Page 39 of Duke of Gold
Morgan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The three men shared a laugh, and though Morgan felt their curiosity lingering beneath the surface, their camaraderie made the attention easier to bear.
When the announcements of donations began, Morgan listened with quiet interest. The largest contribution—Colin’s, unsurprisingly—drew a round of applause. Morgan’s gaze flicked toward his friend, his brow lifting slightly.
He had underestimated this charity ball, he realized. What he had dismissed as little more than a country revelry was, in truth, a gathering of substantial consequence. The funds raised here were not merely symbolic; they were transformative.
Later, he approached Sir Aleshire. “You never mentioned the extent of the charity to me,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze shifting toward Colin.
“Well, a lot’s happened, and is still happening,” Colin replied easily, stepping closer. “And God knows you have your plate full, man. But now you know.”
Morgan inclined his head, a flicker of gratitude in his expression. “Now I know,” he said quietly.
Just then, the soft strains of the first waltz filled the room. Lady Aleshire stepped forward, her voice clear as she addressed the guests. “It is only fitting for the Duke and Duchess to open the dance floor,” she said warmly.
Morgan turned to Margaret, whose cheeks were faintly pink as she met his gaze. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Shall we, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
Margaret’s lips curved into a soft smile as she placed her hand in his. “We shall,” she replied, her eyes gleaming.
CHAPTER 19
As Margaret allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor by Morgan, she endeavored to quell the quickening of her breath and maintain her composure. The weight of so many curious gazes was nearly tangible, accompanied by whispers that floated just beyond her hearing.
It was to be expected, she supposed. Many of the country folk present had likely never laid eyes on the Duke of Giltford before this evening. His reputation and the whispers surrounding the Silent Castle had only served to deepen the mystique.
But Margaret refused to falter. She straightened her shoulders and placed her hand lightly on her husband’s, allowing him to guide her into the opening steps of the waltz. As the music swelled, the world around her began to fade. The crowd blurred, the whispers vanished, and there remained only the strains of the orchestra, the rhythmic motion of the dance, and the man who held her with such practiced confidence.
She glanced up at Morgan, his expression inscrutable yet less severe than usual. There was an ease in his movements, a natural command that belied the unease she knew he must feel. His touch at her waist was steady, his steps sure, and Margaret found herself surrendering to the moment.If only time could stand still.
As they swept across the floor, Morgan spoke, his voice a low murmur that seemed meant only for her. “I had a word with Sir Aleshire earlier. I’ve determined to involve myself in the charity.”
Margaret’s steps faltered for the briefest of moments before she regained her rhythm. “You are serious?” she asked, the brightness in her tone betraying her delight.
“Quite serious,” he replied, his gaze flickering to hers. “I had not fully appreciated the scope of their efforts.”
Her smile widened, her joy unrestrained. “That is most gratifying to hear, Morgan. I am proud of you.”
“You look positively giddy, Margaret,” he remarked, his lips curving faintly. “Much like a child upon discovering a tray of sweets.”
“Perhaps because my husband is showing interest in something beyond his ledgers and accounts,” she teased, her eyes alight with mirth.
He chuckled, a rich sound that seemed to ripple through her. “I shall have you know, Margaret, I am a man of varied interests.”
“Oh, of course,” she replied with feigned gravity. “Such as the thrilling pursuit of balancing the estate’s accounts?”
“Precisely,” he said, his tone wry. “You are proving a quick study, dear wife.”
Her cheeks warmed at the endearment, and though she tried to school her expression, the smile on her lips betrayed her. After a moment, she tilted her head, her tone turning playful. “You know, I must ask—why is it that you attend events in London with such ease, yet avoid country gatherings as though they are a plague?”
Morgan’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his lips twitched in amusement. “A curious observation, Margaret.”
“Well?” she prompted, her brow arched.
He was quiet for a moment before replying, his tone measured. “In London, I was in search of a wife.”
Margaret blinked, startled by his candor. “A wife?” she repeated. “Morgan, I did not find you; I merely happened upon you.”
“And yet, here we are,” he said smoothly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.
