Page 37 of Duke of Gold
Morgan leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I am your Duchess now,” she said with a teasing smile. “And it occurs to me that I know so little of the man I am bound to.”
His expression softened, though the glimmer of amusement remained. “I have traveled,” he admitted. “France. Italy. Even as far as Constantinople, years ago.”
Her eyes lit up with genuine wonder. “Constantinople? You’ve seen it?”
“I have,” he replied, his tone reflective. “Though it was a long time ago. A different life, one might say.”
“And what did you think of it?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
“It was magnificent,” he said simply. “But not without its shadows.”
Margaret tilted her head. “Shadows?”
“Another time,” he said, his tone shifting slightly as though to close the topic. “And you, Margaret? Have you ever traveled?”
She laughed lightly. “Me? Hardly. My world has been limited to England. Though I have always dreamed of seeing Paris.”
“A romantic at heart, are you?” he teased.
“Perhaps,” she said with a soft smile. “But only in the best ways.”
By the time the meal ended, Margaret found herself pleasantly surprised at the ease of their conversation. They bid each other good night with a warmth that had been absent for days, leaving her with a tentative sense of hope as she retreated to her chambers.
Morgan tugged at his cravat for the third time, the perfectly tied fabric suddenly feeling stifling as he paced the front vestibule. His polished boots echoed faintly against the marble floor, but the sound did little to ease his restlessness. He glanced toward the grand clock ticking away in the corner, willing time to move faster.Why does every moment before an obligation feel eternal?
The sooner this event was over, the better, he thought grimly. His fingers brushed against the edge of his waistcoat, smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist, before his gaze darted impatiently toward the staircase.
Then, he stopped short, his breath catching as Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs.
She moved with deliberate grace, her dress of violet and gold shimmering in the chandelier’s glow. The fabric clung and flowed in all the right places, a perfect harmony of velvet and satin that gave her an almost otherworldly elegance. Her dark hair was styled with precision, yet a soft curl fell just so against her temple, as if daring to defy the perfection. For the first time in longer than he could recall, Morgan was struck speechless.
By the time she reached the bottom step, he had recovered enough to step forward. He took her gloved hand, bowing slightly as he kissed her knuckles. “You’re already lighting up the evening, Your Grace.”
She tilted her head, a small, amused smile playing at her lips. “Is that a compliment, Your Grace?”
He straightened, the faintest smile curving his own lips as he held her gaze. “Blushing over a simple compliment, are you?”
Her cheeks warmed instantly, though she lifted her chin with a mock-defiant air. “I am not blushing.”
“Oh, but you are,” he teased, his voice low with amusement. “The color deepens as you speak.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the growing flush in her cheeks. “And what precisely is that supposed to mean?”
Morgan chuckled, his laugh warm and genuine, surprising even himself. “It means, Margaret, that you are delightfully transparent.”
She huffed softly, though there was no real irritation in the sound. Instead, she slipped her arm through his, and together they stepped outside where the carriage awaited. The crisp night air brushed against them as Morgan handed her inside before settling across from her.
As the horses began their steady trot, Morgan watched Margaret out of the corner of his eye. Her hands fidgeted with the folds of her dress, smoothing the fabric repeatedly. “You’re fidgeting,” he remarked, breaking the silence.
She glanced at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise before she gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I am.”
“And why is that?” he pressed, his tone lighter now.
Margaret hesitated, then exhaled softly. “It’s my first ball as Duchess,” she admitted. “I want everything to go well.”
Morgan leaned back, studying her for a moment. “It will,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “You’ve prepared, and you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. Trust me, Margaret, you’ll dazzle them.”
