Page 9 of Duke of Gold
His tone was unyielding, slicing through the brief reprieve like a knife. Margaret’s spine straightened, indignation flaring in her chest.
“We must address the matter with the seriousness it warrants,” he continued, his gaze resting on Margaret as though daring her to argue. “And a swift marriage is the only course of action to prevent a scandal.”
Margaret’s breath hitched, her hands trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. How had her life unraveled so completely, so quickly?
Margaret’s fingers tightened on the edge of her chair as she glared at the Duke. His calm, unruffled demeanor only heightened her frustration.
“We must combat a scandal before it happens. And marriage is the only option at hand. I wish to speak to your guardian, LadyMargaret,” he said, his tone as measured as if he were discussing the weather.
“That would be her uncle, the Earl,” Aunt Petunia interjected, her voice taking on its usual air of propriety.
“May I have an audience with him then?” Giltford asked, his eyes flicking briefly toward the door, already anticipating action.
Margaret rose to her feet, her pulse pounding. “Do I have no say in this, Your Grace?” she demanded, her voice firm despite the turmoil roiling within her.
Giltford turned to her, his dark eyes steady and far too knowing. “Do you have a better solution than the one I’ve just proposed?”
Margaret’s breath caught. She knew she didn’t, but the way he phrased it, as if daring her to challenge him, made her anger simmer all the more.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “None at present,” she admitted, her voice taut with reluctance.
“I thought as much,” he replied with a slight nod. The butler’s timely arrival spared Margaret the indignity of continuing the argument. “Take me to the Earl, if you would,” Giltford instructed, his tone polite but clipped.
Margaret sank back into her chair as the Duke left the room, her frustration bubbling into exasperation. Petunia and Anna, ever eager for details, pounced almost immediately.
“What happened exactly?” Anna pressed, leaning forward. Her blue eyes sparkled with both curiosity and concern.
Petunia nodded in agreement, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. “Yes, Margaret. You’ve been holding out on us.”
Margaret took a deep breath, recounting the events of the night before with as much composure as she could muster. She chose her words carefully, though she could not entirely suppress her mortification.
When she finished, Petunia sighed and leaned back. “He does have a point, you know. Three witnesses cannot be taken lightly.”
Anna, however, crossed her arms. “You don’t have to marry him if you do not want to,” she argued. “The man is clearly an ill-tempered grouch. And didn’t you say he prefers ghouls to humans, Aunt?”
“Ghosts, not ghouls ,” Petunia corrected with a wave of her hand. “And those are just silly rumors. There’s no such thing, and certainly no sane Duke who would fancy them.”
Anna remained unimpressed, her gaze sliding back to Margaret. “The point stands. You shouldn’t let yourself be strong-armed into this.”
Margaret lowered her eyes, her voice quiet but resolute. “But I cannot refuse and jeopardize your own prospects, Anna.”
Anna laughed, the sound light but genuine. “My prospects? Peggy, dear, I’ve been a lost cause for years now.”
Petunia sniffed. “Anna has long since accepted her spinsterhood,” she said, though there was no malice in her tone. “And she’s perfectly content.”
Margaret managed a small smile, but it faltered as the minutes dragged on. She fidgeted with her napkin, glancing repeatedly at the door as if willing her uncle and the Duke to return.
Her nerves felt like a fraying thread, each moment of waiting stretching them thinner.
CHAPTER 5
“Your Grace!” the Earl of Dowshire greeted as Morgan stepped into his study, moving around the desk with an eager hand outstretched. “This is an honor—truly, an honor.”
His dark eyes scanned the modest room, taking in the worn furnishings and the scuffed edges of the Persian rug. Morgan accepted the handshake with a curt nod, his grip firm but impersonal. “Lord Dowshire,” he replied, his voice measured. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course, of course.” Dowshire gestured toward the chairs flanking the hearth, his enthusiasm almost boyish. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink? Sherry? Brandy?”
“No, thank you.” Morgan crossed the room, his long strides purposeful, and settled into one of the chairs. He kept his posture straight, his demeanor commanding but not unkind. The Earl poured himself a sherry and took the opposite chair, his ruddy face flushed with a hint of anticipation.
