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Distantly, she recalled the tragedy of the Duke and Duchess of Eyron. But it had been over a year ago and ancient history as far as society was concerned.

Graham had been the second son? A soldier, a doctor—she remembered the speculation after the accident that claimed the Eyron heir. The man who had tended fevers at Beacon House, hung laundry in the courtyard, and proposed marriage among wet sheets was a peer of England.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, not equal to the challenge of thinking about it more.

“And where are Charlotte and Henry?” Abigail asked, desperate to change the subject. “How are my niece and nephew?”

Bridget’s face softened at the mention of her children. “Anthony has them for the day. Probably teaching them to storm the battlements or calculate compound interest.”

“I’d like to see them soon.”

“Once you’re stronger,” Bridget promised. “Charlotte asks about her Aunt Abby constantly. She’s quite convinced you live in a castle with all the sad children, like some fairy tale heroine.”

Abigail laughed weakly. “Hardly a castle.”

“Speaking of castles and heroes...” Bridget leaned closer, her expression turning serious. “Mother tells me Dr. Redchester has made an offer for your hand.”

The blunt statement sent heat rushing to Abigail’s face.

“It wasn’t a real proposal,” Abigail countered, shifting uncomfortably. “It was an obligation. A gentleman’s response to a compromised reputation.”

“Obligation,” Bridget repeated, skepticism clear in her voice. “Is that why he’s spent hours at your bedside? Why he brought three more physicians to tend to the fever children? Why he’s arranged for extra staff at Beacon House until you recover?”

Abigail’s heart stuttered. “He did all that?”

“He did.” Bridget reached for her hand. “Abby, that’s not the behavior of a man fulfilling an obligation. That’s the behavior of a man who cares.”

“Or a man with an overactive sense of responsibility,” Abigail countered.

Bridget’s fingers tightened around hers. “And if he had courted you properly? If he had approached you with flowers and poetry instead of bandages and medicine?”

“That would be different.” Even to her own ears, the protest sounded weak.

“Would it? Or would you still convince yourself you don’t deserve happiness?” Bridget’s voice was gentle, but unrelenting. “Ever since you ran from the altar, you’ve been punishing yourself.”

The accusation struck too close to the truth. Abigail looked away, unable to meet her sister’s searching gaze.

“I’m not punishing myself,” she whispered. “I’m being realistic. Men like Graham Redchester—dukes, for heaven’s sake—don’t marry women like me. Women with histories.”

Women who live on borrowed courage and stale hope.

“Oh, for—” Bridget set the teacup down with a sharp click. “It’s been years. I’m happily married with two beautiful children. I think we can safely say your great escape worked out for the best.”

The reference to their shared past hung between them—Abigail’s flight from an unwanted marriage, forcing Bridget to take her place as the Duke of Wilds’ bride. A choice made in panic that had altered both their lives forever.

“I made a choice that nearly destroyed us. That’s not something one forgets,” Abigail said, staring at her tea.

Bridget gave an impatient scoff. “A man—a good man, by all accounts—is offering you a chance at a different life. And you’re going to refuse because you’re worried accepting a Duke’s proposal now will make you look opportunistic?”

“Can’t you see the headlines?Lady Abigail runs from one duke only to chase another.” The words were bitter on her lips and she despised the fear they brought.

“Who cares what everyone thinks?” Bridget threw up her hands. “Do you love him?”

The question struck Abigail silent. Did she love Graham Redchester? The quiet doctor with haunted eyes who hung laundry and mixed medicines and caught her when she fell?

“I hardly know him,” she hedged.

“That’s not what I asked.”