Page 23

“ I simply cannot understand your aversion to doves,” Verity lamented, pacing the length of Reedley Manor’s parlor with a swatch of cream silk trailing from her fingers.

“They’re symbolic of love. My mother had them at her wedding, you know.

Always said they brought peace to the marriage, though heaven knows Papa was a terror. ”

“The mess they make is hardly peaceful,” Bridget countered dryly. She sat by the window, methodically sorting through a mountain of lace samples. “Unless you intend to employ an army of footmen with buckets, I suggest we limit the birds to the decorative paper variety.”

Abigail stifled a groan. Was it possible to drown in lace and good intentions? Because she was perilously close. For the better part of two hours, she’d been trapped with her sisters, mother, and of course, Verity, who had all taken to planning her wedding as if she were royalty.

Her lap overflowed with fabric swatches, her ears rang with debates about flowers versus ribbons, and her mind drifted miles away to Eyron Manor, where Graham’s nieces would soon arrive.

“What do you think, dear?” her mother asked, touching her arm gently. “Orange blossoms or roses for your bouquet?”

“Hmm? Oh—either is lovely,” Abigail replied, forcing her attention back to the room.

Marjory exchanged a knowing look with their mother. “You’re worrying again.”

Abigail sighed, setting aside a particularly aggressive shade of peach taffeta. “I can’t help it. Graham was so reluctant to bring them to London for the wedding. What if they resent me? What if they see me as an intruder?”

What if I remind them of everything they’ve lost? What if I can’t be enough for them—or for him?

“Nonsense,” Verity declared. “Children adore you. Just look at those ragamuffins at Beacon House.”

“Those ‘ragamuffins’ know me,” Abigail said. “Heather and Mary Ann are different. They’ve lost their parents, adopted by a man they don’t know, and now a strange woman is marrying into their family.”

Bridget set down her lace with deliberate precision. “Did Graham explain why he didn’t want them here?”

“He said it would be too overwhelming for them.” Abigail twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “But I insisted. If we’re to be a family, we must begin as one. I won’t have them feeling like afterthoughts.”

Her mother nodded approvingly. “You were right to insist. Children need constancy, especially after such loss.”

“And besides,” Marjory added with a mischievous smile, “if the good doctor—pardon me, His Grace—thinks he can hide his nieces away in the country, he’s sorely mistaken about the sort of woman he’s marrying.”

Abigail laughed despite herself. “I may have made that point rather forcefully.”

“I should hope so!” Verity exclaimed, draping a length of Brussels lace over Abigail’s shoulders like a veil. “Now, about the procession—I’ve been thinking. What if we released a dozen white doves just as you reach the altar? Or perhaps a fountain of champagne at the reception?”

“I thought we said no doves and a fountain of—” Abigail ran her hand over her face, gathering her composure. “Verity, we’re having a small ceremony.”

“I only want it to be perfect. You deserve it.” She smiled at Abigail.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But Graham would rather face a firing squad than a grand society affair.”

“Well, he’s not marrying himself, is he?” Verity huffed.

Bridget snorted. “Thank heaven for small mercies.”

“Ladies,” their mother interjected with quiet authority, “perhaps we might consider a compromise. Elegant but intimate.”

The room erupted once more into a flurry of competing suggestions. Abigail rose abruptly.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. “I need a moment of air.”

Before anyone could protest, she slipped from the parlor and made her way to the front entrance. The butler gave her a sympathetic nod as she stepped outside, drawing a deep breath of the crisp spring morning.

The street before Reedley Manor was quiet, dappled with sunlight filtering through new leaves. Abigail closed her eyes, savoring the momentary peace.

Just five minutes without lace, lilies, or lace-covered lilies.

The clatter of hooves and wheels broke the silence. She opened her eyes to see a familiar carriage turning into the drive, its polished black surface gleaming in the sun. Her heart quickened as it drew to a halt.

Graham emerged, his tall figure as precise and formal as ever in his dark coat. But something in his bearing made her pause—a rigidity beyond his usual military posture, a tightness around his eyes that spoke of strain.

“Good morning,” she called, descending the steps to meet him.

He looked up, startled, as if he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her. “Abigail.” He made a slight bow. “I didn’t expect to find you outside.”

“I escaped,” she confessed with a smile. “Verity is determined to include either doves or a champagne fountain in our wedding. Possibly both.”

She waited for the small quirk of his lips that had become familiar over the past days—that reluctant amusement he couldn’t quite suppress in her presence. It didn’t come.

“I see,” he said, his voice clipped. “Perhaps you might dissuade her. Haven’t we had spectacle enough?”

Abigail’s smile faltered. “Are you alright?”

The walls were up again. Lately, she’d caught glimpses of the man behind them—but today, all she saw was the fortress.

His expression shuttered completely. “Of course.” He checked his pocket watch. “The girls will be arriving at Eyron Manor within the hour. We should depart if we wish to be there to greet them.”

He offered his arm with formal correctness, but Abigail didn’t take it. Instead, she studied his face—the shadows beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the careful blankness of his expression.

“You’re not telling me something,” she said.

Pain—perhaps anger—flashed in his eyes before he mastered it. “There will be time for conversation later. For now, we’re expected elsewhere.”

Abigail hesitated, then nodded. Whatever troubled him, the middle of Reedley Manor’s drive was not the place to press. She took his arm, feeling the tension in him.

“Of course,” she said. “Let me just inform my family we’re leaving.”

They returned to the house. Graham’s posture grew impossibly stiffer as they approached the door.

“Perhaps I should wait here,” he suggested.

“Verity won’t hear of it,” Abigail replied, squeezing his arm gently. “They’ll want to wish you well. You may as well get it over with.”

The parlor fell silent as they entered, four pairs of eyes turning to regard them with varying degrees of interest. Verity recovered first, dropping her fabric swatches to rush forward.

“Your Grace! How perfectly timed. We were just discussing the merits of silver versus gold for the table settings.”

Graham inclined his head stiffly. “I’m certain whatever you choose will be appropriate.”

Verity blinked at his formal tone. Marjory and Bridget exchanged glances.

“We’ve come to say goodbye,” Abigail interjected smoothly. “Graham’s nieces are arriving at Eyron Manor shortly, and we must be there to greet them.”

“Give them our warmest welcome,”her mother said, rising to take Abigail’s hands.

“And bring them to tea tomorrow,” Bridget added. “Charlotte and Henry would love to meet their new cousins.”

Graham remained silent, his gaze fixed on some point above their heads.

“We’ll see,” Abigail said, acutely aware of his discomfort. “They may need time to settle in.”

After a flurry of kisses and promises to return soon, they finally escaped to the waiting carriage. Graham handed her in with perfect courtesy, then took the seat opposite rather than beside her.

The carriage lurched forward, and silence fell between them like a curtain. Abigail watched London slip past the window, the fashionable streets giving way to busier thoroughfares.

“Graham,” she said finally, when the silence became unbearable. “Whatever is troubling you, I would rather know it now than wonder.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, for the first time since his arrival. Something in his expression made her heart constrict.

“It’s nothing that need concern you,” he said, his voice gentler now but no less distant. “A minor legal matter regarding the estate. Nothing more.”

Abigail held her silence. Was this to be her future? Fighting shadows with no name and walls with no door.

Trust takes time.

She knew all too well that trust often started in silence—in simply staying.

She would give him the time he needed, but that did not stop her mind from racing with possibilities, each more dire than the last. By the time the carriage turned through the imposing iron gates, her nerves were strung tight as violin strings.

Eyron Manor rose before them, grand and austere against the spring sky. Three stories of pale stone with tall windows and a classical portico, it spoke of old wealth and older traditions. Formal gardens stretched on either side, beautiful but not welcoming.

“It’s beautiful,” Abigail said as the carriage drew to a halt.

Graham’s expression was unreadable. “It’s a house,” he replied, then seemed to catch himself. “But yes, I suppose it is considered handsome by most standards.”

He descended first, then handed her down with careful precision. A short line of servants waited on the steps, their expressions curious but carefully neutral.

“Welcome to Eyron Manor, Lady Abigail,” the butler intoned with a deep bow.

Graham cleared his throat. “Abigail, this is Wilkins. He oversees the household.” He gestured vaguely to the others. “And the staff.”

Wilkins’s eyebrows rose a fraction at this cursory introduction, but he maintained his composure. “We are delighted to welcome you, my lady. Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper, has prepared the blue suite for your inspection.”

“Thank you, Wilkins,” Abigail said warmly, trying to compensate for Graham’s brusqueness. “I look forward to becoming acquainted with everyone.”