Page 53 of Duke of Gold
Peggy paused, taking the note from his gloved hand. Her brows knit slightly as she turned it over in her fingers. It bore neither address nor seal, just a plain fold of paper, unadorned and unassuming. “Where did it come from?” she asked.
“A boy from the village brought it, Your Grace,” Barrow replied. “He did not say who sent him, only that it was for you.”
Peggy frowned but nodded her thanks. “Thank you, Barrow,” she said, her tone even, though her unease grew as she began ascending the stairs.
Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she unfolded the note, the paper crinkling softly in her hands. Her eyes scanned the single line scrawled in an unfamiliar hand:
Do you truly know who you married, Duchess?
Peggy froze mid-step, her heart lurching.No, I should not pay this any mind. I know the man I married…
After inspecting the estate with his steward, Morgan turned his horse toward the castle. As he reached the final bend in the path, the sight of footmen bustling near the entrance caught his attention. His brow furrowed as he slowed his horse.
The men were carrying old furniture out of the castle, placing it onto carts for removal. He recognized a few of the pieces—an ancient settee with worn upholstery, a chipped side table, and an assortment of faded chairs. Peggy’s renovations were well underway.
Morgan dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting stablehand. He lingered at the base of the steps, watching as the men worked.
The castle was lighter now, brighter. Peggy’s vision was coming to life, her touch evident in every corner. The house no longer seemed to hold its breath in grief or silence. It was beginning to breathe again.
She is changing this place,he thought, the realization both warming and unsettling. His gaze shifted toward the castle’s windows, where sunlight glinted off the panes.And she’s changing me.
The thought stirred something deeper, a memory that slipped through the cracks of his mind.
He was fourteen, seated at the large oak desk in the study, a sheet of parchment spread before him. The air was heavy with the scent of ink and old books, the faint murmurs of the household staff filtering through the closed door. Victoria’s soft footsteps echoed in the hall before she appeared, her small frame framed by the doorway.
“Morgan, come and see!” she exclaimed, her coppercurls bouncing as she bounded into the room. “The portraits! Have you ever noticed how serious they all look?”
Morgan glanced up from his writing, an indulgent smile tugging at his lips. “They are meant to look serious, Victoria. They are our ancestors.”
Victoria huffed, clearly unimpressed. “I know that, but must they all look so glum? Do you think our great-grandfather was like Father? Rarely around?”
Morgan set his pen down, leaning back in his chair. “The men of that time had more honor and valor,” he said. “They left their families, yes, but to serve a greater cause. They were gallant and protective.”
Victoria tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Gallant? Tell me more.”
He gestured to the chair beside him. “Come, sit. I’ll tell you a story.”
She hurried over, perching on the edge of the seat, her wide eyes fixed on him with rapt attention. Morgan launched into the tale of a distant ancestor who had ridden into battle to protect his lands, returning victorious but weary. His words painted vivid pictures of bravery and sacrifice, of men who left not for wealth, but for duty.
When he finished, Victoria’s expression had softened. “I like that story,” she said. “Do you think Father is gallant like that?”
Morgan hesitated. The truth was, their father left not for battles or honor, but for business ventures and social gatherings in London. “Perhaps,” he said lightly, reaching for the letter he’d been writing. “Now, shall I read you this?”
Victoria nodded eagerly, and Morgan began to read aloud: “Dear Father, I hope this letter finds you well. All is as it should be here, though the wheat harvest has suffered some blight. The tenants remain in good spirits, and the repairs to the south gate are nearing completion.”
“That’s boring,” Victoria interrupted, wrinkling her nose. “Add something interesting!”
He smiled at her audacity. “And what would you have me write?”
“Tell him about Mrs. Evers slipping on the garden path. Or how Cook’s cat had kittens in the pantry.”
Morgan laughed softly, tempted to point out their father would find no interest in such details. But instead, he indulged her, amending the letter with the small anecdotes she suggested. Her laughter filled the room as he wrote, a sound that warmed the often cold air of the castle.
CHAPTER 25
“Someone’s in transports,” Morgan remarked as he observed his wife. She was seated across from him, her eyes alight with energy, and she tucked into her meal with a zest that belied the typically subdued air of their dinners.
“Oh, but what reason would I havenotto be?” Margaret replied, her voice practically lilting with happiness as she set down her fork and dabbed at her lips with a napkin.
