Page 67 of Duke of Gold
You are perfection!
Peggy’s eyes sparkled with unrestrained delight, and a soft smile graced her lips as she admired the horses in the stables. Morgan observed her quietly, captivated by the lightness she seemed to bring wherever she went. In her excitement, her enthusiasm was unfeigned and infectious.
He could not remember the last time he had felt so at ease—perhaps not since the conversation they’d shared the previous evening. The burden that had plagued him for so long seemed to ease, if only slightly, and now, watching her stroke the chestnut’s mane and murmur gentle words, he felt something unexpected: peace.
“Was this gallant gentleman also born here?” she asked, her voice lilting as she turned to him with a smile. Her fingers traced the chestnut’s coat as though memorizing its silken texture.
“He was,” Morgan replied, stepping closer to the stall. “He is a cross between an Arab I acquired from the Turks and a Spanish mare gifted to me by a business partner from Seville.”
Peggy’s face lit with intrigue, and her smile deepened. “How exotic,” she exclaimed, dropping a playful kiss on the horse’s muzzle. The chestnut nickered softly in response, earning another delighted laugh from her as she fed him a sugar lump retrieved from a pouch.
Morgan could not suppress a smile of his own. “Would you care to ride him?”
Her gasp of delight was answer enough, and within moments he had called for saddles to be prepared. Once everything was in order, he offered his assistance, his hands steady as he helped her into the saddle atop the chestnut. She settled herself gracefully, though her excitement betrayed her as she adjusted her skirts.
Morgan mounted his own horse, an imposing obsidian Shire stallion, and guided them out of the stable yard. Peggy rode beside him, her figure upright and elegant, but her green eyes darted about as though trying to guess his intentions.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last, unable to contain her curiosity.
“You shall see,” he replied, his tone deliberately cryptic.
She pouted, her lips curving into a charming display of impatience. “Patience is a virtue, or so I have been told,” she said with mock resignation. “But I confess I am not inclined to observe it at the moment.”
Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “Patience may be a virtue, Margaret, but curiosity is no sin. I assure you, your wait will be worth it.”
Her laughter joined his, and for a time, they rode in companionable silence. Peggy’s curiosity, however, was not easily quelled. “Is it a favorite spot of yours?” she pressed after a while.
“Indeed,” he replied, not elaborating further.
“Is it far?”
“Not overly so.”
“Is it… romantic?” she teased, her eyes narrowing playfully.
Morgan cast her a sidelong glance, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “That would depend on one’s definition.”
“You are most infuriating, Your Grace,” she declared with mock severity, though her laughter gave her away.
They rode on, her questions unceasing and his answers deliberately evasive, until at last they approached a cluster of ancient trees that marked the edge of the property. Morgan dismounted first, tethering his stallion to a nearby stump before moving to assist Peggy. She accepted his hand, her touch light as he helped her to the ground.
“Are you still withholding the grand secret?” she asked, her tone arch as she adjusted her bonnet.
“Come,” he said simply, offering his arm. She took it without hesitation, allowing him to guide her through the trees toward their destination. As they walked, the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows along their path. Peggy’s steps quickened, her anticipation evident in every movement.
Whatever lay ahead, Morgan thought, he hoped it would bring her as much joy as her presence had begun to bring him.
“Oh my,” Margaret breathed, her voice tinged with awe. “This is breathtaking, Morgan,” she said, her gaze sweeping across the panorama before them with unrestrained delight.
They stood on a cliff’s edge, the land dropping gracefully into a miniature valley below. Two rolling hills embraced a small, glittering pond nestled between them, the water catching the sunlight like a scattering of diamonds.
“It looks like a scene from a storybook,” she said, turning to him, her eyes alight with wonder. “A secret valley, untouched and perfect.”
Morgan’s lips curved faintly as he followed her gaze. “Occasionally, you might find ducks gliding across the pond or sheep grazing on the hills. I suppose even they cannot resist its charms—though I suspect food and water are their primary motivations,” he added with a low chuckle.
Margaret laughed softly, a sound as light as the breeze that tugged at her bonnet. “Wherever do they come from?” she asked, her curiosity ever ready to unfurl.
“They belong to the tenants,” Morgan replied, turning slightly to crouch. His gloved fingers brushed the soft earth as he plucked a small cluster of mauve hydrangeas from where they nestled in the grass.
