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“She insisted the girls have something wholly theirs, something no one could take from them,” Graham said, remembering their conversation.

“Well, given her family’s history, that’s hardly surprising,” the admiral said.

“A prudent addition,” Mr. Nedley agreed. “And one more item—the court has calendared Lord Hollan’s petition for next Thursday.”

Graham’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Elias waved a dismissive hand.

“Unless Hollan plans to object from the choir loft today, it can bloody well wait.”

The carriage rounded a corner, and St. George’s came into view—honey-colored stone and elegant spires, carriages already gathering despite the early hour. Graham’s pulse quickened as he adjusted his cuffs—the same ones Abigail had straightened with gentle hands when he’d called at Reedley Manor two daysprior. Her fingers had lingered, warm against his wrist. He’d wanted nothing more than to turn his hand and capture hers, but he hadn’t dared.

Elias straightened his coat and hat as the carriage slowed. “Still time to run,” he said with a wink.

Graham met his gaze steadily. “Not a chance.”

“He’s here. Finally.” Verity swept into the vestry with the dramatic flair of an actress taking center stage, her emerald silk rustling like autumn leaves.

Abigail’s reflection stared back from the looking glass—composed, serene, a perfect bride. The image felt like a lie. Her hands were damp with sweat and her stomach pitched like she’d swallowed a dozen eels.

“Of course he is,” she said, smoothing her skirts—again.

If nerves could starch fabric, she’d be wearing a suit of armor.

“Of course?” Verity’s eyebrows climbed toward her elaborate coiffure. “The man disappeared for two hours this morning. The poor admiral had to hunt him down like a wayward hound.” She gestured toward the chapel beyond the vestry door. “All of London’s crammed into that sanctuary, and if Lady Ponsby’s ridiculous hat obscures the string quartet, I shall have words.”

Marjory rolled her eyes from her perch by the window. “Breathe, Verity. The world will not end if a few flowers are displaced.”

“Easy for you to say,” Verity huffed, adjusting Abigail’s veil with unnecessary vigor. “You haven’t spent every waking hour for the last three weeks making sure every detail is correct.”

The tugging at her veil sent pinpricks across Abigail’s scalp. She gritted her teeth against the urge to bat Verity’s hands away.

We should have eloped to Scotland. Just a drafty kirk, witnessed only by sheep and a disapproving Presbyterian minister.

“You’ve done a masterful job, Verity.” Their mother’s voice carried the gentle authority that had settled countless household disputes. She moved to Abigail’s side, her touch warm and steadying on her daughter’s shoulder. “But, perhaps we might focus on the bride rather than the spectacle.”

Verity’s looked away and ceased her fussing. “Of course. Forgive me—I simply want everything to be perfect for you.”

“And it is perfect,” Abigail said, catching Verity’s gaze in the mirror. “Truly. I cannot imagine how you managed to orchestrate all of this. I’m deeply grateful.”

Verity preened at the praise but her expression quickly clouded with worry. “I can’t trust Mr. Greeves to remember the seating arrangement—he’s likely to seat the French attaché besideCousin Winifred and start a diplomatic incident.” Her eyes—bright, calculating—flickered over Abigail’s reflection. “Don’t move a hairpin until I get back.” She swept from the vestry, leaving a faint wake of perfume and purpose.

“You look radiant, my dear.” Her mother adjusted the pearl necklace at Abigail’s throat.

The pearls were cool against her skin, a reminder of all the women who had worn them before—generations of wives and mothers who had stood where she stood now, hearts racing, futures uncertain.

They survived and so will I.

The vestry door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“We’re ready!” Heather announced, bouncing on her toes. “Can we spin down the isle? My skirt goes all the way out when I turn—look!”

She executed an enthusiastic twirl, the hem of her dress flying.

Mary Ann caught her sister’s arm. “If you try that, Miss Norwood will give you the look.” She narrowed her eyes and drew her small mouth down in a furious frown.

“I most certainly do not look like that. It’s like this,” The governess said as she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.The girls dissolved in peals of laughter until the governess called them to order. “Come now, ladies. We are not hooligans. We are participants in a sacred ceremony.” She caught Abigail’s eye and offered a conspiratorial smile.

The knot in Abigail’s chest loosened at the sound of their laughter—bright, unguarded, utterly unconcerned with the weight of ceremony. Some of the morning’s tension dissolved.