Page 47 of Duke of Gold
Morgan leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. “You’ve taken to philosophy now, have you?”
“It is hardly philosophy,” Sterlin retorted with a chuckle. “It is common sense, though I suspect it is an uncommon commodity where you are concerned.”
Morgan’s lips twitched, though he managed to suppress a full smile. “How generous of you, Sterlin. Your wisdom is truly a gift.”
“It is hard-earned, I assure you,” Sterlin replied, his tone softening. “And well worth sharing. I know you, Giltford. You are far too inclined to lock yourself away, to resist what could bring you joy.” He paused, his expression growing earnest. “Marriage changes a man—but if you let it, it can change him for the better.”
Morgan tilted his head, considering Sterlin’s words. There was no denying the contentment etched across his friend’s face, the ease with which he spoke of his wife. It was a rare thing to see, and while Morgan was loath to admit it, the sight stirred something faint and unfamiliar within him.
Before he could respond, a sudden clatter shattered the quiet of the study. Both men turned sharply toward the source of the noise, their gazes landing on Broughton, who stood before the liquor cabinet, a decanter in one hand and a glass in the other. His sheepish grin did little to mask the guilt in his expression.
“Ah,” Broughton said, glancing between them. “Do carry on. I was simply acquainting myself with your excellent selection, Giltford.”
Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose, a low groan escaping him. “Have you no decorum, Broughton?”
“None whatsoever,” Broughton replied cheerfully, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy.
Sterlin chuckled, his earlier gravity giving way to amusement. “And here I thought we had lost you to polite silence.”
“Hardly,” Broughton said, taking a deliberate sip. “I was merely exercising patience, a virtue neither of you seem particularly acquainted with.”
Morgan shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “If only you applied such virtues to your manners.”
Broughton raised his glass in a mock toast. “What fun would that be?”
Sterlin laughed, shaking his head. “Marriage discussions are clearly wasted on the likes of him.”
“Indeed,” Morgan agreed, though his thoughts lingered on Sterlin’s words.
Morgan leaned over his desk an hour after Sterlin and Broughton’s departure, his attention half-heartedly focused on the ledger before him. Numbers blurred together, his mind too restless to find clarity. He had barely begun to regain his equilibrium when a knock came at the door.
“Enter,” he called, his tone more resigned than curious.
Mrs. Hallewell stepped inside, her movements measured and precise, as always. A tray rested in her hands, bearing the unmistakable cup of her herbal concoction. Morgan’s brow furrowed as she approached and set it carefully on the desk.
“This is unexpected,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You usually administer this after dinner, and only twice a week at most. What has prompted this deviation?”
Mrs. Hallewell paused, folding her hands neatly before her. For the briefest moment, her usual composure faltered, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her features. “Your nightmares, Your Grace,” she said steadily. “They have been more persistent of late.”
Morgan’s gaze sharpened, his posture stiffening. “What makes you think so?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion.
She met his gaze directly, her expression calm yet firm. “The Duchess found you two nights ago,” she said. “You were standing by the door again.”
Morgan froze, his hand tightening over the arm of his chair. “Standing?” he repeated, disbelief lacing the word. “By the door?”
Mrs. Hallewell nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. The Duchess came across you there in the early hours. She was understandably alarmed. Barrow and I handled the matter as we always do, but the sight left her confused.”
Morgan’s chest tightened, the weight of her words pressing down on him. The idea of Margaret finding him in such a state—disoriented, vulnerable—left him both shaken and frustrated. He had long accepted the torment of his nightmares as his burden to bear, a private demon he refused to inflict on anyoneelse. But now Margaret had seen him, and he could not deny the sting of exposure.
“She said nothing of it,” he muttered, half to himself, though his voice carried a note of incredulity.
“No, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell confirmed. “She made her concerns known to me but did not wish to trouble you.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling. Margaret’s silence was uncharacteristic—she was far too curious and tenacious to simply let such a thing pass. And yet she had chosen to remain quiet, to leave him his pride, even as she sought answers elsewhere. The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Mrs. Hallewell, ever composed, continued, “I would like to try a new approach with the herbs. Administering them earlier in the day may encourage a more restful night. It might also lessen the intensity of the dreams.”
Morgan nodded curtly, though his mind remained elsewhere. He reached for the cup and swallowed the brew in a single gulp, grimacing as the acrid taste assaulted his tongue.
