And gasped.
They stood in a long gallery she’d never seen before, lined floor to ceiling with paintings. But these weren’t the formal portraits that hung in the main halls, which were all stern ancestors in stiff clothing, judging the world with painted eyes. These were different. Landscapes of breathtaking beauty. Seascapes with waves captured mid-crash. Abstract pieces that played with light and shadow. And portraits, but intimate ones, full of warmth and personality.
“Morgan,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
“My mother’s private collection,” he said quietly, moving to stand beside her. “She was passionate about art. Spent years acquiring pieces from artists no one had heard of, supporting them before they became famous. After she died, my father couldn’t bear to look at them. He had them moved up here. Out of sight, out of mind. That was his way.”
Eliza heard the pain in his voice and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” He led her further into the room. “I keep meaning to bring them back downstairs, to display them properly. But somehow, I never… I suppose I understand why my father hid them. Looking at them reminds me of her. Of how much I miss her.”
“Tell me about her,” Eliza said softly.
Morgan smiled, a sad, fond thing. “She was brilliant. Kind. She loved the sea. In fact, that’s why my father bought this estate, because she fell in love with the view. She used to take me down to the beach every morning when I was small, and we’d look for shells and interesting rocks.”
He paused in front of a painting of a woman in a garden, her face turned toward the sun, laughing.
“That’s her,” he said. “The artist was a friend of hers. She said he captured her better than any formal portrait ever could.”
Eliza studied the painting, seeing the joy in the woman’s expression, the life radiating from the canvas. “She was beautiful.”
“She was.” Morgan was quiet for a moment. “She would have liked you, I think.”
The words settled around Eliza’s heart like a blessing. They walked through the gallery together, Morgan sharing stories about different pieces, about his mother’s passion for finding beauty in unexpected places. And somewhere between the landscapes and the seascapes, he pulled her into an alcove, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that started tender and quickly turned heated.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all morning,” he murmured against her lips.
“What stopped you?”
“The servants. The breakfast table. Basic propriety.” He kissed her again, deeper this time. “But here, we’re alone.”
His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. Eliza melted into him, marveling at how quickly she’d become addicted to this. To his touch, his taste, the way he made her feel wanted and cherished and alive.
“Morgan,” she breathed when he’d kissed his way down her throat. “We should go somewhere more private! Someone might?—”
“No one comes up here,” he assured her, his hands already working at the fastenings of her dress. “It’s just us, darling.”
Just us…
The beach was quiet in the late afternoon, the tide rolling in with its eternal rhythm. Eliza walked beside Morgan, her hand in his, her skirts lifted to keep them from the wet sand.
“I used to dream about this,” she said. “When I was locked in my room, waiting for the wedding to Whitfield. I’d imagine running away to the sea. Living in a small cottage by the water. Being free.”
“And now?” Morgan asked.
“Now I’m here. With you. And it’s better than any dream I could have imagined.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the crash of waves and the cry of gulls overhead.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Morgan said suddenly.
Eliza glanced at him. “That’s a dangerous request.”
“I know. But I want to know you, Eliza. Really know you. Not just the parts you think are acceptable to share.”
She took a breath, then another. “All right. I… I’ve always wanted to write. Stories. Adventures. Things that would never happen to someone like me. But my mother said it was foolish, that ladies don’t write, that I should focus on being accomplished in the ways that matter. Music, needlework, proper conversation.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Morgan said immediately. “You should write. I have a whole library you’re welcome to use. Or better yet, I’ll have a writing desk put in your chambers. You can write whatever you want.”
