Page 33

Abigail sighed, her throat aching with the effort. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. He’s a duke.”

“The fact that he’s a duke makes it more meaningful, not less,” Bridget argued. “If he wanted to sweep his obligation under the rug, he could have. Instead, he came to propose marriage to the scandal-tainted spinster cousin of an earl. He chose you.”

She flinched at her sister’s razor sharp words, but before she could form a reply, Sarah entered with fresh linens.

“Oh! You’re awake, miss.” The maid bobbed a curtsy. “That’s good news. Shall I bring up some broth?”

“Thank you, Sarah, but I need to get dressed.” Abigail pushed back the covers, ignoring Bridget’s sound of protest. “I must return to Beacon House.”

“Absolutely not,” Bridget said, standing to block her path. “You can barely walk.”

“I can manage well enough with a cane.” Abigail swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her injured foot touched the floor. “Sarah, please bring my day dress—the gray one with the high collar.”

“Miss Abigail, I don’t think?—”

“The gray dress, Sarah. And the walking boots.”

Sarah looked uncertainly between the sisters before curtseying again. “Yes, miss.”

Bridget watched in exasperation as Abigail attempted to stand, wobbling dangerously before steadying herself against the bedpost.

“This is madness,” Bridget declared. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I’ve rested enough,” Abigail insisted, though her vision danced with spots as she took a step. “The children need me.”

“The children are being well cared for,” Bridget countered. “It’s you who needs attention right now.”

Abigail ignored her, focusing all her energy on remaining upright as Sarah returned with the requested clothing. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons, missing the holes twice. Bridget gently brushed her hands aside, and Abigail didn’t protest—because she couldn’t lift her arms again without shaking.

By the time she was dressed in the high-necked gray dress, sweat beaded her forehead and her legs were leaden weights nearly too heavy to move. But a fierce determination propelled her forward. She needed to escape this house, these conversations, the weight of possibilities too frightening to contemplate.

“At least eat something before you go,” Bridget pleaded, recognizing defeat. “And take the cane Mother brought from Father’s old collection.”

Abigail nodded, leaning heavily on the ornate walking stick as Sarah helped her downstairs.Her cane clicked on the marble stair. Each step rang through her bones. She kept her gaze ahead, chin high, even as her breath came short and sharp by the time she reached the landing.

Jenkins met her at the bottom of the stairs with an expression of concern. “Lady Abigail, the countess said you would be resting today.”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” she said, cutting him off as she made her way toward the front door. “Please have the carriage brought around.”

The butler blinked and then signaled to the footman, who hurried away.“Of course, my lady. If you would care to rest in the drawing room, I will fetch you when the carriage is ready.”

Before he could finish, Abigail had reached for the door handle herself.“I’ll wait outside, thank you,” she said, pulling it open with more force than she needed. Her injured ankle throbbed asshe unsteadily lurched through the doorway and nearly collided with the broad chest of a man mounting the front steps.

“Oh!” she gasped, stumbling backward.

Strong hands caught her elbows, steadying her with familiar gentleness. “Lady Abigail.”

The deep voice sent a tremor through her. Graham—no Dr. Redchester—no, the Duke of Eyron—stood before her, dressed in his customary austere black coat, his expression a careful mask of professional concern. Only his eyes betrayed him, darkening as they swept over her trembling form and the cane clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

She pressed her lips together and straightened her spine.The universe has a peculiar sense of humor.

“Your Grace,” she managed, the formal address tasting foreign on her tongue. She attempted a curtsy but swayed dangerously.

His fingers tightened around her arms. “Don’t,” he commanded softly. “You’ll fall.”

Abigail flushed. “I was just leaving,” she said. “If you’ve come to call on the Earl, I believe he’s in his study.”

Graham’s gaze never left her face. “I came to see someone who was supposed to be convalescing in bed,” he replied, his voice deceptively mild, though his eyes flashed with quietreproach. “But it appears that mission has been rendered quite unnecessary.”