Page 7 of Duke of Gold
“You failed me, Morgan.”
“No!” The cry tore from his throat, raw and anguished, as the shadows swallowed him whole.
Morgan woke with a jolt, his body lurching upright in the bed. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his nightshirt clinging to his damp skin. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains.
He pressed a hand to his face, his palm trembling as he tried to collect himself. “Damn it,” he muttered, the oath breaking the oppressive silence.
The nightmare had been crueler this time, more vivid in its details. His gaze flicked toward the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, but he did not rise. Instead, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Lady Margaret—her fiery green eyes, her sharp tongue, and the unexpected resolve in her bearing.
I will notfail her as well.
CHAPTER 4
“You look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep,” Aunt Petunia remarked, lowering her tea cup to study Margaret more closely as she stepped into the breakfast room with the weight of an entirely sleepless night on her shoulders.
The sunlight streaming through the large windows felt almost mocking, its brightness doing nothing to lift the cloud of apprehension hanging over her. She avoided meeting her cousin Anna’s keen gaze as she drifted toward the sideboard, her movements mechanical.
Margaret forced a small smile, reaching for a slice of bread. “Good morning to you too, Aunt,” she murmured, her tone as light as she could manage.
Petunia pursed her lips but said no more, her attention returning to her newspaper.
Margaret eased into her chair, feeling Anna’s scrutiny like a tangible thing. Her cousin’s unwavering stare threatened to unravel the fragile composure she clung to. She deliberately buttered her toast, focusing on the repetitive motion.
“Are you alright, Peggy?” Anna’s voice broke the silence, her concern unmistakable.
Margaret’s hand faltered for a moment before she resumed. She could feel her cousin’s question pressing for an answer, one she wasn’t prepared to give. “Quite alright,” she lied, her tone too even to be convincing.
Anna’s brows knit together, and Margaret felt the weight of that silent doubt. But thankfully, her cousin let it lie—for now.
Petunia, however, had noticed as well. Her sharp gaze darted between the two girls before she returned to her newspaper. “Hmm,” was her only audible response.
Margaret bit into her toast, though the taste seemed to turn to ash on her tongue. She longed for Elizabeth’s presence. Her older sister had weathered a storm of scandal before, emerging unscathed and resplendent. Surely, Elizabeth would have known how to navigate this current mess—or at least how to soothe Margaret’s frazzled nerves. But Elizabeth was miles away, leaving Margaret to flounder alone.
Titan’s bark shattered her reverie. Anna’s little pug had leapt onto the table, his stubby legs a blur of excitement as he made a beeline for Margaret’s plate. She watched, dismayed butunmoving, as the dog snatched a sausage and began devouring it with glee.
Petunia’s head shot up, her mouth agape. “You’re letting Titan eat your sausages?”
Margaret glanced at the dog, his snorting and chomping almost comically loud. “I suppose I am,” she replied mildly, too drained to care.
Anna’s chair scraped against the floor as she leaned closer, her expression narrowing with concern. “You are definitely not well .”
Margaret let out a soft snort. “Because I let Titan eat my sausages?”
“Yes,” Anna declared, unamused. “You hate it when he does that. Usually, you’d be halfway through a lecture on table manners by now, chastising both him and me for my poor training.”
“I am too exhausted for that,” Margaret admitted, lifting her coffee cup. The warmth of the porcelain offered a brief comfort, but the sip she took did little to settle her unease.
Anna didn’t look convinced. She exchanged a glance with Petunia, who only shrugged and returned to her reading.
Petunia’s sudden exclamation nearly made Margaret spill her coffee. “It says here that Giltford is back in society!” Her aunt’s voice carried an unmistakable note of intrigue.
Margaret blinked, startled out of her gloom. “Who?”
Anna arched a skeptical brow. “The Duke of Giltford,” Petunia clarified, as though the name alone should elicit some grand reaction.
Margaret and Anna exchanged puzzled looks.
Petunia folded her newspaper with a theatrical flair, settling it on the table as though preparing to regale them with an extraordinary tale. “He’s been a recluse for years, you see. Rarely seen, barely spoken of. Some say he prefers the company of statues and portraits to humans.”
