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Abigail inhaled against the sudden tightness in her chest. Betty had known her since the beginning, had watched her fumble and learn and grow. Her approval meant more than all of society’s acceptance combined.

“Thank you, Betty,” she managed, blinking rapidly against the unexpected sting of tears. “That’s very kind.”

A knock at the door saved her from further emotion. Mrs. Welling stood in the doorway, her expression uncertain.

“Lady Abigail,” she said, “someone here to see you.”Before she finished speaking, a small figure darted past Mrs. Welling and launched itself across the room.

“Miss Abigail!” Heather cried, flinging herself into Abigail’s lap with such force that the chair rocked precariously. “Uncle Graham said we could come find you, and Mary Ann said we should wait in the carriage, but I saw you through the window and?—”

“Heather,” came Mary Ann’s reproachful voice from the doorway. She stood beside Mrs. Welling, her posture perfect and her lips pressed together in prim disapproval. “You promised to behave.”

Abigail laughed, steadying herself and the armful of exuberant child. “It’s quite all right,” she assured Mary Ann and set Heather back on her feet. “I’m always happy to see you both, but your sister is right. We should always conduct ourselves with decorum.”

Mary Ann smiled with smug superiority and came further into the room while Heather, unbothered by the correction, surveyed her surroundings with undisguised curiosity. “Is this where you work? It’s not as fancy as Uncle Graham’s study.”

“Heather,” Mary Ann hissed.

“It’s not meant to be fancy,” Abigail explained, rising from her chair. “It’s meant to be useful. These ladies are learning to keep accounts, so they can find better positions when they leave Beacon House.”

Heather considered this, head tilted. “Like how Miss Norwood makes us practice our sums at our desks?”

“Exactly like that,” Abigail agreed.

“Uncle Graham is waiting in the carriage,” Mary Ann said, her small face serious. “He said to tell you he’s come to take you to get your dress.”

The final fitting. Of course. In the comfort of Beacon House, Abigail had nearly forgotten the day’s schedule—a whirlwind of appointments culminating in a family supper at Wildmere.

“I see,” Abigail said, gathering her things. “Ladies, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our lesson another day.”

“Go on, then,” Betty said with a shooing motion. “Don’t keep your duke waiting.”

“He’s not my duke,” Abigail murmured, but the words lacked conviction.

As she followed the girls toward the front door, Heather’s small hand slipped into hers, sticky with what Abigail suspected was purloined jam, but the simple gesture of trust warmed her heart.

Perhaps this was the true gift of tomorrow’s ceremony—not a title or a fortune, but these two girls who needed her, and a man who, despite his walls and wounds, had chosen her to help heal his broken family.

For that I’d face a hundred gossip columns. For that, I’d become a duchess.

Abigail tossed and turned, fighting with the coverlet. Hours spent in the quiet dark of Reedley Manor, counting out the soft ticks of the clock, listening as the house settled, she still could find no peace. She slipped from her bed, leaving a note on her pillow.

Don’t worry, I’m coming back.

By the time the hired carriage reached Bermondsey, the fog had settled in. She let herself into Beacon House with the spare key, careful not to wake Mrs. Welling.

The dormitory’s hush wrapped gently around her as she moved among the narrow beds, her candle sending warm gold across the sleeping faces.

Timothy—blanket thrown off, limbs splayed—left his thin shoulders bare to the chill.

She tucked the covers snug, before smoothing the unruly hair from Jenny’s brow, careful not to disturb the rag doll clutched tight.

The family dinner at Wildmere echoed in her bones—Bridget’s little ones shrieking through the halls, the twins tumbling after; Verity’s voice cresting above it all with wedding schemes; Elias Birkins weaving tales of shipwreck and cannon fire; Graham with that rare, almost-smile—quick as a secret—lighting his face.

Her mother had squeezed her hand beneath the table and whispered, “ Are you happy?”

Abigail hadn’t known how to answer.

She left the sleeping children and wandered out to the garden. Moonlight silvered the neat rows of seedlings—tender shoots of lettuce, fragile pea tendrils climbing their stakes. The herbs released their scent as her skirts brushed against them.

Was this happiness? This ache behind her ribs, the constant state of restless longing? The question tugged at her, persistent as her own shadow.

The creak of the gate cut through the hush. Heart in her throat, she turned. Graham filled the opening, tall and silent, his hair mussed as if sleep had eluded him too. No hat, no physician’s cool detachment—just the man.

“Abigail.” Her name, low and unhurried, landed like a caress. He didn’t sound surprised to find her there.

“Graham.” She shifted on the bench to make room for him.

He hesitated, then closed the gate behind him and crossed to join her. “I couldn’t sleep and this place wouldn’t leave my thoughts.” He exhaled a long breath. “I always breathe easier here.”

She nodded, understanding.

Silence spun between them—expectant, alive. Moonlight slipped through the leaves of the apple tree overhead, casting shadows on her skirts. She traced the pattern with the tip of her finger.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

His hands tensed on his knees. “The girls were excited. They insisted on showing me their dresses three times before bed. Heather wanted to sleep in hers.”

Abigail smiled, envisioning the scene. “And Mary Ann objected to the impropriety?”

“Vehemently.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “She informed her sister that wedding clothes are sacred and not to be treated as nightgowns.”

Another silence, this one warmer.

“That’s not why you couldn’t sleep.” She waited, wondering if he’d share this small thing with her.

“No,” he admitted. “It wasn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I was thinking about... tomorrow. About you, actually.” His ears reddened visibly, even in the moonlight. “I kept wondering if you’d still appear at the church or if perhaps you’d come to your senses.”

Abigail lifted a brow, not really offended. However, she did not come to his rescue.

His hands curled into fists, and he shifted his weight. “I didn’t mean to imply this is anything like your previous situation.” He stopped, and a muscle worked in his jaw before he tried again. “That is to say—are you sure you want to do this?”

Laughter sparked, sudden and irrepressible, spilling out until her shoulders shook and tears pricked her eyes. The night air tasted sweet with it.

“Oh,” she breathed, brushing away tears. “You are truly impossible.”

He looked so stricken that her heart twisted. She reached for his hand, fingers closing around the roughness of his knuckles.

“Running from the Duke of Wilds was the best decision I ever made. I wouldn’t change it, even with all the scandal and shame.”

The words left her lighter.

He laced his fingers through hers. For a long moment, he just looked at their joined hands in the dappled moonlight before whispering, “You’re not afraid?”

His words, stripped to the bone, revealed something desperate that made her want to take him in her arms.

“Of becoming a duchess? Terrified.” The confession slipped out, honest as the night. “But of marrying you? No.”

Graham raised his gaze to hers. “You were right when I said I was proposing out of duty.”

Her breath caught and her heart gave an unpleasant jolt. “And now?” she asked through a suddenly tight throat.

He skimmed his thumb across her cheek. “Now I think perhaps it was always meant to be this way. You and I. The girls. This life we’re building.”

His touch sent a surge of heady excitement racing through her. A deepening desire she’d never known dawned, and she leaned into it. She tightened her grip on his hand.

“It’s not exactly a fairy tale, is it?”

“No.” His gaze, dark and earnest, slid over her. “Something better. Something real.”

She swallowed against the galloping of her heart. This was the man–the awkward, wounded, steadfast man–who caught her when she fell, hung laundry beside her, and tried so hard to be what they needed.

How can a heart be so full and so fragile in the same moment?

“We should go,” he said, pulling slowly away from her. There was a rough hint of regret hanging around the words as he stood. “It would be a poor show for us both to oversleep after everyone has been anticipating the spectacle.”

She rose, grateful for the night air that cooled her cheeks. “Heaven forbid we disappoint the gossip columns,” she said. “I believe they’ve predicted swans and cherubs.”

He laughed and offered his arm. “Shall I escort you home?” His manner had slid back to his ever stiff formality, but warmth and promise lingered in his eyes.

“Yes,” she replied, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Though I believe after tomorrow, home will be wherever you and the girls are.”

Let them write what they will. Tomorrow, I walk toward the life I have chosen.