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“ M y feet hurt,” Mary Ann announced, wiggling her toes after removing her slippers. “But it was the most beautiful wedding in all of England.”

“In all the world,” Heather mumbled into her pillow as she collapsed face-first on her bed, flower crown still askew atop her tangled hair.

Graham lingered in the doorway, pressing his shoulder against the frame. The corner bit into his skin through his shirt, but he leaned into it, grounding himself in the discomfort. Abigail moved with practiced assurance between the beds and all he could do was watch with fascination.

The ceremony had been the easy part. Standing before God and witnesses, claiming Abigail as his own—that had required no performance, no false smiles. Her gaze had held his, steady and true. In that moment, he’d known with bone-deep certainty that he wanted her as his wife.

She’s like sunlight in a darkened corner.

With a word here, a touch there, she coaxed the girls beneath their covers. He envied the quiet confidence in her gestures. He dared not go in any further and risk shattering the delicate order she had created.

“Uncle Graham, did you see me dance with the Admiral? He let me stand on his boots,” Heather said, stretching her arms upward and wiggling under her blankets in time to music only she could hear.

“He’ll have bruises on his toes tomorrow,” Graham said, immediately regretting the words. He looked to Abigail, hoping she might rescue the moment.

Abigail only smiled. “You danced beautifully,” she said, correcting his effort with gentle ease.

“Uncle Graham?” Mary Ann peered anxiously over her coverlet, voice small. “Are you happy now that you’re married?”

He drew a measured breath, feeling raw and terribly conspicuous. Happy. A word that belonged to songs and stories. Still, there was earnest hope in his niece’s gaze and Abigail’s soft attention felt like a question pulsing in the hush.

“Yes,” he managed after a faltering pause, the truth unexpected on his lips—unexpected, yet not untrue.

“Good,” Mary Ann said as she curled into a ball apparently satisfied.

The noise of the day still buzzed in his ears—the clinking of glasses, the scrape of chairs, the constant hum of conversation he couldn’t escape. Each moment had required a response, a smile, a nod. Like a slow bleed, draining him drip by drip.

But this moment was important.He pried himself out of the door frame and moved to the foot of their beds, straightening the edge of Heather’s coverlet so it was even on both sides. Her incessant movement pulled it immediately back out of place. He resisted the urge to fix again.

Abigail looked up, catching his action. She smiled in encouragement.

She shouldn’t have to shepherd me through something so simple.

“You looked frightened during the kissing part,” Heather said, twirling the ribbons of her flower crown around her fingers.

“I did not look frightened,” Graham replied, his words coming out too sharply. The accusation stung absurdly, and he had the ludicrous urge to defend himself to a seven-year-old as if she were a member of Parliament.

“Yes, you did,” Heather insisted, unperturbed. “Let’s have another wedding tomorrow and you can try again,” she offered magnanimously.

“One wedding is entirely sufficient,” he replied, tension snapping in his tone.

Abigail looked up sharply. He caught himself, colored faintly, and retreated a step, adjusting a wayward lamp wick as though it mattered.

The side door clicked open and Ms. Norwood swept in from her adjoining chamber. “Time for sleep,” she declared.

“But we’re not tired,” Mary Ann mumbled, words slurring together.

“Of course not,” Ms. Norwood agreed solemnly, taking the flower crown from Heather and setting it on the bedside table. “That’s why you were practically falling asleep in your soup earlier.”

“It was pudding,” Mary Ann corrected, sleepily slurring her words.

“Even worse. Waste of perfectly good syllabub,” Graham said and they all stopped to look at him.

The girls giggled.“Uncle Graham, you didn’t even try yours,” Heather said.

“Miss Norwood is right,” Abigail interjected, coming to his aid. “Rest now.”

Mary Ann caught Abigail’s hand before she could move away. “You’ll come for breakfast? Even now you live here?”

The question, weighted with the fear Graham recognized too well—that people left, that happiness was temporary, that safety could vanish without warning—hung there.

“Every morning,” Abigail promised. “Being married simply means I live here now. Nothing else changes.”

Everything changes. He kept the words locked behind his teeth with an effort.

Ms. Norwood extinguished all but one lamp, leaving the room bathed in gentle darkness. “Sleep well, ladies. And no midnight expeditions to find Uncle Graham if you imagine strange noises. Married people sometimes discuss important matters late into the evening and should not be disturbed.”

Heat crawled up Graham’s neck. The woman possessed an alarming talent for innuendo disguised as propriety.

“We won’t bother you,” Mary Ann promised solemnly. “Even if there’s thunder.”

“Even if Mary Ann has a nightmare,” Heather added.

Graham tugged at his cravat and nodded. He crossed to the beds, movements stiff, and patted each of the girls awkwardly on their heads. “Good night, girls.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, strained by the day’s accumulated tension.

“Rest well,” Abigail murmured as they slipped into the hall.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Graham and Abigail alone in the dimly lit corridor. Shadows pooled between the portrait frames, and the house settled around them with the particular quiet that came after celebration—expectant, waiting.

“Ms. Norwood is very forward for a Quaker,” Abigail said, turning to face him.

He smiled, relieved she stepped into the quiet. “She is a rare find and the girls adore her.”

She took a step closer to him. “The girls adore you, as well.”

Graham stilled. The pearls at her throat caught the lamplight. Her lavender and rose water perfume softened the air between them. Her hand lifted, hesitating, then brushed his lapel, smooth and gentle.

“I hope to be worthy of them—and of you.” The words were stiff and formal and he bowed slightly, using the movement to put some space between them.

Abigail dropped her hand and the silence descended like a shroud. After a long, heavy moment, she cleared her throat and took a step down the hallway to where their chambers awaited. “Shall we?” she asked, uncertainty threading the invitation.

He stood rooted to the spot, every muscle coiled so tightly he thought he might splinter. He could not look away from her—his wife. His. The reality crashed over him. She was still here, offering everything, believing in a future he was not certain he could give.

When he made no move to follow her, Abigail reached out and took his hand. “We said vows today. I meant mine.” Her gaze held his, steady and sure.

He had said the words, intending to honor them. But the wanting was a living thing in him—hunger edged with dread, longing scraping raw against bone-deep fear. Each inch between them felt perilous. Her hand in his was the gentlest promise, the warmest home—and he was terrified to step inside.

He stepped back, untangling his hand from hers. His back met the wall. Distance. Distance meant safety—for her, if not for him.

Abigail’s brow knit. “Graham, what’s wrong?”

Oh God. His throat closed. He wanted her—wanted to press his mouth to hers, to map the delicate arch of her neck with his hands and lips, to anchor himself in her warmth. He ached for it.

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth.

Her hand fell away, confusion flickering across her features. “Excuse yourself?”

“There’s been a message from St. Bartholomew’s.” The lie came easily. “A patient requires my attention.”

“It’s our wedding night.”

The words hung between them like an accusation. Graham reached for his coat from the nearby chair where he’d left it hours ago, his movements deliberate and controlled.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, heart pounding like artillery beneath his ribs. “You’ll find that being a physician’s wife often requires certain sacrifices.” He loathed the brittle edge in his voice.

Hurt gathered in her eyes like stormclouds. “You promised this wouldn’t be a marriage of convenience,” she said quietly. “You promised you would try.”

The accusation hit its mark. Graham’s jaw tightened, his fingers working against the urge to reach for her. “I remember my promises. And I am trying.”

“Are you?” The question was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of all her hopes, all her trust. “Because it feels very much like you’re running away.”

Yes. Because if I stay, if I touch you the way I want to touch you, there will be nothing left but broken pieces.

“I would not impose upon you in such a manner,” he said instead, the formal words creating another barrier between them. “Not tonight.”

Flashes of memories, dangerous and dark, flitted through his mind as they always did when the stressors of life, of things he couldn’t control eroded his control. He forced them away, but they stuck like barbs of shrapnel, digging in and demanding his attention.

“I see,” she said. “Then you must go.”

He avoided her gaze as he slipped his coat on. But she didn’t see. She couldn’t. If she knew what moved in him during the dark hours, what he dreamed of when his control slipped. “These cases can take many hours to sort through. I do not know when I will be back.”

She nodded and put a hand on his arm to stop him before he turned away. “Don’t forget, I chose this, Graham. I chose you,” she said, soothing and quietly fierce.

For a heartbeat, the urge to reach for her was overwhelming. He wanted to touch her with reverence, to lay his terrors at her feet—but the moment he let himself want, the darkness nipped at his heels.He had to get away from her.

He paused at the landing, unable to look back, unable to do anything but run. “Sleep well, Abigail.”

Her answer followed him, unwavering. “I’ll be here when you come home.”

Outside, the night air bit at his face. No carriage waited—he hadn’t actually summoned one. The lie did not extend to the details.

Graham stood on the steps of his own home, staring out at the darkened street. Behind him lay warmth, connection, the beginning of something he’d never dared to want. Before him, only the familiar emptiness of night.

He could turn back. Climb the stairs. Open her door. Take the life she was offering. Try, as he’d promised, to be the man she believed in.

Instead, he descended the remaining steps and set off toward St. Bartholomew’s. The hospital would welcome him, as it always did. Blood and bone asked no questions, demanded no vulnerability.

The streets of London swallowed him, indifferent to the war raging within.