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“We’ll see that the Admiral gets a proper meal, and I took the liberty of summoning your carriage,” Richard said, offering his arm to Marjory as the group was swept toward the exit.

“Thank you all, for everything,” Graham said, his gaze encompassing their entire group.

“Get used to it, Redchester,” Anthony said.

Bridget tsked.“What he means is welcome to the family.”

“Your Grace,” Ms. Norwood said, falling into step next to Abigail.“I shall retrieve the girls from Reedley Manor and bring them home for supper. That should give you both enough time to freshen up and get some rest.”

Graham’s arm slid around Abigail’s waist.“Make it late supper, Ms. Norwood.”

EPILOGUE

Graham stood at the washstand, razor poised at his throat, staring at his reflection in the small mirror. The hand holding the blade trembled, hovering just above his soap-lathered jaw. He exhaled slowly, willing his fingers to steady.

They did not obey.

Water droplets from his damp hair trickled down his bare chest. The steaming bath had eased the aches in his muscles, but could not soothe the lingering tension in his mind. His body remained coiled tight, as if still braced for the magistrate's verdict to fall against them.

He lowered the razor and leaned forward, both palms flat against the washstand.

The girls were safe. Abigail was safe. They had won.

So why do my hands still shake like a candle in a draft?

Somewhere beyond the adjoining door, Abigail moved about her chamber. He listened to the soft whisper of fabric, the occasional creak of floorboards.

Graham looked at the razor again, running his thumb along the handle. He had managed this simple task countless times before. A soldier had no valet and after the war, he had never retained one. But for some reason in the quiet sanctuary of his own bedchamber, the routine felt impossible.

He set the razor aside with a sigh and wiped the soap from his face before pulling a fresh shirt on. He left it unbuttoned as he crossed to the door that led to Abigail’s room. His hand hesitated on the latch.

You kissed her before half of London's legal establishment. Surely you can knock on her door.

He knocked once, softly, then pushed the door open before he could lose his nerve.

Abigail sat at her dressing table, brush suspended mid-stroke, her hair cascading past her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror—hers wide with surprise, then softening with welcome.

The sight stole his breath. She wore only her nightgown and a silk dressing robe, her skin flushed from her bath. All the words he had planned evaporated.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said, acutely aware of his half-dressed state.

“It’s alright. Come in,” she said, turning to face him.

Graham hovered at the threshold, caught between retreat and advance."I thought... That is, I was attempting to..." His hand rubbed at the stubble on his jaw.

"Have you misplaced your razor?" Abigail's lips curved in a teasing smile.

"The razor is not the problem." He held one hand out to demonstrate the faint but persistent tremor. "Not ideal when holding a blade to one's throat."

Abigail set her brush down and rose from the dressing table. Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed to him. "I could help," she offered, then added, "Though I've never attempted it before."

Graham's brows rose. "Perhaps we shouldn't risk it."

"You're a doctor. If I make a mistake, you could fix it." She reached up, tracing her fingertips along his jawline through the stubble. The touch sent a jolt through him, making him sway toward her.

"Hard to sew up your own jugular," he muttered, hardly able to make the word coherent as his body responded to her.

She skimmed her fingers over his lip. "Would you prefer to grow a beard like Dr. Wallace? I'm not sure I could kiss you through all that wilderness."