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Her answer followed him, unwavering. “I’ll be here when you come home.”

Outside, the night air bit at his face. No carriage waited—he hadn’t actually summoned one. The lie did not extend to the details.

Graham stood on the steps of his own home, staring out at the darkened street. Behind him lay warmth, connection, the beginning of something he’d never dared to want. Before him, only the familiar emptiness of night.

He could turn back. Climb the stairs. Open her door. Take the life she was offering. Try, as he’d promised, to be the man she believed in.

Instead, he descended the remaining steps and set off toward St. Bartholomew’s. The hospital would welcome him, as it always did. Blood and bone asked no questions, demanded no vulnerability.

The streets of London swallowed him, indifferent to the war raging within.

CHAPTER 17

“Is His Grace coming down for breakfast?” Abigail asked the footman as he poured her tea.

“His Grace has not yet returned, Your Grace.” The footman’s voice remained perfectly neutral, but his eyes flickered briefly to meet hers before returning to the steaming amber liquid. He set the teapot aside and fished a piece of paper from his pocket.“He sent this when he requested a fresh change of clothes.” He placed it beside her plate with a small bow.

“I see.” Abigail wrapped her fingers around the delicate porcelain cup, absorbing its warmth. “Thank you, James.” She waited until he had retreated to the doorway before breaking the seal.

Graham’s handwriting was precise and measured. The ink pressed firmly into the paper, as though written with a heavy hand.

Abigail,

The case proved more complex than anticipated. I expect to return by afternoon. Please convey my regrets to the girls.

I remain, as promised, trying.

Graham

She refolded the note with care and set it aside. The tea scalded her tongue, but she welcomed the sensation—something tangible to focus on besides the hollow ache beneath her ribs.

“Will you be requiring anything else, Your Grace?” James asked from the doorway.

“No, thank you.” She forced a smile. “The girls will be down shortly. Please have fresh toast and an extra pot of jam brought when they arrive.”

The footman bowed and took his leave. Abigail buttered a piece of toast she had no appetite for. She had miscalculated last night, pushed too hard—and he had retreated out of her reach.

Mechanically, she chewed a bite of toast, recalling his eyes in the lamplight. Desire, unmistakable and fierce, but something else had lurked there. Dark shadows and desperation that bordered on fear, though she was not sure of what.

A bird trilled in the garden beyond the French doors, drawing her attention with its happy tone. Abigail discarded the bread, suddenly restless, and moved to look outside. The formal gardens stretched toward a low stone wall, beyond which lay rolling meadows dotted with early wildflowers. It was beautiful and utterly foreign—nothing like the modest grounds at Reedley Manor or the tiny courtyard at Beacon House.

She pressed her fingertips against the cool glass. Perhaps she had been foolish to hope for more than politeness on their first night as husband and wife. Graham had never promised passion, only honesty and effort. And hadn’t he been honest, in his way?

With a sigh, Abigail glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly ten. The day stretched out before her and she dreaded the thought of the idle hours.

She’d return to Beacon House on Monday. Useful work among familiar faces, where her purpose was clear and her presence valued. Perhaps she would take the girls along.

As if summoned by her passing thought, the breakfast room doors burst open.

“Aunt Abigail! Mary Ann says I have to do Latin today, but it’s the day after our wedding!” Heather barreled into the room, curls flying, pinafore already askew.

Mary Ann followed at a more sedate pace, her hair neatly braided and her expression one of long-suffering patience. “MissNorwood says we must maintain our schedule regardless of household events. It’s a matter of discipline.”

“And discipline is the foundation of character,” Ms. Norwood said as she appeared with an armful of papers. A smudge of ink marked her cheek, and wisps of hair had escaped her normally tidy bun. “Though I confess, Your Grace, that maintaining scholarly focus this morning has proved challenging.”

“I spilled the inkwell,” Heather announced without a hint of remorse. “Twice.”

“On purpose,” Mary Ann added.