The firstborn son everyone had known and even admired hadn’t simply left England to be with the woman he loved, but he’d died. At least, he was dead to Lady Durham and whatever she said went.
She never came out and said it, but it was the way she spoke of Morgan as though there had never been any other. She even added a light touch to his arm, and Morgan had to hold himself still to not openly flinch. He didn’t want her hands on him. He didn’t want her near him, but most of all, he waited for the day when she would no longer be a part of his life. His plan was simple. He would marry Philomena and move his mother to a house as far away from his as possible.
He could do it now if he wished. With the title, he could do as he pleased. He could cut her allowance and cast her on the street as she so deserved, yet even if his mother was the very spirit of evil, she was still his mother and thus, he would not dishonor her or his name.
But he would have his vengeance for the blood she’d spilled.
When the final guest of the hour was greeted, Morgan excused himself and broke from the small group he’d been vaguely listening to in search of Philomena.
He saw her on the other side of the lawn, speaking with a group of women, and came to a halt as she bent her head to laugh, causing the others to follow suit. The hand she placed by her lips did nothing to muffle the sound. It carried on the wind and wrapped around Morgan, beating back the cold that had begun to seep into his form, warming him from the inside out.
Then he watched her begin to search the crowd and wondered if she was looking for him, waiting for it to be confirmed.
She didn’t disappoint.
Her blue gaze found his and the direction of the breeze caught on a lock of her blond hair, blowing it until it kissed her lips. She smiled, and her fingers moved to tuck the hair away… only to have it undone once more.
He chuckled and started toward her again, his hand already itching to touch her any way he could.
“Congratulations on the match.”
Morgan held in his groan and turned toward Lord and Lady Wardington.
The pair stood on the pathway and managed to look just as powerful amongst the crowd and nothing like the aging couple that they should have. Their chins were lifted, their backs straight, and their eyes friendly but directly warned anyone from thinking to test them. Even Wardington’s cane seemed like one young gentlemen sported for fashion’s sake instead of the utility piece that it was. The golden lion at the handle stared at him.
It was hard to believe that the duke had seen seventy and eight years of life, a fact he was sure he didn’t wish anyone to know.
He looked nowhere near seventy.
Morgan was sure Wardington had been a leader in his own way long before he took his father’s title and had only grown his empire since then.
Lady Abigail’s eyes reminded Morgan of Philomena’s, a warm blue, and he would not mind at all if Philomena looked half as beautiful as the duchess when she came of that age. She was a gorgeous woman, and Morgan recalled hearing more than one man saying no year of debutants had yet to outshine the year Lady Abigail Irwin came out.
Now she was Abigail Dawnton, the Duchess of Wardington, and the only person alive who could push Wardington into doing something he didn’t wish to do.
If Morgan had to see the duke again, he was glad it was with his duchess.
“Your Graces.” He bowed to the pair and took Lady Abigail’s hand.
“Martin tells me your courtship got off to a rocky start.” Abigail looked past him before her eyes returned to him. “You seem to have found your footing.”
He was not surprised that the duchess had been told about his failures. She probably knew just as much as her husband did.
“We’re getting along quite nicely,” Morgan confessed. “She pleases me.”
Abigail’s smile grew. “Excellent. I’ve spent many evenings with her and have no doubt that she’s a wonderful girl. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll answer to me.” Her husband was smiling as well, Wardington’s green eyes lit with promise.
If Morgan hadn’t already encountered death so many times, he’d have openly shivered at the look. Instead, he simply took a breath and then another.
Wardington’s words confirmed what he’d already suspected. The duke, in his own way, was claiming Philomena as his own, and she would never know how fortunate she was for it.
“I’ll treasure her,” he promised.
“What treasure?” A hand touched his arm, and he turned to find Philomena. She was smiling brightly as she glanced around at everyone. “Have we found a buried trove somewhere?”
The duke and duchess smiled.
Morgan said, “Not buried, but there for all the world to see, and I’m a lucky man to have gotten to it first.”
She held his eyes and color touched her cheeks. She turned away before blinking rapidly and lifting her hand to her eyes. “Oh, Morgan, what a lovely thing to say.” Her voice was heavy, and he recalled her tender heart.
Wardington handed her his handkerchief and winked an eye of approval at Morgan.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she took the duke’s offering.
Then the duke asked, “Who is giving you away at your wedding, Philomena?”
She lifted her watery eyes to Wardington, and her color drained before she confessed, “I’ve not thought of it.” Though she probably had. She probably hoped that by the time they married, Creed would have been proven innocent and would be free to march her down the church.
He knew she thought so because he was beginning to know how she thought, beginning to see the abundance of hope she held even in the face of darkness. She was full of faith and for once, Morgan didn’t think about how good it would feel to put Creed away. All he could think of was the sadness that would undoubtedly overtake her and how he’d be there for her every step of the way.
“I suppose I have no one,” she said with a small smile.
“I’d be honored to do so myself if you have no objections,” Wardington said.
Morgan’s eyes widened, and he knew Philomena had the same expression on her face. Wardington, by giving Philomena away, also bestowed her with his protection. He was the most powerful man in England besides the king. With a man like Wardington taking part in the wedding, no door would ever be closed to the lady again, even if her hotel became overrun with rats in the future.
Philomena finally managed to make a sound, but instead of words, there was a loud gasp and then nothing as she moved and wrapped her arms around the duke and burst into tears.
A man who’d been standing a foot away shot forward and placed his hand on Wardington’s back to help him keep his footing. Morgan noticed it was Wardington’s guard, Kerry, who’d blended so well into the crowd he’d not noticed it was him until that very moment.
Wardington, however, was grinning without a care.
Abigail touched Philomena’s hair in a soothing manner, then leaned over to whisper something that could only be heard by Philomena and perhaps the duke. This resulted in Philomena’s head doing much nodding in affirmation.