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Abigail snorted softly. “Pot, kettle.”

“Meaning?”

“She said the same of you.” A faint smile touched her lips. “After scolding me for staying so late, she acknowledged that you were... how did she put it? ‘Watching like a hawk with an injured fledgling.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck. “I merely?—”

“I know.” She reached for another sheet. “It comes from a good place. For both of you.”

The simple acknowledgment unbalanced him more than he expected. Graham took the linen from her hands and shook it out over the line, organizing his thoughts as methodically as he would instruments before surgery.

Say what you came to say. No more delays.

But the words he’d rehearsed seemed hollow now, formulaic.

“Lady Abigail, I?—”

“Abigail,” she corrected softly. “After everything, I think we’re past formalities.”

The sheet between them snapped in a sudden breeze, momentarily hiding her face from view. Perhaps it was easier this way—not seeing her reaction.

Say it. Just say it.

“Abigail,” he said, finding unexpected comfort in the shape of her name. “I spoke with your cousin this morning.”

Her hands stilled on the clothespin. “About what?”

“About the incident. And the newspaper article.”

“Ah. So you saw it.” Her voice was carefully neutral. “I suppose half of London is discussing my latest disgrace.”

“Not disgrace,” he said sharply. “You did nothing wrong.”

She said nothing, just reached for another pin, her movements betraying her discomfort.

Graham took a breath. This was going all wrong. He’d had it all planned—a proper conversation in a drawing room, formal words in the proper order. Not here, among wet sheets, with a woman who could barely stand.

But when had anything with Abigail Finch followed proper protocol?

“Marry me,” he blurted out.

She froze, a clothespin halfway to the line. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, more steadily this time. “I would be honored if you would consider becoming my wife.”

Abigail stared at him, the clothespin falling forgotten from her fingers. “Are you proposing to me? Here? With clothespins and wet sheets?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “No. I mean—yes, I am proposing, but not as I intended to. I had planned something more conventional.”

To his surprise, she began to laugh—a soft, incredulous sound that quickly turned into a painful cough. She pressed a hand to her ribs, her face contorting with discomfort.

“That may be,” she gasped between coughs, “the most ill-timed proposal in recorded history.”

He moved toward her, concerned. “Abigail?—”

“A pity I cannot accept.” She took a step back, swaying slightly.

His steps faltered as his stomach twisted.Rejection. He had anticipated the possibility, of course, but not the sharp ache it produced.