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The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and lingering.

Do they think I’ve abandoned them?

“Betty’s seen enough of life to know its cruelties,” their mother said gently. “But she’s also seen enough to know its kindnesses. Your work at Beacon House isn’t about giving them your world—it’s about helping them build their own.”

The tightness in Abigail’s throat eased a fraction. She glanced at Heather and Mary Ann, spinning with their baskets. The ache remained, but it was gentler now.She closed her eyes for a moment, holding on to the sound of their laughter.

The church bell began its solemn toll, each note reverberating through the stone walls and straight into her bones.

“That’s our cue,” Verity announced, bursting into the vestry. “Places, everyone!”

Abigail’s stomach plummeted. Beyond that door waited a hundred faces—half of whom wouldn’t have acknowledged her existence a month ago, the other half who still wouldn’t when the novelty wore off. Her stays felt too tight, the air too thin. She fought the urge to flee.

I can’t do this. I can’t walk out there and pretend I belong.

Bridget appeared at her elbow, voice low and fierce. “You’ve fought harder for this than anyone knows. Take the first step and the rest will follow.”

The words struck something deep and true. Abigail’s spine straightened, her chin lifted. The trembling in her hands stilled.

Beatrix marshaled the girls with military precision. “Remember, ladies—we glide, we don’t gallop. Petals are scattered gently, not hurled.”

The vestry door opened, revealing the chapel beyond—a sea of silk and feathers, sunlight dancing off jeweled brooches, the sweet scent of lilies heavy in the air. The string quartet’s gentle melody drifted over the congregation’s expectant hush.

Every eye would turn to her, every whisper would follow. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her breathing shallow. They’re all waiting for me to stumble—or to run.

“Come on!” Heather tugged at her elbow, jostling her bouquet. “We can’t be your nieces until you’re our aunt!”

Mary Ann, ever practical, added, “We practiced forever yesterday. Have you forgotten what to do? Just walk up to where Uncle Graham is.”

Despite everything—the watching eyes, the weight of expectation, the magnitude of the moment—Abigail laughed. These girls, with their flower baskets and fierce loyalty, had already claimed her as family. The rest was merely ceremony.

“Well then,” she said, smiling down at them, warmth flooding her chest, “we mustn’t keep Uncle Graham waiting.”

They stepped into the chapel together. The congregation rose with a rustle of fabric followed by an expectant hush.

The girls preceded her, scattering rose petals with varying degrees of enthusiasm—Mary Ann measured and precise, Heather flinging handfuls with abandon. Their giggles carried over the organ music, drawing indulgent smiles from the congregation.

She looked over their heads to the end of the isle.

Graham stood at the altar utterly still, watching only her.

No nervous fidgeting, no glances at the crowd—just that steady blue gaze that seemed to anchor her to the moment.

His dark coat fit him perfectly, his cravat was precisely tied, but it was the slight lift of his arm—barely perceptible—that made her heart skip.

An invitation. A promise. A place beside him.

“Verity almost called in the Bow Street Runners,” she murmured as she took his arm.

“Did you doubt me?” he whispered, glancing down her from the corner of his eye.

“Never.” The word came without hesitation, surprising her with its truth.

Together, they turned toward the vicar as he launched into the service.

He spoke of love and commitment, of choosing to bind two lives together.

The words washed over her like water, distant and dreamlike.

All her attention focused on the man beside her—the way his voice dropped low and clear when he spoke his vows, the way he looked at her not with theatrical passion but with something far more precious—absolute presence.

When he slipped the ring onto her finger, his hands were steady. Hers trembled, just slightly, and his thumb brushed across her knuckles—a wordless reassurance that sent warmth racing up her arm.

“By the power vested in me,” the vicar intoned, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A pause. The chapel held its breath. Abigail’s heart hammered against her ribs.

“Is this the kissing part?” Heather’s voice carried clearly through the silence, far too loud and perfectly timed.

“It better not last too long,” Mary Ann added with prim disapproval.

The congregation’s chuckles rippled through the sanctuary like wind through wheat. Laughter bubbled up in Abigail’s chest and Graham’s mouth tightened as he tried not to laugh.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Best to be efficient, then.”

The kiss was warm, brief, genuine—not a performance for the crowd but a seal between them, witnessed by God and gossips alike. His lips were soft, careful, reverent. When they parted, applause filled the chapel, but all Abigail could see was the quiet satisfaction in Graham’s eyes.

I’m a wife, a mother, and a duchess. Heaven help me.

As they turned to process back down the aisle, Heather and Mary Ann emptied their baskets with wild enthusiasm, petals flying in every direction. Several landed in Lady Ponsby’s towering feathers, but the woman was too busy dabbing at her eyes to notice.

Graham leaned in. “Is she overcome with emotion—or simply allergic to her own hat?”

Abigail fought to keep a straight face, tightening her grip on his arm.“This is a sacred occasion, Your Grace. We are not holligans.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Ms. Norwood.”

They walked together through the shower of rose petals and well-wishes, past faces both familiar and strange, toward the chapel doors and whatever waited beyond.

She didn’t feel like a duchess. She didn’t feel transformed or elevated or any of the things the gossip sheets would undoubtedly claim.

But she felt chosen. Claimed. Part of something larger than herself.

And that, for today, was more than enough.