Page 71 of Duke of Gold
After finishing her breakfast, Margaret could no longer suppress the question that had lingered on her tongue since she awoke.
“Daisy ,” she began, her tone carefully even as her maid cleared away the tray. “Have you any notion where the Duke might be this morning?”
She hesitated only briefly before replying, “I saw His Grace leaving the castle earlier with the steward and his solicitor.”
Margaret’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly. “Did he say where he was bound?”
“I overheard mention of a nearby property he intended to inspect,” Daisy offered, her tone bright as though she believed this would please her mistress.
But it did not. Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line as disappointment unfurled within her chest. A property inspection? She could not help but wonder if bricks and mortar had somehow become a greater priority than visiting his wife, still recovering under his roof.
Her thoughts flitted to their time at the cliff. The quiet connection they had shared, the warmth in his eyes—it had felt genuine. But now, with each passing hour of his absence, doubt crept in. Perhaps it had meant little to him after all.
Forty-eight hours came and went. Each drawn-out moment without so much as a glimpse of Morgan left her restless and disheartened. By the second morning, her patience had worn thin.
“Mrs. Hallewell,” she asked as the housekeeper entered with a fresh bouquet for the room, “have you seen the Duke today?”
Mrs. Hallewell paused, her hands adjusting the vase with undue precision. “His Grace has been most occupied, Your Grace, overseeing the renovations to the property he visited,” she replied, her gaze conspicuously fixed on the flowers.
Margaret narrowed her eyes, her suspicion rising. Mrs. Hallewell was a woman of unflinching candor; her avoidance was out of character. The realization stung.He is deliberately avoiding me,she thought, the hurt intertwining with a budding irritation.
By the third day, Margaret had endured quite enough. Ignoring Mrs. Hallewell’s well-meaning protests, she rose from her bed, determined to find her husband and demand answers.
Her steps were brisk as she made her way to his study, her heart a mixture of resolve and trepidation. She pushed the door open without ceremony, finding Morgan seated behind his desk, a pile of papers before him.
At the sight of her, he glanced up with an expression that was, disappointingly, devoid of surprise or warmth. “Ah, Margaret,” he said, his tone maddeningly impassive. “I was just about to find you.”
“Well, here I am,” she replied crisply, lowering herself into one of the chairs opposite him. She clasped her hands neatly in her lap, though her fingers tightened slightly over one another. “And I am fully recovered, thank you for your concern.”
Her words carried a deliberate edge, each syllable sharp enough to cut. His brow lifted slightly, but he did not rise to the bait. “We thank God for that,” he said, nodding as though her recovery were a matter of polite formality rather than personal relief.
Before she could retort, he pushed a stack of papers across the desk toward her, his movements efficient and unfeeling. His demeanor was as distant as it was disconcerting, and Margaret’s heart sank. The warmth she had come to crave from him seemed entirely absent.
For all her determination, Margaret could not ignore the chill in his voice and manner. And for the first time since her fall, she found herself truly questioning what had gone so terribly wrong.
“What are these?” Margaret asked, her voice clipped as she shuffled through the stack of papers before her. She barely glanced at the documents, her focus wholly elsewhere. Her heart pounded with confusion and unease. She was not interested in paperwork—she was here to uncover the reason for his sudden, baffling coldness toward her.
“The deeds to your new residence,” Morgan replied evenly, his tone devoid of emotion.
Margaret stilled, her fingers halting mid-turn as she raised her gaze to his. “My new residence?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on her in that impenetrable way that made her chest tighten. “The property is mine, unentailed, and I have transferred full ownership to you. Renovations are already underway, and you shall be able to take possession as soon as they are completed.”
Margaret’s brow furrowed deeply, her mind struggling to grasp his meaning. “Take possession?” she echoed, her voice trembling faintly.
“It will be yours to do with as you please,” he continued, his tone maddeningly composed. “A home entirely your own. We shan’t be under each other’s feet any longer.”
The words struck her like a blow, her breath catching as disbelief washed over her. “I… I beg your pardon?” she whispered, hoping—praying—she had misunderstood him.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady but utterly detached. “It was always the arrangement, Margaret,” he said calmly. “You will have your independence, as we agreed.”
Margaret’s chest constricted, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the papers. “So, while I lay recovering, you were… planning my exile?” Her voice cracked, the hurt lacing her words undeniable. “You never even bothered to come to me. Not once. And now this?”
His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his expression remained unyielding. “This is hardly exile,” he replied, his voice as cool as the frost seeping into her chest. “You shall have a fine home, entirely your own. It is more than most women in your position are afforded.”
“Is this about what happened at the cliff?” she asked, unable to stop the tremor in her voice. Her heart ached with a mixture of hurt and humiliation, yet she pressed on. “Are you regretting what we shared? Is that it, Morgan?”
His gaze flickered, just for a moment, but whatever emotion had surfaced was swiftly buried. “Was this not our arrangement from the beginning, Margaret?” he returned, his tone so indifferent it sent a chill down her spine.
