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Graham cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “The children appear much improved,” he observed. “The fever has broken in most cases, I presume?”

“In all but three, and Georgie still runs hot at night, poor lamb,” Mrs. Welling reported, settling Abigail in a worn armchair. “Timothy’s up and about already—that boy recovers faster than a weed grows. Little Mary Margaret has had the hardest time. She’s upstairs resting now.”

Abigail watched as Graham moved among the children with careful efficiency.

His manner was formal, yet there was an undeniable gentleness in his touch as he checked pulses and listened to small chests.

The children regarded him with a mixture of awe and wariness, particularly the older ones who had learned to distrust adults as a matter of course.

“Open wide,” he instructed Thomas, peering into the boy’s mouth. “Good. Any pain in your throat?”

Thomas grinned, showing a gap where a tooth ought to be. “Only when Cook tries to shove cabbage down it. Nasty stuff, that.”

Graham straightened, affecting a look of stern wisdom. “Cabbage, Young Thomas, is the backbone of a sound constitution. I’ve seen whole regiments survive on it.”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “Then them regiments must’ve been sorry buggers, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

Abigail’s lips twitched. “Thomas,” she said with a warning tone to mind his manners.

Trust Thomas to speak his mind to a duke.

Graham fought a smile. “I suppose, given the evidence, I’ll prescribe only small doses of cabbage—at least until you’re fully recovered.”

Thomas brightened. “Hear that? Doctor’s orders—no cabbage for the likes of me!”

Abigail shook her head. “We’ll see about that.”

A commotion from the far corner drew their attention. Georgie hid beneath the smallest worktable. His flushed cheeks were streaked with tears and he whimpered piteously around the thumb in his mouth. Mrs. Welling wedged half her bulk under the table and still couldn’t reach him.

“Come along, love. You can’t hide from the medicine forever,” she coaxed, trying in vain to reach for the boy. “Don’t make me come all the way under—I’ll never get back out again.”

Abigail got stiffly to her feet, but Graham caught her by the elbow before she made it two steps. He gave her a pointed look. “Allow me.”

She retreated to her chair and bit back a smile.

Mrs. Welling backed out from under the table with a groan and a muttered “Lord save me,” adjusting her cap as she stood. She looked at Abigail and sighed. “If he gets him out, I’ll eat my apron.”

Graham knelt, then crouched lower, folding himself to peer beneath the table. “I see you, Lieutenant Georgie,” he intoned gravely. “Shall we negotiate terms, or must I send in the artillery?”

Georgie paused mid-sob, uncertain. Graham’s brows arched theatrically, and then—unexpectedly—he covered his face with both hands and peeked through his fingers. “Boo!” he declared.

The little boy squealed in delight, and Graham repeated the performance.

Within two more rounds, Georgie’s resistance crumbled.

He shuffled out from under the table—giving Graham a wide berth but watching him curiously—and made a beeline straight for Abigail, clambering into her lap and burying his face in her shoulder.

Mrs. Welling eyed Graham with new appreciation. “Well, color me surprised. And you said you had no notion of children.”

Graham shrugged, dusting off his pants. “I saw one of the older children do it yesterday. He responded well then, so I hypothesized?—”

She waved a hand. “You keep your hypothesizing, Doctor. It worked. That’s good enough for me.” She deftly extracted Georgie from Abigail’s arms. “I’ll get this one his medicine and settle him for his nap. The rest of you, off to the schoolroom. Miss Alice is waiting.”

The small flock of children scattered and leaving Abigail and Graham alone. The silence was closed in quickly in the sudden absence of constant activity, like someone had closed a door on a rushing stream.

“We should go upstairs to see Timothy and the others who still have fevers,” she said, getting ungracefully to her feet.

Graham stood close, but to her relief, didn’t insist on helping her or arguing. “I am at your disposal, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For helping with the children. And for the other things as well.”

Graham avoided her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The curtains. The supplies. The extra staff.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It was nothing. A simple matter of resources allocated where they’re needed.”

“It wasn’t nothing to us.” Abigail took a step closer, her cane tapping softly against the worn floorboards. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? About your title?”

Graham’s shoulders stiffened. “The title was my brother’s birthright, not mine. I never wanted it and it still does not sit well.”

“But you can do so many things—good things—with it.”

“That’s the easy part. It’s all the rest I struggle with,” he said, waiting for her to go first up the stairs. He sighed as he followed. “A duke who prefers bandages to ballrooms, with two nieces I’ve no idea how to raise and a house full of ghosts I’ve no wish to face.”

Abigail missed a step.

She caught herself on the banister, masking the stumble with a shift of her cane. Nieces?

She searched her memory, but the previous Duke and Duchess of Eyron had been too removed from society for her to recall if they had any children.

Had he simply assumed she knew? That everyone did?

Abigail’s stomach churned. She paused on the landing, keeping her gaze fixed out the window on the courtyard below. “You failed to mention your nieces before. Is that why you want to marry me?”

The true reason emerges at last. A spinster with maternal instincts and no better prospects—the perfect governess-wife.

He gently turned her to face him, and he fixed her with one of those unfiltered looks, like the one he turned on her in the alleyway. “I find myself in the most fortunate position as to consider marrying you and the reasons are piling up around me, but yes, my nieces factor into the equation.”

Her breath caught.

She searched his face, hoping to find something more than duty written there. Something that felt like choice . He released her arm, and she stepped back, waiting—braced—for whatever came next.

His jaw worked before he continued, “Mary Ann and Heather. Seven years old. Twins. They have not dealt well with the loss of their parents.”

Abigail held her silence. It wasn’t only the twins who had not dealt well with the loss.

“They live at Eyron Park with a governess and a small army of servants.” Graham’s voice grew strained. “I confess, I know nothing about raising young girls. I’d sooner face a firing squad than another governess’s letter concerning hiding under beds and tantrums.”

“It must be truly dire to take the drastic measure of marrying the first available spinster,” Abigail said and fiddled with her cane.

Oh, why did I say that? As if I’m fishing for compliments like some silly debutante.

A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” he said.

“But yes, I believe they need someone. Someone of your mettle.” He paused, then added with quiet sincerity, “And I find the term ‘spinster’ woefully inadequate for a woman who has accomplished more good in this dilapidated building than most do in a lifetime of garden parties.”

Heat rushed to Abigail’s cheeks. “You give me too much credit. There are many here who make Beacon house a success,” she said, moving past him to mount the final leg of stairs to the upper dormitories.

He followed and didn’t press the subject.

She considered two little girls who had lost their parents.

Her heart squeezed for them. They’d been left adrift for over a year.

A part of her wanted to chastise the man behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

One could not be held accountable for something that was beyond their abilities.

But maybe I can help him learn how to be something to those girls.

She snuffed out the thought. She was getting ahead of herself. She still hadn’t accepted his offer.

A door opened further down the hallway and a small, too skinny boy stepped out.

He smiled at Abigail, but his gaze slid past her and landed on the doctor just behind her.

Timothy marched toward them and planted himself directly in Graham’s path, and crossed his arms with all the authority a nine-year-old could muster.

“Timothy!” Abigail exclaimed, startled by his sudden appearance. “You should be resting.”

The boy ignored her, fixing Graham with a stern gaze. “Did you talk to Miss Abby?” he demanded.

“Timothy, that’s not an appropriate question,” Abigail chided with a sharp rap of her cane on the floor to emphasize her objection.

Heaven help me. What has gotten into these children?

Graham, to her surprise, inclined his head with grave respect. “Master Timothy has held me to account, my lady,” he said to Abigail. Then, to addressed the young man who stood glaring at him, “I have indeed spoken with Miss Abby.”

Timothy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And? Are you going to marry her or not?”

“Timothy!” Abigail gasped.

The boy turned to her, his expression earnest. “Well, you should marry him, Miss Abby. He’s good with the little ones, even Georgie likes him, and he knows about medicines.

” He ticked off these qualifications on his fingers as if presenting irrefutable evidence.

“And you look at him when he’s not looking.

And he looks at you when you’re not looking. Mrs. Welling says that’s how you know.”

Abigail’s face flamed hot. “That is quite enough. These are private matters that do not require your assistance.”

Have I been staring like some moonstruck girl?

“But do you like him?” Timothy persisted, undeterred. “Because he likes you. He told me so when you were sick.”

Abigail raised a brow in the doctor’s direction. Graham’s ears had turned a remarkable shade of crimson.

“I believe I said I respected Miss Abigail greatly,” he corrected.

“Same thing,” Timothy declared with an impatient shake of his head.

“So, are you getting married or not?” Jenny asked, emerging from where she’d clearly been eavesdropping.

Abigail glanced at Graham, finding his gaze already on her. His eyes asked a question, patient and undemanding.

This is madness. Complete madness.

“Perhaps,” she said, speaking to the children but looking at Graham, “sooner than I thought.”