Page 64 of Duke of Gold
“You care for her,” Colin said after a pause, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “That’s what this is about.”
Morgan scowled. “This is about her overstepping?—”
“No, it’s about you not knowing what to do with how much you care,” Colin interrupted. “You’ve never been like this before, Giltford. Not in all the years I’ve known you. And you cannot pretend otherwise.”
The words struck a nerve, and Morgan stiffened, his gaze hardening. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I?” Colin leaned forward, his expression probing. “She’s your wife, Morgan. She’s your family now. If you cannot trust her, then who can you trust?”
“I’m trying to protect her,” Morgan shot back, his voice sharp.
Colin tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “From what? Or is that simply what you tell yourself? Perhaps it’s not about protection at all. Perhaps it’s about you hiding in your shadows, clinging to your past and your sorrows because they’re familiar.”
Morgan’s lips parted to respond, but the words faltered. Colin’s gaze bore into him, and for the first time, he found himself unable to dismiss the observation outright.
“Perhapsyoushould take a wife,” Morgan said abruptly, his tone carrying more bite than humor as he sought to deflect. “You seem to have all the answers to the challenges of marriage. A sage of wisdom in your bachelorhood.”
Colin chuckled, his grin returning. “A fine idea, though I doubt there’s a woman alive willing to put up with me. My opinions, as you say, are far too wise to be borne.”
“Or perhaps you fear she would outwit you,” Morgan said, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “You could hardly keep up with a wife if she were half as sharp as you claim to be.”
“True enough,” Colin conceded with a laugh. “But we’re not discussing my imaginary marriage. We’re discussing yours—and why you are behaving like a man intent on undermining his own happiness.”
Morgan’s smirk faded as Colin’s words landed squarely on his chest. The room fell into a heavy silence as Morgan turned his attention back to his glass, his thoughts spiraling. Colin’s words echoed in his mind, unsettling and uncomfortably accurate.Was it truly protection? Or something else entirely?
The fire crackled softly, its warmth doing little to thaw the cold knot growing in his chest. He didn’t have an answer. Not yet.
The hour was late, and the quiet of the house pressed heavily against Peggy’s chest. She lay in her bed, staring at the canopy above her, willing herself to sleep. But it was no use; her thoughts were too loud, too persistent, her worries weaving an unrelenting symphony of doubt and regret.
With a soft sigh, she rose from the bed, slipping her feet into her slippers and drawing her shawl around her shoulders. The air outside her bedchamber was cooler, carrying with it the faint creaks of the old house settling into the stillness. She moved soundlessly, her footsteps light against the wooden floors, her destination unknown.
Her wanderings took her through the dimly lit hallways, the faint light of the sconces casting shadows that danced against the walls. She paused before a row of somber portraits, their painted gazes fixed and unmoving, their expressions heavy witha gravity she had not fully understood until now. The faces were proud but joyless, their mouths unsmiling, their eyes dark and distant.
Peggy’s lips pressed into a thin line as she studied them, her fingers brushing against the edge of the ornate frames.Now I understand why they look so somber,she thought to herself.This house—this family—it keeps secrets. Secrets that drain every drop of cheer and cast shadows over even the brightest of days.
She shivered slightly, drawing her shawl closer as she turned away. The house seemed alive with its silence, the weight of its history pressing down on her as she moved. She passed the library door but averted her eyes, the memory of Morgan’s anger tightening her chest. She turned a corner and paused, her gaze falling on the slightly ajar door to the music room.
The room seemed to call to her, a quiet invitation she could not ignore. Pushing the door open fully, Peggy stepped inside, the faint scent of polished wood and old parchment greeting her. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting silvery patterns across the floor.
She drifted toward the pianoforte, her hand trailing lightly over its smooth, worn surface. Lowering herself onto the bench, she sat in the moonlit silence, her hands resting idly on her lap. For a moment, she simply stared at the keys, the room enveloping her in its stillness.
Then, almost without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool ivory. She pressed a key gently, the note ringing softly in the quiet. Another note followed, and then another, until a melody began to take shape beneath her hands. It was a tune she had played countless times before, simple yet soothing, its familiarity offering a measure of solace.
The music filled the room, her fingers moving more confidently now, each note a balm to her restless mind. As the melody swelled, Peggy felt some of the tension in her chest ease, though the ache in her heart remained.
Morgan lay in bed, staring at the shadows that danced across the ceiling. The stillness of the night offered no reprieve from his thoughts, which churned endlessly, refusing to settle. With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood. Sleep would not find him tonight.
He pulled on his dressing dress and left his bedchamber, the faint chill of the hallway pressing against his skin as he moved. His steps were silent on the floorboards, his mind adrift as he wandered aimlessly through the dimly lit house.
Then he heard it—a soft melody, weaving through the quiet halls like a whisper. He paused, tilting his head. The music was faint, coming from the direction of the music room. Curious, and perhaps a little wary, he followed it.
When he reached the doorway, he stopped, his breath catching at the sight before him. Margaret sat at the pianoforte, her profile illuminated by the silvery glow of moonlight streamingthrough the tall windows. Her fingers moved deftly over the keys, each note resonating with a bittersweet melody that seemed to carry her very soul.
He didn’t speak, unwilling to break the spell. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, watching her, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every passing second. There was something achingly beautiful about the way she played, her posture graceful, her expression pensive. When she finally pressed the last note, her hands lingered on the keys, and the silence that followed was almost deafening.
“That was exquisite,” Morgan said, his voice breaking the stillness.
Margaret startled, her head whipping around to face him. “Morgan,” she breathed, her hand pressing lightly to her chest. “You frightened me.”
