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Graham’s expression was unreadable. “It’s a house,” he replied, then seemed to catch himself. “But yes, I suppose it is considered handsome by most standards.”

He descended first, then handed her down with careful precision. A short line of servants waited on the steps, their expressions curious but carefully neutral.

“Welcome to Eyron Manor, Lady Abigail,” the butler intoned with a deep bow.

Graham cleared his throat. “Abigail, this is Wilkins. He oversees the household.” He gestured vaguely to the others. “And the staff.”

Wilkins’s eyebrows rose a fraction at this cursory introduction, but he maintained his composure. “We are delighted to welcome you, my lady. Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper, has prepared the blue suite for your inspection.”

“Thank you, Wilkins,” Abigail said warmly, trying to compensate for Graham’s brusqueness. “I look forward to becoming acquainted with everyone.”

Graham shifted beside her, checking his pocket watch. “The girls’ carriage should be arriving momentarily. Perhaps we might?—”

He was interrupted by the sound of wheels on gravel. A second carriage, smaller and less ornate than Graham’s, pulled into the drive.

Graham’s entire body tensed. Abigail reached for his hand instinctively, but he stepped forward, out of her reach.The slight rejection stung more than it should have. His expressionremained carefully arranged into what she recognized as his physician’s face—detached, professional, revealing nothing.

The carriage door opened, and a small whirlwind in a blue dress burst forth.“Last one to the steps is a spotted toad!” the girl shrieked, launching herself forward at full speed.

“That’s not fair! You had a head start!” came the indignant reply from a second girl—identical in face but far more composed inher pink traveling dress—as she exited with a practiced hop and smoothed her skirts primly.

“Heather! Mary Ann!” the governess called from inside, exasperation tangled with affection. “Mind your hems, both of you.”

Abigail took a step forward instinctively but faltered.

They were bright with excitement, their matching curls bouncing, their laughter bubbling over like overfilled champagne flutes. They weren’t timid or grieving—not in this moment. They were seven-year-olds excited to be in the city with entirely too much energy for the stoic steps of Eyron Manor.

These girls will be mine to raise.

The thought struck her like a bell rung too close to her ear.Not borrowed hearts like the children at Beacon House—loved deeply, but always destined to belong to someone else. These are mine to comfort, to correct, to protect.

She was about to become their aunt, their mother, for all practical purposes.

And they didn’t even know her name.

Abigail’s breath caught. She pressed a hand to her midsection, as if steadying something that had shifted out of place. The achewasn’t fear—it was something larger. Heavier. The slow dawning weight of responsibility wrapped in unexpected tenderness.

They were already halfway up the steps, still arguing over who’d won the race. The girl in blue was clearly the ringleader; the one in pink followed, head high, a little more cautious—but with steel in her spine.

Abigail’s lips curved despite herself.

The governess bustled up the stairs, harried but smiling, curls escaping her bonnet. “We are not hooligans,” she said as she captured each of her charges by the hand and compelled them to walk the last few stairs. “We areladies in transit.”

“Your Grace.” The woman bobbed a quick curtsy, somehow managing to seem both respectful and slightly impertinent. “We have arrived, as requested. Only slightly bedraggled and mostly in one piece.”

“Welcome Ms. Norwood,” Graham said.

Then she gave each girl a gentle nudge. “Now, ladies—just as we rehearsed.”

Both girls stepped forward in unison and curtsied—one deep and deliberate, the other more of a bouncing bob.

“Good morning, Uncle Graham,” they chorused.

Graham gave a small bow in return, his voice carefully modulated. “Good morning, girls.” He looked toward Abigail. “May I present my nieces—this is?—”

“I’m Heather!” the one in blue interrupted, bounding forward. “And I picked the bluebellsandthe buttercups. Even if they’re a little squished.”

She thrust the untidy bouquet at Abigail with both hands, her grin wide and unabashed.