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“ T hat means yes,” Timothy announced to Jenny with authority, and shook his head in disgust. “Grown-ups never say what they mean.”

“Can I come?” Jenny asked, bouncing on her toes. “I want to wear flowers in my hair.”

“I want to come,” Thomas called from somewhere down the hall, apparently having joined the growing audience, who all added to the chorus of demands to attend a wedding that hadn’t even been fully settled on.

Mrs. Welling appeared from the nursery and set her hands on her hips. “That’s quite enough matchmaking for one day,” she declared, shooing the children away. “Back to your studies, you little mischief-makers.”

As Mrs. Welling herded the children away, the hallway felt too small, too quiet. “Please excuse me. I need some air,” Abigail murmured.

Dear God, what am I doing?

She fled back down the stairs, hobbling as fast as she dared. She didn’t stop until she burst out of the kitchen door and took several deep breaths of the early evening air.

The small courtyard was Marjory’s pride and joy. It housed herb and vegetable gardens that would flourish in the coming weeks. The freshly turned earth and early sprouts held all the promises of spring. Abigail sat on a stone bench and closed her eyes, willing her heart to settle.

I’m actually considering this. No—I’ve already decided, haven’t I?

She was going to marry Graham Redchester–doctor, duke, soldier, and something more that she’d only caught glimpses of. She wasn’t surprised when she heard footsteps approaching, nor when Graham settled beside her on the bench, careful to leave space between them.

“Did you mean it?” he asked after a moment.

Abigail opened her eyes, watching a robin hop along the garden wall. “I will, as long as you promise to always deal with me in truth and honesty.”

He didn’t hesitate. “That is a promise I can make.”

She nodded. “I know. You see me—not Lady Abigail Finch, not the Earl’s disgraced cousin, not a charitable spinster—just me.”

A small smile touched his lips. “I do see you.”

“Then understand this,” she said, reaching for his hand. “It is Graham I am agreeing to marry—not titles, not rescue, not duty. Just you, with all your nightmares and awkwardness and unexpected gentleness.”

I want the man who catches me when I fall, who plays peekaboo with orphans, who hangs laundry in the twilight.

He stiffened at the mention of his nightmares, but then closed his fingers around hers. “You see me too and you know I am not a fairy-tale prince. I shall try every day to live up to the promise I make you here and now.”

The simple vow, spoken without flourish or grand declaration, moved her more than any poetry could have. This was the truth of him—direct, honest, unflinching.

Abigail looked down at their joined hands, then reached with her free hand to pluck a small, white blossom from the apple tree above them. She offered it to him, a token as fragile and promising as their understanding.

“For new beginnings.”

Graham took it with reverence and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“New beginnings,” he echoed, his voice rough with emotion.

Somewhere behind them, Thomas’s voice rang out, “Go on then, Doctor—give her a proper kiss!”

“Mind your manners, you little guttersnipe, or I’ll have you scrubbing chamber pots till you’re courting age!” Mrs. Welling’s exasperated roar scattered the little group of heads poking out the kitchen door. “And as for the rest of you—back to your lessons before I lose what’s left of my patience!”

Graham smiled—a real, lopsided smile—and made no move to close the distance.

Abigail didn’t mind. For now, a flower was enough.

Perhaps we’re both a little broken, but maybe our jagged edges might fit together after all.

They sat together in companionable silence as the breeze rustled through the budding branches above them. Abigail’s mind already racing ahead to the practicalities.

“Oh Lord,” she murmured, sudden anxiety creeping in. “We’ll have to plan a wedding.”

Graham’s soft chuckle surprised her. “I believe that’s traditionally the bride’s domain, but I am at your disposal.”

“You say that now,” she warned, “but wait until my mother and sisters discover there’s a wedding to arrange. And don’t think you’ll be able to escape the Countess. She’s unstoppable.”

“I’ve faced French artillery,” Graham said dryly. “I believe I can manage a few enthusiastic wedding planners.”

Poor man. He has no idea.

Abigail laughed and said, “That, Your Grace, remains to be seen.”

“Your usual corner, Your Grace?” Phillips asked, taking Graham’s hat and gloves with a deferential bow.

A familiar twinge crawled up Graham’s spine. “None of that title nonsense. We’ve discussed this. And yes, the usual table.”

As if refusing to use the title me any less a duke.

“Very good, Dr. Redchester,” he said with a slightly aggrieved look, as though forced to blaspheme in Latin at High Mass. “Cook has prepared a particularly fine batch of kidneys and eggs this morning.”

“Toast and coffee,” Graham replied and added after a beat,“Thank you, Phillips.”

The steward bowed and hurried off to the kitchen while Graham made his way to his usual secluded alcove near the window.

Several gentlemen glanced up from their newspapers, their gazes lingering a moment too long before returning to their reading.

Each whisper that followed burned against his skin like a brand.

The vultures are circling.

Graham settled into his chair with military precision and arranged his table. The crystal vase with its early spring daisy scooted three inches to the left. Perfect. He smoothed the napkin before arranging the silverware.

The ritual calmed his racing pulse, though not as thoroughly as it once had.

In the three days since he’d proposed to Abigail in that small courtyard, relentless social engagements, fittings, and consultations had swallowed his days.

He’d abandoned Abigail to the storm with the blessed excuse of making house calls that day.

She’d been right. He was not equal to the task of enduring a wedding with the women of her family.

Phillips brought his coffee, steam curling invitingly from the cup. Graham added milk and stirred once, twice. The spoon settled precisely parallel to the saucer.

All was quiet. Just the rustle of newspapers, the clink of silverware against fine china, and the faint murmur of gentlemanly conversation.

“Redchester!” Elias’ booming voice shattered the peace. The admiral strode across the breakfast room. “At least you’re easy to find, man. Always skulking in the same old corner.”

“I’m not skulking. I’m having breakfast.”

“While all of London gossips about you.” Elias dropped into the chair opposite without waiting for an invitation. “You, my friend, are the talk of the town.”

Graham’s fingers twitched as he straightened the silverware that had been jostled by Elias’s appearance. “How unfortunate for me.”

Elias signaled for coffee with a flick of his fingers. “You should be flattered. I haven’t seen society this excited about a wedding since Princess Charlotte’s. Half the ton squeezed into St. George’s yesterday just to hear your name called from the pulpit.”

“A vulgar display of curiosity,” Graham muttered, grateful he had skipped the reading of the banns.

Elias accepted a cup from Phillips with a nod of thanks. “But what did you expect? The mysterious Duke of Eyron appears from out of nowhere to rescue a lady in distress, only to sweep her off to the altar? It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Graham’s jaw tightened. “Abigail deserves better than to be the subject of idle gossip.”

“Ah, but that’s the price of marrying a duke, my friend.

” Elias stirred an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee, sloshing it over the edge.

Graham handed him his napkin, but the admiral waved it away.

“The gossip columns are having a field day. ‘From Alleyway to Altar’—that was my personal favorite headline.”

“I fail to see the humor in it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Elias’s expression softened slightly. “How is the lady bearing up under the scrutiny?”

Graham’s chest tightened at the thought of Abigail—her quiet poise as she faced down the whispers, her gentle smile when she caught his eye across a crowded room.

“She is remarkable,” he said simply.

“Indeed, she must be, to have captured the impenetrable heart of Graham Redchester.”

Graham stilled. “We have an arrangement. Nothing more.”

Elias’ eyes danced, and he grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, old boy.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded periodical. “Have you seen this morning’s Tatler?”

The paper in Elias’s hand might as well have been a snake. “I make it a point to avoid such publications.”

“You might want to make an exception for this one.” Elias slapped the paper onto the table with a flourish.

The caricature leapt from the page: Abigail in nurse’s garb, haloed like a saint, holding a long, trumpet-shaped stethoscope to the heart of a surly, brutish figure clearly meant to be Graham.

Military dress, with a scroll labeled “DUKE” hanging from his pocket.

The caption beneath read: “The Duke’s Remedy: One Scandal to Cure Another! ”

Ice crystallized in Graham’s veins. His cup settled on the saucer, turning the handle to precisely three o’clock.

“Charming,” he said.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Elias continued, oblivious to the frost in Graham’s tone. “The Morning Chronicle suggests your bride-to-be has ‘tamed the battlefield beast with her charitable heart.’ The Times offered ‘Is the Good Doctor’s prescription for scandal a dose of matrimony?’”

“That’s quite enough,” Graham said.

Elias glanced up, finally registering the tightness around Graham’s eyes. “Come now, it’s all in good fun. Better this than painting your bride with the scandal brush while whispering about you behind closed doors.”

“I don’t give a damn about myself,” Graham replied. “But Abigail has endured enough public scrutiny to last a lifetime.”