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“Thank you, Sarah, but I need to get dressed.” Abigail pushed back the covers, ignoring Bridget’s sound of protest. “I must return to Beacon House.”

“Absolutely not,” Bridget said, standing to block her path. “You can barely walk.”

“I can manage well enough with a cane.” Abigail swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her injured foot touched the floor. “Sarah, please bring my day dress—the gray one with the high collar.”

“Miss Abigail, I don’t think?—”

“The gray dress, Sarah. And the walking boots.”

Sarah looked uncertainly between the sisters before curtseying again. “Yes, miss.”

Bridget watched in exasperation as Abigail attempted to stand, wobbling dangerously before steadying herself against the bedpost.

“This is madness,” Bridget declared. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I’ve rested enough,” Abigail insisted, though her vision danced with spots as she took a step. “The children need me.”

“The children are being well cared for,” Bridget countered. “It’s you who needs attention right now.”

Abigail ignored her, focusing all her energy on remaining upright as Sarah returned with the requested clothing. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons, missing the holes twice. Bridget gently brushed her hands aside, and Abigail didn’t protest—because she couldn’t lift her arms again without shaking.

By the time she was dressed in the high-necked gray dress, sweat beaded her forehead and her legs were leaden weights nearly too heavy to move.

But a fierce determination propelled her forward.

She needed to escape this house, these conversations, the weight of possibilities too frightening to contemplate.

“At least eat something before you go,” Bridget pleaded, recognizing defeat. “And take the cane Mother brought from Father’s old collection.”

Abigail nodded, leaning heavily on the ornate walking stick as Sarah helped her downstairs.Her cane clicked on the marble stair. Each step rang through her bones. She kept her gaze ahead, chin high, even as her breath came short and sharp by the time she reached the landing.

Jenkins met her at the bottom of the stairs with an expression of concern. “Lady Abigail, the countess said you would be resting today.”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” she said, cutting him off as she made her way toward the front door. “Please have the carriage brought around.”

The butler blinked and then signaled to the footman, who hurried away.“Of course, my lady. If you would care to rest in the drawing room, I will fetch you when the carriage is ready.”

Before he could finish, Abigail had reached for the door handle herself.

“I’ll wait outside, thank you,” she said, pulling it open with more force than she needed.

Her injured ankle throbbed as she unsteadily lurched through the doorway and nearly collided with the broad chest of a man mounting the front steps.

“Oh!” she gasped, stumbling backward.

Strong hands caught her elbows, steadying her with familiar gentleness. “Lady Abigail.”

The deep voice sent a tremor through her.

Graham—no Dr. Redchester—no, the Duke of Eyron—stood before her, dressed in his customary austere black coat, his expression a careful mask of professional concern.

Only his eyes betrayed him, darkening as they swept over her trembling form and the cane clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

She pressed her lips together and straightened her spine. The universe has a peculiar sense of humor.

“Your Grace,” she managed, the formal address tasting foreign on her tongue. She attempted a curtsy but swayed dangerously.

His fingers tightened around her arms. “Don’t,” he commanded softly. “You’ll fall.”

Abigail flushed. “I was just leaving,” she said. “If you’ve come to call on the Earl, I believe he’s in his study.”

Graham’s gaze never left her face. “I came to see someone who was supposed to be convalescing in bed,” he replied, his voice deceptively mild, though his eyes flashed with quiet reproach. “But it appears that mission has been rendered quite unnecessary.”

Abigail lifted her chin. “I’ve rested enough.”

“Clearly.” A single word, dry as dust.

For a moment, they simply stood there, caught in the doorway between worlds—his and hers, public and private. His hands still held her elbows, solid and warm through the thin fabric of her sleeves.

“You’re going to Beacon House,” he stated, not a question.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened, but he surprised her by offering his arm instead of an argument. “Then allow me to escort you. My carriage is waiting.”

Abigail hesitated, eyeing his proffered arm with uncertainty. “I don’t think that would be proper?—”

“I believe that ship has rather sailed,” he said, dropping his voice so his next words were for her alone. “The gossips are already composing sonnets to our tragic romance. We might as well give them material worth their ink.”

A startled laugh escaped her, quickly stifled by the pain in her throat. Against her better judgment, she placed her hand on his arm.

“Very well, Your Grace,” she said, allowing him to guide her down the steps. “But I warn you—I make a very poor tragic heroine.”

“Thank God for that,” he murmured, and led her into the waiting carriage.“And my name is Graham.”

“Graham, then,” she echoed as she pulled herself awkwardly into the coach and settled back onto the cushioned seat.

He took up the seat opposite her and rapped on the roof to signal the driver.The carriage lurched forward and she adjusted her cane beside her.

He sat stiffly, legs braced apart, hands pressed flat against his thighs—like a statue immune to the rocking of the coach. Always so composed, so measured. As if he might come apart if he allowed his shoulders to relax.

Abigail studied him for a lingering moment. Beneath the coat and control and carefully curated silence, she sensed something else. A capacity for gentleness he hadn’t quite admitted even to himself.

Maybe that was why she regretted saying no.

Maybe that was why she wanted to say yes.

“Do you believe in happily-ever-afters?”