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He stiffened at the mention of his nightmares, but then closed his fingers around hers. “You see me too and you know I am not a fairy-tale prince. I shall try every day to live up to the promise I make you here and now.”

The simple vow, spoken without flourish or grand declaration, moved her more than any poetry could have. This was the truth of him—direct, honest, unflinching.

Abigail looked down at their joined hands, then reached with her free hand to pluck a small, white blossom from the apple tree above them. She offered it to him, a token as fragile and promising as their understanding.

“For new beginnings.”

Graham took it with reverence and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“New beginnings,” he echoed, his voice rough with emotion.

Somewhere behind them, Thomas’s voice rang out, “Go on then, Doctor—give her a proper kiss!”

“Mind your manners, you little guttersnipe, or I’ll have you scrubbing chamber pots till you’re courting age!” Mrs. Welling’s exasperated roar scattered the little group of heads poking out the kitchen door. “And as for the rest of you—back to your lessons before I lose what’s left of my patience!”

Graham smiled—a real, lopsided smile—and made no move to close the distance.

Abigail didn’t mind. For now, a flower was enough.

Perhaps we’re both a little broken, but maybe our jagged edges might fit together after all.

They sat together in companionable silence as the breeze rustled through the budding branches above them. Abigail’s mind already racing ahead to the practicalities.

“Oh Lord,” she murmured, sudden anxiety creeping in. “We’ll have to plan a wedding.”

Graham’s soft chuckle surprised her. “I believe that’s traditionally the bride’s domain, but I am at your disposal.”

“You say that now,” she warned, “but wait until my mother and sisters discover there’s a wedding to arrange. And don’t think you’ll be able to escape the Countess. She’s unstoppable.”

“I’ve faced French artillery,” Graham said dryly. “I believe I can manage a few enthusiastic wedding planners.”

Poor man. He has no idea.

Abigail laughed and said, “That, Your Grace, remains to be seen.”

“Your usual corner, Your Grace?” Phillips asked, taking Graham’s hat and gloves with a deferential bow.

A familiar twinge crawled up Graham’s spine. “None of that title nonsense. We’ve discussed this. And yes, the usual table.”

As if refusing to use the title me any less a duke.

“Very good, Dr. Redchester,” he said with a slightly aggrieved look, as though forced to blaspheme in Latin at High Mass. “Cook has prepared a particularly fine batch of kidneys and eggs this morning.”

“Toast and coffee,” Graham replied and added after a beat,“Thank you, Phillips.”

The steward bowed and hurried off to the kitchen while Graham made his way to his usual secluded alcove near the window. Several gentlemen glanced up from their newspapers, their gazes lingering a moment too long before returning to their reading. Each whisper that followed burned against his skin like a brand.

The vultures are circling.

Graham settled into his chair with military precision and arranged his table. The crystal vase with its early spring daisy scooted three inches to the left. Perfect. He smoothed the napkin before arranging the silverware.

The ritual calmed his racing pulse, though not as thoroughly as it once had. In the three days since he’d proposed to Abigail in that small courtyard, relentless social engagements, fittings, and consultations had swallowed his days. He’d abandoned Abigail to the storm with the blessed excuse of making house calls that day.

She’d been right. He was not equal to the task of enduring a wedding with the women of her family.

Phillips brought his coffee, steam curling invitingly from the cup. Graham added milk and stirred once, twice. The spoon settled precisely parallel to the saucer.

All was quiet. Just the rustle of newspapers, the clink of silverware against fine china, and the faint murmur of gentlemanly conversation.