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Abigail turned to find a woman in an elaborate hat bristling with ribbons and glass grapes regarding her with undisguised curiosity. The face was vaguely familiar—perhaps from a society event, or one of the many introductions at the wedding.

“Lady Hanshaw,” the woman supplied, tilting her chin at a precise angle. “We met at the Duchess of Wildmere’s musical evening last season.”

“Of course,” Abigail replied, though no recollection surfaced. She inclined her head slightly, knowing that as a duchess, even a newly minted one, she need not offer more.

Lady Hanshaw’s gaze flicked over Abigail’s walking dress with the swift assessment of a battlefield tactician. “Such a whirlwind courtship. And with a husband more familiar with sickbeds than salons—one wonders how he’s adjusting.”

As if healing the sick was less respectable than managing investments. Abigail kept her tone light.“My husband’s occupation aids many in need.”

“Yes, you are both so charitably minded.” Lady Hanshaw’s smile grew sharper.

Her grip tightened on the leather volumes. “Not everyone measure worthy by time spent in drawing rooms.”

Lady Hanshaw’s nostrils flared slightly. “How refreshingly unconventional.”

“One never knows when an original thought might prove useful.” Abigail smiled with cool precision, but before Lady Hanshaw could respond, Heather appeared at her side, clutching a slim volume.

“Sea monsters!” She thrust the book toward Abigail, oblivious to the tension. “Can we get it for Beacon House?”

“You must excuse us,” Abigail said, placing a protective hand on Heather’s shoulder. “We have of those charitable mischief to attend to.”

Lady Hanshaw’s eyes gleamed with fresh interest, but Abigail was already steering Heather away, leaving the woman with nothing but a polite smile and unanswered questions.

Abigail guided the girls through the remainder of their expedition with brisk efficiency.

The confectioner’s yielded Graham’s chocolate drops—secreted away in a small gilt box that Mary Ann insisted on carrying—and several picture books for the children at Beacon House joined the stack of educational volumes in the carriage.

At the milliner’s, Mary Ann selected a sensible blue ribbon while Heather’s pleas for peacock feathers met with gentle but firm refusal.

“But duchesses wear feathers,” Heather protested, lingering wistfully before the display.

“Duchesses also know when feathers are appropriate,” Abigail countered, guiding her toward the door with a hand at her back.

The journey home passed in contented silence, the morning’s tension having dissipated somewhere between gilt-edged storybooks and sugar-dusted treats.

Abigail watched the girls’ profiles against the carriage window, their faces softened with afternoon sunlight, and felt an unexpected surge of possession.

Mine to guide. Mine to protect.

Tea awaited them in the garden, where the day had warmed enough to chase shadows from the stone paths. The girls sprawled across a blanket with their treasures while Abigail and Ms. Norwood took chairs beneath a flowering plum tree.

“Did you know that silk comes from worms?” Mary Ann asked as she arranged her new books in a precise little row.

“That’s disgusting but wonderful,” Heather added, already halfway through a jam tart.

Ms. Norwood regarded the girls over the rim of her teacup. “The world is full of small creatures performing miracles right under our noses,” she observed.

Abigail sipped her tea, content to let the conversation flow around her. Every passing carriage set her nerves humming as she strained to hear if this might be the one that turned into their drive.

She caught herself and firmly returned her attention to the girls, silently chiding herself. Graham would return when he was able. She must have patience and it wouldn’t do to dwell on it and allow it to steal the afternoon’s simple pleasures.

“You seem revived,” Ms. Norwood observed quietly, while the girls debated the merits of their new books.

“Fresh air works wonders,” Abigail replied.

“As does purpose.” The governess stirred her tea. “The girls needed this. Joy has been a rare visitor these past months.”

Abigail glanced at the twins. “I want them to be happy here.”

“They already are,” Ms. Norwood assured her. “Children are remarkably resilient, provided they feel secure.” She paused. “As are most people, given time and patience.”

The footman approached bearing the afternoon post on a silver tray, saving Abigail the need to respond, though she heard the message well enough.

“The day’s papers, Your Grace, and a letter from Beacon House.”

“Thank you, James.” Abigail took the letter eagerly, recognizing Mrs. Welling’s precise handwriting.

The girls, however, had spotted the newspaper.

“Is there a picture of the wedding?” Mary Ann asked, abandoning her book to peer at the folded paper. “Lady Ponsby said we would be in all the papers.”

“Oh I doubt it,” Abigail hedged, reluctant to open it.

“Please look,” Heather begged. “I want to see if they drew my dress right.”

With a sigh, Abigail unfolded the Morning Post . The front page featured a headline more subdued than she had expected: “Duke of Eyron Weds at St. George’s.”

“Look! It’s us!” She pointed to the caricature on the front page. “That’s me throwing flowers. Mary Ann looks cross.”

Mary Ann joined her sister, peering at the illustration. “I do not look cross. I look dignified.”

Abigail leaned forward to examine the drawing.The caricature showed the wedding party emerging from St. George’s. The girls were rendered with affectionate humor—Heather flung petals while Mary Ann clutched her basket. Graham looked grim while her smile looked more calculating than joyful.

She scanned the article, skimming through flowery descriptions of the ceremony and notable guests until a particular passage caught her eye.

“The bride, whose previous engagement ended in circumstances that need not be revisited, appeared suitably demure in ivory silk. One trusts this time she will find more lasting success.”

“What does it say about us?” Mary Ann asked, trying to read over Abigail’s arm.

“It says you both looked very pretty and conducted yourselves with perfect decorum.” She folded the paper, tucking away the sting of those words behind a composed smile. “Now, why don’t you go with Miss Norwood to set up your new globe?”

The girls needed no further encouragement. They raced inside, Miss Norwood following at a more sedate pace. At the door, she paused and glanced back at Abigail.

“The papers rarely get anything of substance right,” she said quietly. “Best not to dwell on them.”

Abigail nodded. “I’ll be in to see the new globe shortly.”

The governess withdrew, leaving her in the hush of the garden. She traced her thumb along the wicker arm of the chair.

It was beginning again—the whispers, the glances, the careful barbs. And now Graham stood in its path. So did the girls.

Her fingers curled tighter. If anyone sought to drag them down for the crime of being hers, she would not hide in the shadows.

And Graham would protect the girls to his last breath. Of that, she was certain.

But as for herself—she wasn’t sure. She thought she’d understood his retreat, thought she’d asked too much, too soon. Now, doubt slid in like fog through the midnight streets. Perhaps it wasn’t her eagerness that had sent him running.

Perhaps it was simply her.