Page 79 of Duke of Gold
Margaret’s chest tightened, a lump rising in her throat that she struggled to suppress.
Her aunt reached out, her hand resting lightly on Margaret’s. “I implore you to reconsider the ball,” she said gently. “I think it could be just the distraction you need.”
Before Margaret could respond, the butler appeared at the door with a letter. “A missive for you, Your Grace,” he announced, bowing slightly as he presented it.
Margaret’s brow furrowed as she accepted the envelope. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.
It was from Morgan.
The letter was formal and to the point, stating that they were obligated to attend the Sterlin ball together as the Duke and Duchess of Giltford and as family to the Sterlins. He further informed her, with painful detachment, that he would call for her on the evening of the event.
Margaret exhaled sharply, her chest tightening. Once again, Morgan had left her no choice.
Petunia, sensing her distress, leaned closer. “What does it say?”
Wordlessly, Margaret handed the letter to her aunt, who read it with furrowed brows. When she finished, Petunia sighed. “I will not force you, Peggy,” she said, returning the letter. “I would never do so. But I can only advise that you think about it.”
With that, she left Margaret to her thoughts.
Margaret sat motionless, the letter still in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes as she wrestled with the feeling of being cornered. Morgan’s dictation was as cold as it was clear, and yet the idea of seeing him—despite the hurt it brought—stirred something she couldn’t quite define.
The evening of the ball arrived all too quickly, and Margaret’s heart was a storm of dread and reluctant anticipation.
When she heard Morgan’s voice downstairs, her breath caught. He was speaking with her uncle, his tone polite but carrying the ease of familiarity. A part of her longed to see him, but the hurt and indignation that lingered in her chest made her hesitate.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and descended the stairs.
Morgan turned as she entered, his expression unreadable for the briefest moment before a pleasant smile curved his lips. He was all charm as he greeted her, taking her hand and bowing low to press a kiss to her knuckles.
“You look lovely this evening,” he said, his tone warm and steady, as though they were nothing more than a contented couple heading to a grand affair.
Before she could respond, he tucked her hand possessively into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?” he asked.
Peggy nodded mutely, unable to trust herself to speak. Morgan’s little act was excruciating—too painful to bear—and yet she had an entire evening of it ahead.God help me,she thought as he led her out to the waiting carriage.
Once inside, a suffocating tension enveloped them, heavy and oppressive. The confines of the vehicle seemed to close in around her, the silence as thick as fog. Margaret kept her gaze fixed on her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, while Morgan’s steady, penetrating gaze felt as though it shadowed her every breath.
Not a word passed between them throughout the journey to Sterlin House, and by the time they arrived, Peggy felt as though she might shatter.
If the ride had been unbearable, the ball itself was sheer torment. From the moment they stepped into the grand ballroom, curious gazes followed them, whispers buzzing just out of earshot. Margaret forced a smile onto her face, presenting the polished façade society demanded. Morgan, for his part, played the role of the attentive husband to perfection, escorting her with practiced ease. And she, loathing every second of their charade, matched him stride for stride as the doting wife.
The only consolation was Elizabeth’s delight at seeing her. When her sister approached, beaming with excitement, Peggy could not help but feel a flicker of warmth.
“The ball is marvelous, Lizzy dear,” Peggy said, embracing her sister. At least she had not disappointed Elizabeth.
Elizabeth returned the hug with enthusiasm, then drew back as the first notes of the waltz floated through the air. “You must join us, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “You and Morgan must open the floor.”
Peggy’s heart sank, but there was no graceful way to refuse. With a strained smile, she allowed herself to be led to the center of the room, where Morgan took her hand and settled his other lightly at her waist.
The waltz began, and they moved together in perfect synchronization, their outward composure masking the storm that raged within her. Margaret’s heart pounded painfully, each step a reminder of the distance between them. By the time the dance ended, she could endure no more.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, stepping away before anyone could stop her.
She left the ballroom swiftly, her pulse thundering in her ears as she walked down an empty corridor. When she found an unoccupied room, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a sharp click. She leaned against it, pressing her hands to her face as she fought to steady her breath.
“Margaret.”
Her husband’s voice cut through the stillness, accompanied by the sound of his hurried footsteps. Before she could compose herself, he was there, opening the door she had just closed.
