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“Timothy!” Abigail gasped.

The boy turned to her, his expression earnest. “Well, you should marry him, Miss Abby. He’s good with the little ones, even Georgie likes him, and he knows about medicines.” He ticked off these qualifications on his fingers as if presenting irrefutableevidence. “And you look at him when he’s not looking. And he looks at you when you’re not looking. Mrs. Welling says that’s how you know.”

Abigail’s face flamed hot. “That is quite enough. These are private matters that do not require your assistance.”

Have I been staring like some moonstruck girl?

“But do you like him?” Timothy persisted, undeterred. “Because he likes you. He told me so when you were sick.”

Abigail raised a brow in the doctor’s direction. Graham’s ears had turned a remarkable shade of crimson.

“I believe I said I respected Miss Abigail greatly,” he corrected.

“Same thing,” Timothy declared with an impatient shake of his head.

“So, are you getting married or not?” Jenny asked, emerging from where she’d clearly been eavesdropping.

Abigail glanced at Graham, finding his gaze already on her. His eyes asked a question, patient and undemanding.

This is madness. Complete madness.

“Perhaps,” she said, speaking to the children but looking at Graham, “sooner than I thought.”

CHAPTER 11

“That means yes,” Timothy announced to Jenny with authority, and shook his head in disgust. “Grown-ups never say what they mean.”

“Can I come?” Jenny asked, bouncing on her toes. “I want to wear flowers in my hair.”

“I want to come,” Thomas called from somewhere down the hall, apparently having joined the growing audience, who all added to the chorus of demands to attend a wedding that hadn’t even been fully settled on.

Mrs. Welling appeared from the nursery and set her hands on her hips. “That’s quite enough matchmaking for one day,” she declared, shooing the children away. “Back to your studies, you little mischief-makers.”

As Mrs. Welling herded the children away, the hallway felt too small, too quiet. “Please excuse me. I need some air,” Abigail murmured.

Dear God, what am I doing?

She fled back down the stairs, hobbling as fast as she dared. She didn’t stop until she burst out of the kitchen door and took several deep breaths of the early evening air.

The small courtyard was Marjory’s pride and joy. It housed herb and vegetable gardens that would flourish in the coming weeks. The freshly turned earth and early sprouts held all the promises of spring. Abigail sat on a stone bench and closed her eyes, willing her heart to settle.

I’m actually considering this. No—I’ve already decided, haven’t I?

She was going to marry Graham Redchester–doctor, duke, soldier, and something more that she’d only caught glimpses of. She wasn’t surprised when she heard footsteps approaching, nor when Graham settled beside her on the bench, careful to leave space between them.

“Did you mean it?” he asked after a moment.

Abigail opened her eyes, watching a robin hop along the garden wall. “I will, as long as you promise to always deal with me in truth and honesty.”

He didn’t hesitate. “That is a promise I can make.”

She nodded. “I know. You see me—not Lady Abigail Finch, not the Earl’s disgraced cousin, not a charitable spinster—just me.”

A small smile touched his lips. “I do see you.”

“Then understand this,” she said, reaching for his hand. “It is Graham I am agreeing to marry—not titles, not rescue, not duty. Just you, with all your nightmares and awkwardness and unexpected gentleness.”

I want the man who catches me when I fall, who plays peekaboo with orphans, who hangs laundry in the twilight.