Lord Ramersby opened his mouth, peeking in from the doorway sheepishly, but before he could speak, Morgan growled.
“There is no misunderstanding, Lord Whitfield,” Morgan said. “Lady Eliza is not engaged to you. She’s engaged to me.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Whitfield’s composure cracked, just for a moment. His eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“This is…” Whitfield’s voice hardened. “Lord Ramersby, you and I had an arrangement. A binding arrangement. Your debts in exchange for your daughter’s hand.”
“Yes, well… things have… well, I…” Lord Ramersby shifted uncomfortably, clearly recognizing that antagonizing a duke was far more dangerous than antagonizing Whitfield. “Circumstances have… changed.”
“Changed?” Whitfield’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“What my husband means,” Lady Ramersby interjected, her tone attempting brightness, “is that we could never refuse such an honor as His Grace has bestowed upon our daughter. Surely you understand. A duchess! It’s far more than we could have hoped for.”
Whitfield’s hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, Morgan thought the man might actually lose control. But then that cold composure reasserted itself, settling over Whitfield like a mask.
“I see,” he said softly. “And my… compensation? The matter of the debts?”
“Will be paid in full,” Morgan said immediately. “Every penny Lord Ramersby owes you will be settled within the week. You have my word.”
Whitfield’s gaze moved past Morgan to Eliza. She stood straighter, lifting her chin, meeting his eyes with a defiance that made Morgan’s chest swell with pride.
“Lady Eliza,” Whitfield said, his voice silken. “Are you certain this is what you want? We had such plans, you and I.”
“I’m most certain,” Eliza said. “I want nothing to do with you, Lord Whitfield. Now or ever.”
For a long moment, Whitfield simply stared at her. And in that moment, Morgan saw it. The cold calculation, the rage simmering beneath the surface, the absolute certainty that this man was capable of terrible things.
Then Whitfield did the most unlikely thing. He smiled, a terrible smile. Empty. Predatory.
“I see,” he said again with a click of his tongue. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to discuss.” He turned to Morgan, executing a perfect bow. “Your Grace. I wish you… joy in your upcoming nuptials.”
The words were polite. The tone was venomous.
“Thank you,” Morgan said coolly.
Whitfield’s gaze lingered on Eliza for one more moment, a look that promised this wasn’t over, then he turned and walked away,his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Morgan waited until the front door closed before releasing the breath he’d been holding.
“He won’t let this go,” Eliza whispered. “He never lets anything go.”
“Then it’s fortunate,” Morgan said grimly, “that you’ll have my name and protection before he can do anything about it.”
He turned to face Lord and Lady Ramersby, who were still hovering in the doorway like unwanted specters.
“Lord Ramersby. Lady Ramersby.” Morgan’s voice was clipped, businesslike. “I’ll be acquiring a special license tomorrow. The wedding will take place in three days at St. Anselm’s Chapel. That will be all.”
“Three days!” Lady Ramersby’s hand flew to her chest. “But Your Grace, that’s hardly enough time to prepare! The dress, the flowers, the guest list!”
“Will be handled by my capable staff,” Morgan interrupted. “You will attend for the sake of appearances. You will smile, congratulate your daughter, and behave as though this is the happiest day of your lives.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Ramersby simpered. “We wouldn’t dream of?—”
“I’m not finished.” Morgan’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “After the wedding, you will leave London. Permanently.”
Lord Ramersby’s face went red. “Now?—”
