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“Sometimes. Other times just the stars above.”

“Can we go sleep under the stars?” Heather asked, already moving to gather her blanket.

“Not tonight,” Graham said. He could only imagine what Ms. Norwood would say if she found them in the garden damp with morning dew.“Drink your milk.”

Heather launched into a rambling tale about a robin’s nest she’d discovered in the front hedge row. Mary Ann added precise details—three eggs, blue as the sky, the mother bird with her rust-colored breast. Graham listened, offering occasional nods, marveling at their endless capacity for wonder despite all they’d endured.

Gradually, their chatter slowed. Heather’s head nodded, then came to rest against his arm. Mary Ann fought sleep longer, but eventually curled up with her thumb half in her mouth, pressed against his other side.

Graham remained seated on the rug, watching them by the lamp’s soft glow. He’d thought his duty was to stand between them and the world. But perhaps they needed more than a shield. Perhaps they needed roots. And stories. And laughter. And someone who wasn’t afraid of the dark—someone who could light it up with frog voices and flower crowns.

He leaned his head back against the bookshelf, listening to the gentle rhythm of the girls’ breathing. In that space, the weight of Frederic Hollan’s legal challenge, his impending marriage, his acceptance of his title seemed less crushing. These girls were his to protect, but also his to cherish. And for that, he needed more than grim determination.

He neededher.

CHAPTER 14

“Would you look at this nonsense?” Marjory exclaimed, slapping the newspaper against the table as Abigail entered Beacon House’s front parlor.

The familiar scents of beeswax polish and fresh-baked bread embraced Abigail as she crossed the threshold.

“What fresh horror has the press concocted now?” Abigail asked, setting down her reticule and moving to peer over her sister’s shoulder.

The latest caricature,“A Fairy Tale for Modern London”, from the Morning Post depicted her in a flowing gown reminiscent of a Greek goddess, one hand pressed to her forehead in apparent rapture while Graham—drawn with shoulders impossibly broad and a rakish expression—caught her in a romantic embrace. Behind them, cherubs scattered rose petals.

“Good heavens,” Abigail muttered, narrowing her eyes at the illustration. “I look as though I’m about to expire from consumption rather than walk down the aisle.”

Mrs. Welling leaned closer, squinting through her spectacles. “Man paints like he’s using a potato instead of a brush.” She shook her head. “Your nose doesn’t look like that, and His Grace has never shown that many teeth in his life.”

Marjory laughed and poured a cup of tea for Abigail. “At least they didn’t give you a halo. Last Thursday, you were positively radiant—like he was marrying the Virgin Mary.”

Abigail untied her bonnet with a sigh and joined her sister and Mrs. Welling, leaning into the comfort of their company. The spring morning had dawned clear and bright, but the weight of tomorrow’s ceremony pressed upon her like gathering storm clouds. One more day of being the subject of London’s fascination, and then —I’ll be the Duchess of Eyron.The thought still felt like an ill-fitting glove.

She took the cup from Marjory, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “I suppose I should be grateful they’ve progressed from depicting me as a fortune-hunting harpy to a celestial being. Though neither is accurate.”

“How are Graham’s nieces settling in?” Marjory asked. “Mother said you brought them to Wildmere to play with Charlotte and Henry, and that it ended with at least three ruined pinafores and one very disgruntled spaniel.”

The memory of yesterday’s chaos made her smile. “They’re lively girls.” She sipped her tea, letting the warmth of the memory dispel some of her anxiety. “Heather climbed a tree before anyone could stop her and declared she was an admiral. Mary Ann made Charlotte cry, but only because she insisted on reciting all the rules of croquet before Charlotte could swing the mallet.”

Mrs. Welling’s shrewd eyes missed nothing as she studied Abigail over the rim of her teacup. “And the doctor? He’s kept scarce since the fever passed.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly. She traced the delicate pattern on her teacup. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s adjusting.”

The truth was more complicated. Graham was unfailingly polite, attentive to details, but somehow absent. Only with the girls did he occasionally lower his guard, and even then, he seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for something to shatter.

“I imagine it’s quite the adjustment,” Marjory said, her tone carefully neutral. “Going from bachelor physician to duke, guardian, and husband in one fell swoop.”

“It’s enough rattle the Queen herself,” Mrs. Welling added. “No wonder he’s gone skittish.”

Abigail set her cup down with a soft clink. “He’s not skittish,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “He’s private, a trait more people should embrace.”

Marjory and Mrs. Welling exchanged a glance that made Abigail grit her teeth.

“My, my,” Marjory said with a smile that was far too knowing. “You’ve become quite the defender of His Grace’s character.”

“Hardly,” Abigail said, rising from her chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to help with the ledgers this morning.”

“Running away?” Marjory teased.