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“It wasn’t nothing to us.” Abigail took a step closer, her cane tapping softly against the worn floorboards. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? About your title?”

Graham’s shoulders stiffened. “The title was my brother’s birthright, not mine. I never wanted it and it still does not sit well.”

“But you can do so many things—good things—with it.”

“That’s the easy part. It’s all the rest I struggle with,” he said, waiting for her to go first up the stairs. He sighed as he followed. “A duke who prefers bandages to ballrooms, with two nieces I’ve no idea how to raise and a house full of ghosts I’ve no wish to face.”

Abigail missed a step.

She caught herself on the banister, masking the stumble with a shift of her cane. Nieces?

She searched her memory, but the previous Duke and Duchess of Eyron had been too removed from society for her to recall if they had any children.

Had he simply assumed she knew? That everyone did?

Abigail’s stomach churned. She paused on the landing, keeping her gaze fixed out the window on the courtyard below. “You failed to mention your nieces before. Is that why you want to marry me?”

The true reason emerges at last. A spinster with maternal instincts and no better prospects—the perfect governess-wife.

He gently turned her to face him, and he fixed her with one of those unfiltered looks, like the one he turned on her in the alleyway. “I find myself in the most fortunate position as to consider marrying you and the reasons are piling up around me, but yes, my nieces factor into the equation.”

Her breath caught.

She searched his face, hoping to find something more than duty written there. Something that felt likechoice. He released her arm, and she stepped back, waiting—braced—for whatever came next.

His jaw worked before he continued, “Mary Ann and Heather. Seven years old. Twins. They have not dealt well with the loss of their parents.”

Abigail held her silence. It wasn’t only the twins who had not dealt well with the loss.

“They live at Eyron Park with a governess and a small army of servants.” Graham’s voice grew strained. “I confess, I know nothing about raising young girls. I’d sooner face a firing squad than another governess’s letter concerning hiding under beds and tantrums.”

“It must be truly dire to take the drastic measure of marrying the first available spinster,” Abigail said and fiddled with her cane.

Oh, why did I say that? As if I’m fishing for compliments like some silly debutante.

A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” he said. “But yes, I believe they need someone. Someone of your mettle.” He paused, then added with quiet sincerity, “And I find the term ‘spinster’ woefully inadequate for a woman who has accomplished more good in this dilapidated building than most do in a lifetime of garden parties.”

Heat rushed to Abigail’s cheeks. “You give me too much credit. There are many here who make Beacon house a success,” she said, moving past him to mount the final leg of stairs to the upper dormitories.

He followed and didn’t press the subject. She considered two little girls who had lost their parents. Her heart squeezed for them. They’d been left adrift for over a year. A part of her wanted to chastise the man behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. One could not be held accountable for something that was beyond their abilities.

But maybe I can help him learn how to be something to those girls.

She snuffed out the thought. She was getting ahead of herself. She still hadn’t accepted his offer.

A door opened further down the hallway and a small, too skinny boy stepped out. He smiled at Abigail, but his gaze slid past her and landed on the doctor just behind her. Timothy marchedtoward them and planted himself directly in Graham’s path, and crossed his arms with all the authority a nine-year-old could muster.

“Timothy!” Abigail exclaimed, startled by his sudden appearance. “You should be resting.”

The boy ignored her, fixing Graham with a stern gaze. “Did you talk to Miss Abby?” he demanded.

“Timothy, that’s not an appropriate question,” Abigail chided with a sharp rap of her cane on the floor to emphasize her objection.

Heaven help me. What has gotten into these children?

Graham, to her surprise, inclined his head with grave respect. “Master Timothy has held me to account, my lady,” he said to Abigail. Then, to addressed the young man who stood glaring at him, “I have indeed spoken with Miss Abby.”

Timothy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And? Are you going to marry her or not?”