Page 19

“ D o I believe in happily-ever-afters?” Graham’s expression turned contemplative as the carriage lurched forward. “Not particularly.”

He adjusted the window shade exactly two inches above the sill, his fingers lingering to ensure it was perfectly aligned. When he caught Abigail watching this meticulous adjustment, he withdrew his hand with a self-conscious twitch.

She notices everything.

“I believe in duty,” he continued, settling back against the leather seat. “In honor. In doing what must be done regardless of personal cost.” He paused, his gaze drifting past her shoulder to the passing London streets. “But happiness? That seems rather like believing in fairies or mermaids.”

“How bleak,” Abigail murmured and folded her hands in her lap.

His eyes returned to her face, sharp and assessing. “I didn’t say I don’t hope for it. Only that I don’t expect it.”

A small, surprised smile touched Abigail’s lips and she regarded him for a long moment.

“What?” he asked, unnerved by her expression.

“That’s a remarkably honest answer,” she replied. “I expected something more diplomatic.”

Graham straightened his already straight cuffs. “I find diplomacy requires more energy than I can muster these days.”

Silence settled between them—not entirely uncomfortable, but charged with unspoken words.

Graham tugged his gloves off and tucked them in his coat pocket, restless and irritated with himself.

He’d told men they were going to die. He’d held their hands and watched the life leak out of them.

Why in God’s name was it so hard to find words?

Say something, you damned coward.

“About...” he began haltingly, “the matter I raised the other night. If your answer remains unchanged, I—well, I will abide by it. But if you would permit me, I’d like to explain properly.”

Abigail inclined her head, but her expression gave nothing away.

Graham exhaled slowly, pressing his palms flat against his thighs and rigidly marshaled his thoughts into rank and file.

“I had intended to speak gracefully, somewhere with four chairs and a settee, but you have a way of vanishing into laundries and workrooms. I was compelled to meet you where you were.”

One eyebrow arched delicately—an invitation for him to continue, nothing more. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He didn’t blame her.

“I propose a marriage of convenience,” he said, the words coming easier now as he found his footing in his rehearsed words.

“You would retain your independence in all things. I would not make claims upon you, nor introduce unwarranted intimacies.” He glanced away at that.

The thought of her that close. He couldn’t allow it.

After a desperate beat, he plunged on, “Your work at Beacon House could continue as you wish. I would not interfere.”

His old habits settled over him, the careful detachment that had served him through blood and loss—safe, impersonal, unassailable.

You sound as though you’re delivering a prognosis, not a proposal.

“My estate at Eyron Park has a separate wing you might occupy, or you may maintain a private London residence if you prefer. I would not make demands upon your time or person. I do not wish to intrude upon—whatever peace you might make for yourself.”

His foot tapped against the carriage floor, the sole of his boot making a soft, repetitive sound against the wood. He reached up and cracked the window slightly, letting in a rush of spring air only to close it again lest Abigail catch a chill.

She still said nothing, so he blundered on.“In return, you would have the protection of my name and title. The scandal would be forgotten. Your position in society restored. You would whatever means you should need to pursue your endeavors. I only ask that you be discreet.”

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained unreadable.

God, I’ve made a mess of this.

The carriage rocked gently as they turned a corner. Abigail smoothed down her skirts, but her gaze remained fixed on Graham, unwavering in its intensity.

“I will not be a ghost in my own marriage,” she said.

Graham’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“What you offer is not a marriage but a performance,” she clarified, her voice low but firm. “Two people inhabiting the same house yet living separate lives, bound by nothing but a legal document and mutual understanding. I cannot and will not accept a life of polite indifference.”

“Most women in your situation—” he began hotly, then stopped himself.

Idiot. She is not most women.

“My situation?” Her voice was dangerously quiet.

Graham turned away, drumming his fingers on his leg. “I apologize,” he said. “That was... unworthy.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and tentative.

The carriage rattled past Hyde Park, sunlight dappling through the trees and casting shifting patterns across Abigail’s gray dress. She looked ethereal in that light—not fragile, exactly, but otherworldly, as if she might dissolve into the shadows if he looked away.

Don’t leave. Not now. Please don’t vanish.

“I’ve no notion of how to be a husband,” Graham admitted. “I scarcely know how to be a man anymore. But—if trying will suffice, I promise I shall try.”

Abigail’s expression softened. “If you will truly try,” she said, “then there is more to discuss between us.”

Not an acceptance. Not quite. But not a refusal either. Something trembled in the air between them—possibility.

There is hope yet.

He met her gaze directly now, letting her see past his careful mask to the uncertainty beneath. “I cannot promise happiness or romance or any of those things found in novels. But I can promise honesty. Respect. And every effort to make a true marriage, however imperfect.”

Her answering soft smile before she turned her gaze back to the window uncoiled the tightness in his shoulders a fraction. He would never have the easy charm of other men, the fluid grace of natural conversation. But perhaps, with her, his awkward honesty might be enough.

The carriage slowed as they approached Beacon House. A child darted across the courtyard, running with the abandon that only the very young possess. A world away from war and death and endless nightmares.

A world where, perhaps, happily-ever-afters weren’t entirely impossible.

The carriage halted with a gentle lurch, and Abigail’s hand tightened around the walking stick.

Beacon House stood before them—her battered kingdom, as Marjory sometimes called it.

The windows gleamed in the afternoon sun, newly washed.

Someone had swept the front steps and placed two pots of spring flowers beside the door.

Graham descended first, then turned to offer his hand. “Careful now.”

His grip was sure, steady as he helped her navigate the step down. Her ankle protested sharply, but she kept her expression neutral, determined not to reveal weakness.

“I can manage from here,” she said, adjusting her grip on the cane.

Graham released her but remained close, his presence like a shadow at her back. “Of course.”

She had taken only three steps toward the entrance when the door burst open. Mrs. Welling appeared first, her round face lighting with relief.

“Miss Abby!” she called, hurrying down the steps, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank the heavens! The children have been asking after you every hour, though you shouldn’t have rushed back.”

Before they reached the entrance, the door flew open, and a flurry of small bodies erupted into the street.

“Miss Abby! Miss Abby’s back!”

Children swarmed around her. Little hands tugged at her skirt and reached for her fingers as a tidal wave of chatter engulfed her.

This. This is what matters. This is real.

“You were gone so long!”

“Are you still poorly? Mrs. Welling said you were poorly.”

“Did you bring sweets?”

“Careful with Miss Abby,” Mrs. Welling cautioned, shooing them back. “She’s still mending.”

Abigail bent as much as her injuries allowed, her free hand reaching to smooth Jenny’s tangled hair. “I’ve missed you all terribly. Have you been good for Mrs. Welling?”

“Very good,” Jenny insisted, though her smile turned impish. “Except Thomas put a frog in the soup.”

“It was already dead,” Thomas protested from behind her. “And it was an accident.”

Abigail laughed. “Well, I hope Cook forgave you.”

“After he peeled potatoes for two hours,” Mrs. Welling said, frowning the perpetrator’s direction. “Come inside, miss. You shouldn’t be standing about in the yard. Your mother and sister just left. They said you wouldn’t be in for days yet.”

Abigail allowed herself to be guided into the familiar entrance hall, the children trailing behind like ducklings. Graham followed at a respectful distance, his expression unreadable as he observed the scene.

The interior of Beacon House greeted her with its usual medley of scents—soap, cooking, and the indefinable smell of many lives lived in close quarters. But something was different. Abigail paused, her gaze sweeping the hallway.

“New curtains?” she asked, noting the fresh blue fabric hanging in the windows.

Mrs. Welling nodded, a knowing gleam in her eye.

“ Some mystery soul sent over a mountain of goods—curtains, linens, enough medicine to outfit a hospital, and even hired help for the laundry and scullery.” She cast a pointed glance at Graham, who suddenly became very interested in examining a crack in the plaster wall.

“How generous,” Abigail said, allowing Graham his anonymity.

“Indeed. And the Countess has been a whirlwind, organizing a ladies’ sewing circle. We’ve got so many blankets and baby gowns, I’m running out of places to stack them.”

Abigail smiled. Verity was nothing short of a force of nature when she applied herself to a cause.

“Said it was high time the ladies of quality put their nimble fingers to proper use.” Mrs. Welling continued. “Nearly frightened poor Lady Merriworth into stitching her fingers together.”