Page 17

H ands closing around her throat. A wall of brick against her back. The sounds of London fading as her vision narrowed to a single point—his eyes, feral and hungry.

“Pretty lady. Fancy lady.”

Darkness closing in. Her lungs burning, starved. The useless scrabble of her fingernails against his wrists.

Can’t breathe. Can’t scream.

A hot, acrid breath against her cheek. “Give it over, or I’ll open you up proper.”

Her legs buckled. The ground rushing up. The world spinning away?—

Abigail jerked awake with a strangled gasp. Her throat felt raw, her pulse thundering in her ears as she clawed at phantom hands.

Warm hands encompassed hers with a firm, but gentle touch.Voices swam through her panic. Familiar, but distant.

“Easy there. You’re alright.” A familiar voice, one that had soothed children and made promises among the laundry.

The low soothing tones washed over her. She blinked against the hazy light, shapes solidifying around her.

“Abigail, dear. You’re safe.” Her mother’s worried face hovered above her, cool fingers brushing damp hair from her forehead.

Another figure loomed behind—broad-shouldered, dark-haired. Graham. His blue eyes were sharp with concern, his expression tightly controlled.

“No,” she rasped as he approached with a small brown bottle. “No laudanum.”

“It will help you sleep,” he said, his clinical tone belying the gentleness of his hands as he measured the dose.

“I don’t—” The rest dissolved into a cough that felt like broken glass in her throat.

“Please, Abigail,” her mother whispered, pressing a handkerchief to her daughter’s face. “Just this once. Let someone care for you.”

Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. She was so tired of fighting—against pain, against fear, against everything. Graham sat on the bed next to her and slipped an arm under her shoulders, supporting her. His touch, his gaze, his manner wrapped around her with comfort and gentleness.

Don’t be kind to me. I’ll only disappoint you in the end.

Graham brought the spoon to her lips. “Just a small dose,” he promised, his voice low. “It will keep the dreams away.”

In the candlelight, she met his gaze. This man knew something of terrors that stalked the night. She nodded, and the bitter liquid slid down her throat. She grimaced, but the cool glass of water that followed washed away the taste.

As he withdrew his hand, his fingers brushed against her temple and he drew the back of his knuckles down the side of her face as he looked down at her. So tender. Tears pricked behind her eyelids.

“Rest now,” her mother murmured, but Abigail was already drifting, carried away on dark, quiet waters.

Sunlight streaked across the bedcovers when Abigail next opened her eyes, painting golden rectangles on the Persian carpet. She stared at the light, tracing its path from window to floor, allowing her sluggish mind to accept the real world around her.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Abigail turned her head to find Bridget sitting in a chair beside the bed, a book open in her lap. Her middle sister smiled, the familiar mischievous gleam in her eyes softened with concern.

“What time is it?” Abigail croaked, her voice still painful, but much improved.

“Nearly two in the afternoon. You’ve been sleeping like the dead.” Bridget set her book aside and leaned forward. “Here, let me help you sit up.”

Abigail winced as she shifted against the pillows. Every muscle protested, and her ankle throbbed dully beneath the coverlet. Her head felt stuffed with wool, her mouth dry and sour.

Even my hair hurts. I must look a fright.

“How long have I been?—”

“A day and a half, more or less.” Bridget poured tea from a pot on the bedside table.

A day and a half? The children will think I’ve abandoned them.

“Beacon House? The children—” Abigail began.

“Are improving,” Bridget cut her off gently. “Marjory and Mother have been taking shifts along with a small army of volunteers. The worst of the fevers broke yesterday.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank God.”

Bridget helped her hold the cup, the warm porcelain steadying her trembling hands. The tea was sweet with honey, soothing her raw throat.

“Indeed. Though I’m sure your Dr. Redchester deserves some credit as well.” Bridget’s tone was deliberately casual as she stirred more honey into Abigail’s tea. “He’s been quite attentive.”

Abigail nearly choked. “He is not my Dr. Redchester.”

“Hmm.” Bridget’s eyebrow arched. “According to The Morning Post, the Duke of Eyron, has emerged from his self-imposed exile to save a damsel in distress. It’s all quite romantic.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Abigail sputtered. “I wasn’t—he didn’t—” She stopped, the full impact of Bridget’s words finally registering. “Did you say Duke?”

Her sister’s smile was a touch too innocent. “Did I forget to mention that? Yes, your gallant doctor is none other than Graham Redchester, the Duke of Eyron. Back from obscurity and apparently intent on playing hero.”

The room tilted. Abigail gripped the counterpane, her mind racing to catch up.

“That can’t be right,” she whispered. “He’s a doctor.”

“And a duke. I don’t believe they are mutually exclusive.

” Bridget took a drink of her tea, peeking at her over the rim like a cat with a dish of cream.

“He’s been living in London for months, apparently, practicing medicine under his family name but without the title.

Society’s been buzzing about it since yesterday. ”

Distantly, she recalled the tragedy of the Duke and Duchess of Eyron. But it had been over a year ago and ancient history as far as society was concerned.

Graham had been the second son? A soldier, a doctor—she remembered the speculation after the accident that claimed the Eyron heir. The man who had tended fevers at Beacon House, hung laundry in the courtyard, and proposed marriage among wet sheets was a peer of England.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, not equal to the challenge of thinking about it more.

“And where are Charlotte and Henry?” Abigail asked, desperate to change the subject. “How are my niece and nephew?”

Bridget’s face softened at the mention of her children. “Anthony has them for the day. Probably teaching them to storm the battlements or calculate compound interest.”

“I’d like to see them soon.”

“Once you’re stronger,” Bridget promised. “Charlotte asks about her Aunt Abby constantly. She’s quite convinced you live in a castle with all the sad children, like some fairy tale heroine.”

Abigail laughed weakly. “Hardly a castle.”

“Speaking of castles and heroes...” Bridget leaned closer, her expression turning serious. “Mother tells me Dr. Redchester has made an offer for your hand.”

The blunt statement sent heat rushing to Abigail’s face.

“It wasn’t a real proposal,” Abigail countered, shifting uncomfortably. “It was an obligation. A gentleman’s response to a compromised reputation.”

“Obligation,” Bridget repeated, skepticism clear in her voice. “Is that why he’s spent hours at your bedside? Why he brought three more physicians to tend to the fever children? Why he’s arranged for extra staff at Beacon House until you recover?”

Abigail’s heart stuttered. “He did all that?”

“He did.” Bridget reached for her hand. “Abby, that’s not the behavior of a man fulfilling an obligation. That’s the behavior of a man who cares.”

“Or a man with an overactive sense of responsibility,” Abigail countered.

Bridget’s fingers tightened around hers. “And if he had courted you properly? If he had approached you with flowers and poetry instead of bandages and medicine?”

“That would be different.” Even to her own ears, the protest sounded weak.

“Would it? Or would you still convince yourself you don’t deserve happiness?” Bridget’s voice was gentle, but unrelenting. “Ever since you ran from the altar, you’ve been punishing yourself.”

The accusation struck too close to the truth. Abigail looked away, unable to meet her sister’s searching gaze.

“I’m not punishing myself,” she whispered. “I’m being realistic. Men like Graham Redchester—dukes, for heaven’s sake—don’t marry women like me. Women with histories.”

Women who live on borrowed courage and stale hope.

“Oh, for—” Bridget set the teacup down with a sharp click. “It’s been years. I’m happily married with two beautiful children. I think we can safely say your great escape worked out for the best.”

The reference to their shared past hung between them—Abigail’s flight from an unwanted marriage, forcing Bridget to take her place as the Duke of Wilds’ bride. A choice made in panic that had altered both their lives forever.

“I made a choice that nearly destroyed us. That’s not something one forgets,” Abigail said, staring at her tea.

Bridget gave an impatient scoff. “A man—a good man, by all accounts—is offering you a chance at a different life. And you’re going to refuse because you’re worried accepting a Duke’s proposal now will make you look opportunistic?”

“Can’t you see the headlines? Lady Abigail runs from one duke only to chase another .” The words were bitter on her lips and she despised the fear they brought.

“Who cares what everyone thinks?” Bridget threw up her hands. “Do you love him?”

The question struck Abigail silent. Did she love Graham Redchester? The quiet doctor with haunted eyes who hung laundry and mixed medicines and caught her when she fell?

“I hardly know him,” she hedged.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Abigail sighed, her throat aching with the effort. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. He’s a duke.”

“The fact that he’s a duke makes it more meaningful, not less,” Bridget argued. “If he wanted to sweep his obligation under the rug, he could have. Instead, he came to propose marriage to the scandal-tainted spinster cousin of an earl. He chose you.”

She flinched at her sister’s razor sharp words, but before she could form a reply, Sarah entered with fresh linens.

“Oh! You’re awake, miss.” The maid bobbed a curtsy. “That’s good news. Shall I bring up some broth?”