza said, her voice stronger than Morgan expected. “I never was. Not truly.”
Whitfield’s smile tightened fractionally. “My dear girl, we had an understanding. Your parents and I came to an agreement.”
“An agreement I never consented to.”
“Nevertheless,” Whitfield’s gaze shifted to Lord and Lady Ramersby, who were hovering just outside the door, clearly having followed him back. “Lord Ramersby, surely you can clarify this unfortunate misunderstanding?”
