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"He's terribly fond of books. And debates. And sharp-witted women who stand their ground." Abigail grinned wickedly. "My sister already mentioned you to him. He seemed quite intrigued."

"She didn't!"

"She most certainly did."

Ms. Norwood wrung her hands. "This is highly irregular.” After a beat, she added, “Do you think he reads French novels?"

"I think you should ask him at tea this weekend." Abigail couldn’t help but laugh at Ms. Norwood’s stricken expression. She linked her arm through the governess's. "So you'll stay? As long as the girls need you?"

"I—yes. Yes, I will," Ms. Norwood said, composed once more except for the lingering smile in her eyes. "Though I maintain that introducing me to strange gentlemen without warning is beyond the pale."

"I'll be sure to give you at least a day's notice next time," Abigail promised. Now, shall we rejoin the others?"

Ms. Norwood shook her head. "No, tonight should be just the four of you."

Abigail embraced the governess briefly. "Thank you. For everything.”

Ms. Norwood inclined her head and withdrew, her steps lighter than they had been moments before.

Abigail turned back to the drawing room, pausing at the threshold to absorb the scene before her. Graham sat with a girl tucked under each arm, his expression caught betweenbewilderment and tenderness as Heather tugged insistently at his sleeve.

"Uncle Graham, tell us a story! A really good one with adventures and swords and?—"

"Uncle Graham doesn't know any stories," Mary Ann interrupted. "He has to read them from books."

Graham cleared his throat as Abigail reentered the room. "Actually," he said, "I've recently remembered one."

"You have?" Heather gasped, bouncing again.

"Indeed." Graham settled back against the cushions, his eyes meeting Abigail's with quiet joy as she resumed her seat. "It's about two little boys—one named Edward and one named Graham."

Mary Ann's eyes widened. "That's you and Papa!"

"Very astute," Graham said with a formal nod that made her giggle. "This story takes place in this very room, many years ago."

"This room?" Heather looked around as if expecting to see phantoms of her father and uncle hiding under the settee.

"Yes. Do you see that chip in the wood trim near the fireplace?" Graham pointed to a small dent in the otherwise pristine molding. "Do you know how that came to be there?"

Both girls shook their heads, entranced.

"Well," Graham began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it was a rainy day much like this one..."

Abigail curled into the corner of the sofa, watching as Graham spun a tale of two mischievous boys who had decided to turn the drawing room into a pirate ship. As he described young Edward and Graham using a fire poker as a makeshift sword and accidentally chipping the wood trim, the girls leaned forward, utterly captivated.

Graham's face transformed as he told the story—the rigid lines softening, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his hands gesturing with unexpected animation. She caught glimpses of the man he might have been if war and loss hadn't carved away the soft spots.

The girls dissolved into giggles at the boys' increasingly desperate attempts to hide the evidence of their misadventures.

"And just as we thought we'd escaped detection," Graham continued, "the Duke himself walked in."

“Was he very angry?” Mary Ann asked.

"He was indeed. But he was also a boy once." Graham glanced up at Abigail, his eyes warm with memory. "He told us that houses aren't meant to be perfect. They're meant to be lived in. To hold the marks of the people who love them, scars and all."

"So can we practice swordplay and make our own marks?" Heather asked, already moving toward the fireplace.

Graham's laughter filled the room. "Absolutely not. I'm certain you'll find your own ways to leave your imprint on Eyron Manor. Preferably without property damage."