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Abigail lifted her chin. “I’ve rested enough.”

“Clearly.” A single word, dry as dust.

For a moment, they simply stood there, caught in the doorway between worlds—his and hers, public and private. His hands still held her elbows, solid and warm through the thin fabric of her sleeves.

“You’re going to Beacon House,” he stated, not a question.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened, but he surprised her by offering his arm instead of an argument. “Then allow me to escort you. My carriage is waiting.”

Abigail hesitated, eyeing his proffered arm with uncertainty. “I don’t think that would be proper?—”

“I believe that ship has rather sailed,” he said, dropping his voice so his next words were for her alone. “The gossips are already composing sonnets to our tragic romance. We might as well give them material worth their ink.”

A startled laugh escaped her, quickly stifled by the pain in her throat. Against her better judgment, she placed her hand on his arm.

“Very well, Your Grace,” she said, allowing him to guide her down the steps. “But I warn you—I make a very poor tragic heroine.”

“Thank God for that,” he murmured, and led her into the waiting carriage.“And my name is Graham.”

“Graham, then,” she echoed as she pulled herself awkwardly into the coach and settled back onto the cushioned seat.

He took up the seat opposite her and rapped on the roof to signal the driver.The carriage lurched forward and she adjusted her cane beside her.

He sat stiffly, legs braced apart, hands pressed flat against his thighs—like a statue immune to the rocking of the coach. Always so composed, so measured. As if he might come apart if he allowed his shoulders to relax.

Abigail studied him for a lingering moment. Beneath the coat and control and carefully curated silence, she sensed something else. A capacity for gentleness he hadn’t quite admitted even to himself.

Maybe that was why she regretted saying no.

Maybe that was why she wanted to say yes.

“Do you believe in happily-ever-afters?”

CHAPTER 10

“Do I believe in happily-ever-afters?” Graham’s expression turned contemplative as the carriage lurched forward. “Not particularly.”

He adjusted the window shade exactly two inches above the sill, his fingers lingering to ensure it was perfectly aligned. When he caught Abigail watching this meticulous adjustment, he withdrew his hand with a self-conscious twitch.

She notices everything.

“I believe in duty,” he continued, settling back against the leather seat. “In honor. In doing what must be done regardless of personal cost.” He paused, his gaze drifting past her shoulder to the passing London streets. “But happiness? That seems rather like believing in fairies or mermaids.”

“How bleak,” Abigail murmured and folded her hands in her lap.

His eyes returned to her face, sharp and assessing. “I didn’t say I don’t hope for it. Only that I don’t expect it.”

A small, surprised smile touched Abigail’s lips and she regarded him for a long moment.

“What?” he asked, unnerved by her expression.

“That’s a remarkably honest answer,” she replied. “I expected something more diplomatic.”

Graham straightened his already straight cuffs. “I find diplomacy requires more energy than I can muster these days.”

Silence settled between them—not entirely uncomfortable, but charged with unspoken words. Graham tugged his gloves off and tucked them in his coat pocket, restless and irritated with himself. He’d told men they were going to die. He’d held their hands and watched the life leak out of them. Why in God’s name was it so hard to find words?