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“This doctor,” Verity said, sitting up straighter. “Is he respectable?”

Abigail thought of Graham’s steady hands, his piercing blue eyes, the controlled strength with which he’d defended her. “Quite respectable.”

Norman and Verity exchanged a significant look that made Abigail’s heart sink. She knew that look.

“Perhaps,” Norman said carefully, “there might be a way to resolve this situation that would benefit all parties.”

“My Lord,” the Dowager Countess warned, her voice sharper than Abigail had heard in years.

“I merely suggest that if this doctor is indeed a gentleman, he might recognize the... predicament in which you both find yourselves.”

The implication hung suspended, as subtle as a stone through a window. Abigail’s throat tightened, the bruises there suddenly throbbing in time with her pulse.

“You cannot be suggesting—” she began.

“I suggest nothing,” Norman said quickly. “Only that a respectable solution might present itself, given time and proper consideration.”

“A solution,” Abigail repeated, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.As if my life were a ledger to be settled.

“It need not be decided today,” her mother interjected, her hand finding Abigail’s and squeezing gently. “You’ve had a terrible shock, my dear. Rest should be your priority.”

Abigail shook her head. “I shall go to Beacon House as planned. There is nothing better to quiet rumors than to carry on as if they do not exist.”And I need to be somewhere I matter—for what I do, not for what I’ve survived.

As she turned to leave, her ankle giving a sharp protest with each step, Verity called after her. “Abigail? I am truly sorry for what happened to you. And I’m sorry I didn’t ask if you were all right before well, before everything else.”

The unexpected sincerity in Verity’s voice made Abigail pause. She looked back to find her cousin’s eyes bright with unshed tears, one hand still protectively curved over her belly.

“Thank you, Verity,” she said softly. “That means a great deal.”

In the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall for support, Abigail finally allowed her careful composure to crack. A single tear slid down her cheek, then another, until she pressed her fingers against her lips to stifle a sob.

She would not be forced into marriage again, not even to a man who had saved her life. Men like Graham Redchester didn’t marry women like her for love. They did it from duty. From honor. The same honor that would compel him to make an offer the moment the Earl of Edgerton appeared at his door.

And I would rather live alone foreverthan be anyone’s obligation.

CHAPTER 4

The same table, the same chair, the same hour. Graham handed his hat and gloves to the attendant at White’s with practiced efficiency, nodding once at the man’s deferential bow.

“Your usual corner, Dr. Redchester?”

“Yes, thank you, Phillips.” Graham checked his pocket watch—quarter past seven, precisely when he preferred to arrive. Early enough to avoid the parade of fashionable gentlemen who treated breakfast as a theatrical performance.

His boots clicked on the polished floor as he crossed to the secluded alcove near the window. Only a few of the other tables were occupied and no one glanced up from their morning papers. A single fresh rose in a crystal vase sat on the table catching the morning light.

“Coffee, sir? And perhaps the kedgeree this morning?” Phillips asked.

“Just toast and coffee,” Graham replied, settling into his chair with military precision.

As Phillips retreated, Graham arranged his table with the same careful precision he applied to every other corner of his life. Napkin folded once, placed to the left. Silverware aligned with surgeon’s accuracy. The small crystal vase centered exactly between plate and cup.

Last night’s violence still clung to him like smoke—the satisfying crack of bone beneath his knuckles, the familiar rush of cold clarity that came in moments of danger

I nearly killed that man yesterday. And I wanted to.

That was the part that troubled him the most. Not the violence itself—he’d seen enough of that to last several lifetimes—but the savage pleasure he’d taken in it. When had he become that man?

The coffee arrived steaming, its bitter aroma curling through the air, mingling with last night’s pipe smoke and old varnish. Graham added a modest splash of milk—an indulgence he’d allowed himself only since returning to London—and stirred once, twice. He set the spoon aside, precisely parallel to the saucer.