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"Will you be all right with Mrs. Herrington for the afternoon?"

"Of course. I spend most of my time with her, especially when you are busy."

Morgan hated that his dukedom kept him so occupied that it led to him neglecting Catherine, but he was grateful that his housekeeper had built a bond with her so that she had someone. It was an odd friendship, but that was how he liked to call it.

"When I am married, you will have another lady to spend time with too."

"If she likes me."

"Which she will."

But Catherine did not seem too certain.

Standing in the Bolton household, Morgan wondered if the family liked anything at all. There was a pianoforte in the corner of the room, but it was clearly for decoration as the chair was visibly unused. Other than that, there was nothing of note in theroom save for paintings and the family itself. Morgan had not been the greatest fan of the Earl, as he could see through his act as a doting father that was simply doing what was best for his daughter, but he had hoped the Countess would be different. She was decidedly not, and he could see that from the moment he arrived.

"Was your journey pleasant?" she asked. "We are hoping that you appreciated the gardens."

"Yes, they are lovely. Will your daughter be with us soon?"

"She will. I do not know what has gotten into her, for she is always on time. Perhaps it is because she is so excited to meet you?"

Or because she wishes to avoid you,he thought.

Objectively, there was nothing wrong with the Boltons. They were respectable, and their lineage was strong, and perhaps if Morgan was not so good at knowing people's true intentions he might have been able to spend time with them without feeling ill at ease. Unfortunately, he could see at once that they were being dishonest about who they were and he loathed that.

At least their daughter seemed to have missed that trait.

When she entered, he watched her face change as she began to recognize who he was. It was hard not to chuckle at her as the little mouse he had met the night before stared up at him indisbelief. It was as though she could not believe that a man she had behaved so unbecomingly with was still willing to marry her.

If anything, it would have been what he had to do in order to save her reputation.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said softly. "It is a shame that we did not meet one another last night."

"Indeed. I apologize for that. There was something at home that simply had to be taken care of. I explained everything to your father."

The Earl grunted, and though Morgan did not seem to know what that meant, his wife and daughter did as the both fell silent. He assumed, in that case, that they had not been told the contents of the letter. It was for the best, as part of the lie Morgan had told pertained to Catherine. The Earl knew that he had his niece, and that she was a sickly child, and so even though Morgan felt unfair pretending something was worse than usual, it was the easiest way to make them think they would not see him.

"You are a duke," Lady Bolton smiled. "We understand that things happen."

He was more inclined to believe that the Countess had been furious about his absence, and the forced smile on her face did not help that.

"I was wondering, Lady Dorothy, if you might like to promenade with me tomorrow."

"Yes," her mother said in an instant. "She would love to, isn't that right, Dear?"

But his bride's eyes were on the ground. Their interaction was too stilted, too forced, and he knew it was because her every word would undoubtedly be scrutinized when he was gone. It was better for her to say nothing at all, and even then there would inevitably be fault found in that.

But that would be changing when they were married, and so it was time for her to begin making adjustments.

"With all due respect, Lady Bolton, I was asking your daughter. I would like to know what she thinks."

Based on her reaction, the way her brows raised and her mouth was stuck halfway open, Morgan wondered if this was the first time anyone had said something like that to her. He turned back to Lady Dorothy, who was looking up at him with something resembling admiration.

But then her gaze slid away from his, and she looked out of the window instead. It was as though she was there, but she was also not. She was not acting as though she was truly present, as if things were happening to her rather than including her.

"Lady Dorothy," he said carefully, "do you want this match?"

"She does–" Lady Bolton began, but she stopped herself.