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“Hmm? Oh—either is lovely,” Abigail replied, forcing her attention back to the room.

Marjory exchanged a knowing look with their mother. “You’re worrying again.”

Abigail sighed, setting aside a particularly aggressive shade of peach taffeta. “I can’t help it. Graham was so reluctant to bring them to London for the wedding. What if they resent me? What if they see me as an intruder?”

What if I remind them of everything they’ve lost? What if I can’t be enough for them—or for him?

“Nonsense,” Verity declared. “Children adore you. Just look at those ragamuffins at Beacon House.”

“Those ‘ragamuffins’ know me,” Abigail said. “Heather and Mary Ann are different. They’ve lost their parents, adopted by a man they don’t know, and now a strange woman is marrying into their family.”

Bridget set down her lace with deliberate precision. “Did Graham explain why he didn’t want them here?”

“He said it would be too overwhelming for them.” Abigail twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “But I insisted. If we’re to be a family, we must begin as one. I won’t have them feeling like afterthoughts.”

Her mother nodded approvingly. “You were right to insist. Children need constancy, especially after such loss.”

“And besides,” Marjory added with a mischievous smile, “if the good doctor—pardon me, His Grace—thinks he can hide his nieces away in the country, he’s sorely mistaken about the sort of woman he’s marrying.”

Abigail laughed despite herself. “I may have made that point rather forcefully.”

“I should hope so!” Verity exclaimed, draping a length of Brussels lace over Abigail’s shoulders like a veil. “Now, about the procession—I’ve been thinking. What if we released a dozen white doves just as you reach the altar? Or perhaps a fountain of champagne at the reception?”

“I thought we said no doves and a fountain of—” Abigail ran her hand over her face, gathering her composure. “Verity, we’re having a small ceremony.”

“I only want it to be perfect. You deserve it.” She smiled at Abigail.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But Graham would rather face a firing squad than a grand society affair.”

“Well, he’s not marrying himself, is he?” Verity huffed.

Bridget snorted. “Thank heaven for small mercies.”

“Ladies,” their mother interjected with quiet authority, “perhaps we might consider a compromise. Elegant but intimate.”

The room erupted once more into a flurry of competing suggestions. Abigail rose abruptly.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. “I need a moment of air.”

Before anyone could protest, she slipped from the parlor and made her way to the front entrance. The butler gave her a sympathetic nod as she stepped outside, drawing a deep breath of the crisp spring morning.

The street before Reedley Manor was quiet, dappled with sunlight filtering through new leaves. Abigail closed her eyes, savoring the momentary peace.

Just five minutes without lace, lilies, or lace-covered lilies.

The clatter of hooves and wheels broke the silence. She opened her eyes to see a familiar carriage turning into the drive, its polished black surface gleaming in the sun. Her heart quickened as it drew to a halt.

Graham emerged, his tall figure as precise and formal as ever in his dark coat. But something in his bearing made her pause—a rigidity beyond his usual military posture, a tightness around his eyes that spoke of strain.

“Good morning,” she called, descending the steps to meet him.

He looked up, startled, as if he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her. “Abigail.” He made a slight bow. “I didn’t expect to find you outside.”

“I escaped,” she confessed with a smile. “Verity is determined to include either doves or a champagne fountain in our wedding. Possibly both.”

She waited for the small quirk of his lips that had become familiar over the past days—that reluctant amusement he couldn’t quite suppress in her presence. It didn’t come.

“I see,” he said, his voice clipped. “Perhaps you might dissuade her. Haven’t we had spectacle enough?”