Page 28

“ B lasted monks,” Elias muttered. “Did they really believe spiritual elevation required literal elevation?”

Graham kept his gaze fixed on the Thames below, the river a dull silver ribbon under the morning mist. His mind circled back to Abigail’s face in the moonlight. The admiral’s boots scraped against the ancient stone as he climbed the last few steps, breathing hard.

Graham tightened his hold on the weathered stone parapet as his friend caught his breath. “Perhaps they simply wished to discourage visitors, A pity the strategy failed.”

Elias scoffed as he set his hands on hips, taking in the view.

The gothic arches of St. Dunstan-in-the-East that stretched around them like skeletal fingers reaching for heaven.

Below, the river moved sluggishly, and the distant sounds of London stirring—cart wheels, church bells, vendors calling their wares—drifted upward like smoke.

“If you were any harder to find, I’d have assumed you’d bolted for the Continent.”

Graham inhaled the damp air. The weight of the day hadn’t simply settled on him. It had dug in, clamping around his chest like a fist that would not let go. In less than an hour, he would be a husband and Abigail would be bound to him–to his name, his failures, his darkness.

He’d meant what he’d said to her last night when her fingers wrapped around his like they belonged there. And the thing that terrified him wasn’t the marriage—it was that he’d begun to want it. Want her. The girls. The chaos of it all.

He’d begun to hope.

And hope, he knew too well, was where the fall always began.

It’s too late to turn back.

“I needed air,” he said finally.

“Air’s all well and good, but your bride’s household is in full uproar. The Countess is convinced you’ve fled to Scotland. Poor woman is in a state.” Elias moved to stand beside him, scanning Graham’s face with a penetrating gaze.

He picked at the moss covering the stone beneath his hand. “And Abigail?”

“Steady as a ship in calm waters.” Elias said, adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate casualness. “Still planning to appear at the altar, then?”

Graham’s mouth quirked despite himself. Last night in the garden, Abigail’s hand in his, the moonlight catching in her hair—that moment had burned away his doubts like morning fog before the sun.

“This is one engagement I fully intend to keep.”

“Thank Christ for that. Because if I had to tell the Countess I couldn’t find you, I’d have thrown myself off London Bridge.” Elias clapped him on the shoulder. “Come along. At least it’s downhill from here–well, at least this part is.”

Graham fell into step beside him. Abigail was waiting.

He stepped up into the carriage and settled next to Elias as it lurched into motion.

His solicitor, Mr. Nedley, sat across from him.

His case perched precariously on his knees, the only spot not swallowed by his considerable girth.

Nedley shuffled papers and wheezed as they rumbled through the streets.

“I’ve brought the finalized marriage contract for your review, Your Grace,” he said, handing a set of documents to Graham.

Graham scanned the familiar terms. “I see you added the provision,” he said, reviewing the addendum and Abigail’s neat signature at the bottom.

The solicitor shifted, causing the carriage to sway. “For the young ladies, yes. A separate trust to be administered in their names, independent of the estate.”

“She insisted the girls have something wholly theirs, something no one could take from them,” Graham said, remembering their conversation.

“Well, given her family’s history, that’s hardly surprising,” the admiral said.

“A prudent addition,” Mr. Nedley agreed. “And one more item—the court has calendared Lord Hollan’s petition for next Thursday.”

Graham’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Elias waved a dismissive hand.

“Unless Hollan plans to object from the choir loft today, it can bloody well wait.”

The carriage rounded a corner, and St. George’s came into view—honey-colored stone and elegant spires, carriages already gathering despite the early hour.

Graham’s pulse quickened as he adjusted his cuffs—the same ones Abigail had straightened with gentle hands when he’d called at Reedley Manor two days prior.

Her fingers had lingered, warm against his wrist. He’d wanted nothing more than to turn his hand and capture hers, but he hadn’t dared.

Elias straightened his coat and hat as the carriage slowed. “Still time to run,” he said with a wink.

Graham met his gaze steadily. “Not a chance.”

“He’s here. Finally.” Verity swept into the vestry with the dramatic flair of an actress taking center stage, her emerald silk rustling like autumn leaves.

Abigail’s reflection stared back from the looking glass—composed, serene, a perfect bride. The image felt like a lie. Her hands were damp with sweat and her stomach pitched like she’d swallowed a dozen eels.

“Of course he is,” she said, smoothing her skirts—again.

If nerves could starch fabric, she’d be wearing a suit of armor.

“Of course?” Verity’s eyebrows climbed toward her elaborate coiffure.

“The man disappeared for two hours this morning. The poor admiral had to hunt him down like a wayward hound.” She gestured toward the chapel beyond the vestry door.

“All of London’s crammed into that sanctuary, and if Lady Ponsby’s ridiculous hat obscures the string quartet, I shall have words. ”

Marjory rolled her eyes from her perch by the window. “Breathe, Verity. The world will not end if a few flowers are displaced.”

“Easy for you to say,” Verity huffed, adjusting Abigail’s veil with unnecessary vigor. “You haven’t spent every waking hour for the last three weeks making sure every detail is correct.”

The tugging at her veil sent pinpricks across Abigail’s scalp. She gritted her teeth against the urge to bat Verity’s hands away.

We should have eloped to Scotland. Just a drafty kirk, witnessed only by sheep and a disapproving Presbyterian minister.

“You’ve done a masterful job, Verity.” Their mother’s voice carried the gentle authority that had settled countless household disputes. She moved to Abigail’s side, her touch warm and steadying on her daughter’s shoulder. “But, perhaps we might focus on the bride rather than the spectacle.”

Verity’s looked away and ceased her fussing. “Of course. Forgive me—I simply want everything to be perfect for you.”

“And it is perfect,” Abigail said, catching Verity’s gaze in the mirror. “Truly. I cannot imagine how you managed to orchestrate all of this. I’m deeply grateful.”

Verity preened at the praise but her expression quickly clouded with worry.

“I can’t trust Mr. Greeves to remember the seating arrangement—he’s likely to seat the French attaché beside Cousin Winifred and start a diplomatic incident.

” Her eyes—bright, calculating—flickered over Abigail’s reflection.

“Don’t move a hairpin until I get back.” She swept from the vestry, leaving a faint wake of perfume and purpose.

“You look radiant, my dear.” Her mother adjusted the pearl necklace at Abigail’s throat.

The pearls were cool against her skin, a reminder of all the women who had worn them before—generations of wives and mothers who had stood where she stood now, hearts racing, futures uncertain.

They survived and so will I.

The vestry door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“We’re ready!” Heather announced, bouncing on her toes. “Can we spin down the isle? My skirt goes all the way out when I turn—look!”

She executed an enthusiastic twirl, the hem of her dress flying.

Mary Ann caught her sister’s arm. “If you try that, Miss Norwood will give you the look.” She narrowed her eyes and drew her small mouth down in a furious frown.

“I most certainly do not look like that. It’s like this,” The governess said as she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

The girls dissolved in peals of laughter until the governess called them to order.

“Come now, ladies. We are not hooligans. We are participants in a sacred ceremony.” She caught Abigail’s eye and offered a conspiratorial smile.

The knot in Abigail’s chest loosened at the sound of their laughter—bright, unguarded, utterly unconcerned with the weight of ceremony. Some of the morning’s tension dissolved.

“You’ve done beautifully with them,” Abigail said.

“I’m merely along for the adventure,” Ms. Norwood corrected with her characteristic simple smile and shrug.“Let us stand over here before one of you leaves footprints on the train.”

The girls joined their governess in the corner, careful to avoid the flowing ivory silk. Heather examined the baskets of rose petals, ensuring they were each exactly the same, while Mary Ann practiced her processional walk with measured steps under Ms. Norwood’s watchful gaze.

Longing, sharp and sudden, bloomed in Abigail’s chest. She glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see more children tumbling through—Timothy with his gap-toothed grin, Jenny clutching her rag doll, little Georgie with jam on his fingers.

The absence struck her like a missing chord in a familiar song.

Marjory caught the look and leaned closer. “They wish you the very best.”

“I wanted them here.” The admission scraped against her throat. She fingered the simple ribbon bracelet Jenny had made for her, its rough weave a stark contrast to the silk and pearls adorning her.

Bridget, who had been quietly arranging the train of Abigail’s dress, straightened. “You did the right thing.”

“Did I?” The doubt that had been gnawing at her all morning finally found voice.

“Mrs. Welling said it was practical—no sense dealing with a dozen stomachaches from too much cake. But Betty...” She paused and fiddled with her gloves, remembering the older woman’s words.

“She said it would be unkind to bring them into a world they could never truly enter, to show them something forever beyond their reach.”