Page 18 of Duke of Gold (The Suttons #2)
CHAPTER 18
“ W ell, I didn’t give them away permanently,” Margaret said, a sheepish little chuckle escaping her lips. “I just lent them out for the evening. I was going to tell you about it.”
Morgan raised a brow, the faintest glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “We’re never seeing those glasses again,” he said, his tone carrying a mock resignation as he clucked his tongue.
Margaret’s mouth parted in mock outrage. “Oh, don’t be a pessimist,” she admonished, setting her spoon down with a soft clink. “Lady Aleshire is not that careless. She has the utmost regard for quality.”
“Quality, yes,” he said, his lips twitching slightly. “But it is your trust in people that I find remarkable, Margaret.”
“Trust is hardly a flaw,” she countered, narrowing her eyes at him playfully. “You, on the other hand, sound like a cynic.”
“A cynic?” he repeated, his brow arching further. “Is that what you call being cautious?”
“Cautious? No,” she replied, lifting her glass to her lips. “It is what I call being a pessimist.”
Morgan chuckled, a low, warm sound that surprised her. “If all those are synonymous with being cautious, then I most definitely am all that.”
She tilted her head at him, curiosity blooming in her chest. “Have you always been so cautious, then? Or did something instill it in you?”
He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Caution comes with the position, Margaret. It serves me well.”
“But surely, there must be times you’ve cast caution aside,” she pressed, her voice light with interest. “Have you ever traveled? Truly traveled, I mean. Seen places beyond England’s borders?”
Morgan leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I am your Duchess now,” she said with a teasing smile. “And it occurs to me that I know so little of the man I am bound to.”
His expression softened, though the glimmer of amusement remained. “I have traveled,” he admitted. “France. Italy. Even as far as Constantinople, years ago.”
Her eyes lit up with genuine wonder. “Constantinople? You’ve seen it?”
“I have,” he replied, his tone reflective. “Though it was a long time ago. A different life, one might say.”
“And what did you think of it?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
“It was magnificent,” he said simply. “But not without its shadows.”
Margaret tilted her head. “Shadows?”
“Another time,” he said, his tone shifting slightly as though to close the topic. “And you, Margaret? Have you ever traveled?”
She laughed lightly. “Me? Hardly. My world has been limited to England. Though I have always dreamed of seeing Paris.”
“A romantic at heart, are you?” he teased.
“Perhaps,” she said with a soft smile. “But only in the best ways.”
By the time the meal ended, Margaret found herself pleasantly surprised at the ease of their conversation. They bid each other good night with a warmth that had been absent for days, leaving her with a tentative sense of hope as she retreated to her chambers.
Morgan tugged at his cravat for the third time, the perfectly tied fabric suddenly feeling stifling as he paced the front vestibule. His polished boots echoed faintly against the marble floor, but the sound did little to ease his restlessness. He glanced toward the grand clock ticking away in the corner, willing time to move faster. Why does every moment before an obligation feel eternal?
The sooner this event was over, the better, he thought grimly. His fingers brushed against the edge of his waistcoat, smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist, before his gaze darted impatiently toward the staircase.
Then, he stopped short, his breath catching as Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs.
She moved with deliberate grace, her dress of violet and gold shimmering in the chandelier’s glow. The fabric clung and flowed in all the right places, a perfect harmony of velvet and satin that gave her an almost otherworldly elegance. Her dark hair was styled with precision, yet a soft curl fell just so against her temple, as if daring to defy the perfection. For the first time in longer than he could recall, Morgan was struck speechless.
By the time she reached the bottom step, he had recovered enough to step forward. He took her gloved hand, bowing slightly as he kissed her knuckles. “You’re already lighting up the evening, Your Grace.”
She tilted her head, a small, amused smile playing at her lips. “Is that a compliment, Your Grace?”
He straightened, the faintest smile curving his own lips as he held her gaze. “Blushing over a simple compliment, are you?”
Her cheeks warmed instantly, though she lifted her chin with a mock-defiant air. “I am not blushing.”
“Oh, but you are,” he teased, his voice low with amusement. “The color deepens as you speak.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the growing flush in her cheeks. “And what precisely is that supposed to mean?”
Morgan chuckled, his laugh warm and genuine, surprising even himself. “It means, Margaret, that you are delightfully transparent.”
She huffed softly, though there was no real irritation in the sound. Instead, she slipped her arm through his, and together they stepped outside where the carriage awaited. The crisp night air brushed against them as Morgan handed her inside before settling across from her.
As the horses began their steady trot, Morgan watched Margaret out of the corner of his eye. Her hands fidgeted with the folds of her dress, smoothing the fabric repeatedly. “You’re fidgeting,” he remarked, breaking the silence.
She glanced at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise before she gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I am.”
“And why is that?” he pressed, his tone lighter now.
Margaret hesitated, then exhaled softly. “It’s my first ball as Duchess,” she admitted. “I want everything to go well.”
Morgan leaned back, studying her for a moment. “It will,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “You’ve prepared, and you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. Trust me, Margaret, you’ll dazzle them.”
Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and for a moment, her fidgeting ceased. “Thank you,” she said softly, her gaze meeting his.
But before the silence could stretch too long, she tilted her head, her eyes sharpening. “Now it’s my turn. Why were you fidgeting earlier?”
Morgan blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I wasn’t,” he began, only to be cut off by her raised brow.
“You were tugging at your cravat as if it had offended you,” she pointed out, her smile teasing now.
He sighed, leaning forward slightly. “I haven’t been to one of these country events since I was seventeen.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering in her expression. “Seventeen? Why?”
Morgan hesitated, his gaze flickering to the window as if the answer might lie beyond. “I never had the time,” he said casually.
She narrowed her eyes, skepticism clear in the tilt of her head. “Time? Or interest?”
He smirked faintly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Disinterest,” he admitted. “Satisfied?”
“Somewhat,” she said, her voice light but probing.
The carriage slowed as they arrived, and Morgan stepped out first, extending his hand to Margaret as she descended. The soft strains of music carried through the air, mingling with the chatter of arriving guests.
Before they stepped forward, Margaret glanced up at him, her gloved hand still resting lightly in his. “Breathe, Morgan,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “The night shall go well.”
He looked at her, the quiet confidence in her tone anchoring him. With a slight nod, he offered his arm, and together, they stepped into the light and sound of the evening ahead.
Morgan tugged lightly at the cuffs of his coat as he and Margaret stood just outside the grand doors of the ballroom. The hum of conversation and faint strains of music spilled into the hallway, but all he could focus on was the woman beside him.
Margaret was resplendent, her violet and gold dress catching the light of the chandeliers as they stepped inside together. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her grip steady despite the magnitude of the evening. She held her head high, her poise impeccable, and Morgan couldn’t help but think that no one in the room would doubt her place as Duchess of Giltford.
The moment they entered, heads turned. Conversations faltered, the murmurs replaced by a wave of astonished whispers. Morgan felt the weight of every gaze in the room, and it was not lost on him that many of them were directed at him . Surprise registered on faces old and young alike—raised brows, widened eyes, even a few exchanged glances of disbelief. After all, the Duke of Giltford had not graced a country event with his presence in over a decade.
“It really is him,” someone muttered near the edge of the room, the words barely audible but unmistakable in their tone of awe.
“After all this time…” another voice whispered.
Margaret remained composed, her soft smiles and nods conveying no sign of unease. Morgan, for his part, kept his expression neutral, though the sheer volume of attention pressed down on him like an invisible weight. They might as well have seen a ghost, he thought wryly.
The ladies from the parish were the first to break the spell of astonishment. Lady Aleshire approached with a warm smile, curtsying as Margaret inclined her head.
“Your Grace,” Lady Aleshire said warmly, “how splendid you look this evening.”
“You are too kind, Lady Aleshire,” Margaret replied, her tone light and sincere. “It is a wonderful event. You and Sir Aleshire have outdone yourselves.”
Lady Aleshire’s gaze briefly flicked toward Morgan, her composure unshaken though her eyes widened by a fraction . “And Your Grace,” she added, addressing him now, “what a delight it is to see you here.”
“An honor, Lady Aleshire,” he replied smoothly, inclining his head. “Your reputation for hosting a fine evening precedes you.”
The warmth in her expression softened into genuine pleasure, and as the other parish ladies approached to greet them, the initial shock gave way to animated conversation. Margaret handled each introduction with the same grace, her laughter light and melodic as she engaged them effortlessly. She’s a natural, Morgan thought, the odd sense of pride stirring once more.
He noted how even the more reticent guests ventured forward to exchange pleasantries with her, and more surprising still, with him. The tentative beginnings of conversations hinted at respect mingled with awe, but Margaret carried the moment, her charm filling any gaps in the exchanges. It’s as though she was born to be a Duchess, Morgan thought, his admiration deepening with every moment.
Colin appeared at his side then, joined by Sir Aleshire, both men wearing knowing smiles.
“You have become as inconstant as the moon, Your Grace,” Sir Aleshire remarked with pleasant humor, though there was an unmistakable glint of surprise in his eyes.
Morgan turned to him, one brow lifting faintly. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“Ah, but we at least get to glimpse the moon and appreciate its beauty,” Colin interjected with a teasing grin. “I think you’re even more elusive.”
Morgan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The three men shared a laugh, and though Morgan felt their curiosity lingering beneath the surface, their camaraderie made the attention easier to bear.
When the announcements of donations began, Morgan listened with quiet interest. The largest contribution—Colin’s, unsurprisingly—drew a round of applause. Morgan’s gaze flicked toward his friend, his brow lifting slightly.
He had underestimated this charity ball, he realized. What he had dismissed as little more than a country revelry was, in truth, a gathering of substantial consequence. The funds raised here were not merely symbolic; they were transformative.
Later, he approached Sir Aleshire. “You never mentioned the extent of the charity to me,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze shifting toward Colin.
“Well, a lot’s happened, and is still happening,” Colin replied easily, stepping closer. “And God knows you have your plate full, man. But now you know.”
Morgan inclined his head, a flicker of gratitude in his expression. “Now I know,” he said quietly.
Just then, the soft strains of the first waltz filled the room. Lady Aleshire stepped forward, her voice clear as she addressed the guests. “It is only fitting for the Duke and Duchess to open the dance floor,” she said warmly.
Morgan turned to Margaret, whose cheeks were faintly pink as she met his gaze. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Shall we, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
Margaret’s lips curved into a soft smile as she placed her hand in his. “We shall,” she replied, her eyes gleaming.