Page 35

Say something, you damned coward.

“About...” he began haltingly, “the matter I raised the other night. If your answer remains unchanged, I—well, I will abide by it. But if you would permit me, I’d like to explain properly.”

Abigail inclined her head, but her expression gave nothing away.

Graham exhaled slowly, pressing his palms flat against his thighs and rigidly marshaled his thoughts into rank and file. “I had intended to speak gracefully, somewhere with four chairs and a settee, but you have a way of vanishing into laundries and workrooms. I was compelled to meet you where you were.”

One eyebrow arched delicately—an invitation for him to continue, nothing more. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He didn’t blame her.

“I propose a marriage of convenience,” he said, the words coming easier now as he found his footing in his rehearsed words. “You would retain your independence in all things. I would not make claims upon you, nor introduce unwarranted intimacies.” He glanced away at that. The thought of her that close. He couldn’t allow it. After a desperate beat, he plunged on, “Your work at Beacon House could continue as you wish. I would not interfere.”

His old habits settled over him, the careful detachment that had served him through blood and loss—safe, impersonal, unassailable.

You sound as though you’re delivering a prognosis, not a proposal.

“My estate at Eyron Park has a separate wing you might occupy, or you may maintain a private London residence if you prefer. I would not make demands upon your time or person. I do not wish to intrude upon—whatever peace you might make for yourself.”

His foot tapped against the carriage floor, the sole of his boot making a soft, repetitive sound against the wood. He reached up and cracked the window slightly, letting in a rush of spring air only to close it again lest Abigail catch a chill.

She still said nothing, so he blundered on.“In return, you would have the protection of my name and title. The scandal would be forgotten. Your position in society restored. You would whatever means you should need to pursue your endeavors. I only ask that you be discreet.”

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained unreadable.

God, I’ve made a mess of this.

The carriage rocked gently as they turned a corner. Abigail smoothed down her skirts, but her gaze remained fixed on Graham, unwavering in its intensity.

“I will not be a ghost in my own marriage,” she said.

Graham’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“What you offer is not a marriage but a performance,” she clarified, her voice low but firm. “Two people inhabiting the same house yet living separate lives, bound by nothing but a legal document and mutual understanding. I cannot and will not accept a life of polite indifference.”

“Most women in your situation—” he began hotly, then stopped himself.

Idiot. She is not most women.

“My situation?” Her voice was dangerously quiet.

Graham turned away, drumming his fingers on his leg. “I apologize,” he said. “That was... unworthy.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and tentative.

The carriage rattled past Hyde Park, sunlight dappling through the trees and casting shifting patterns across Abigail’s gray dress. She looked ethereal in that light—not fragile, exactly, but otherworldly, as if she might dissolve into the shadows if he looked away.

Don’t leave. Not now. Please don’t vanish.

“I’ve no notion of how to be a husband,” Graham admitted. “I scarcely know how to be a man anymore. But—if trying will suffice, I promise I shall try.”

Abigail’s expression softened. “If you will truly try,” she said, “then there is more to discuss between us.”

Not an acceptance. Not quite. But not a refusal either. Something trembled in the air between them—possibility.

There is hope yet.

He met her gaze directly now, letting her see past his careful mask to the uncertainty beneath. “I cannot promise happiness or romance or any of those things found in novels. But I can promise honesty. Respect. And every effort to make a true marriage, however imperfect.”

Her answering soft smile before she turned her gaze back to the window uncoiled the tightness in his shoulders a fraction. He would never have the easy charm of other men, the fluid grace of natural conversation. But perhaps, with her, his awkward honesty might be enough.