Page 37

“ I f you’d simply stand, you’d retrieve it far more efficiently,” he observed.

“But then the floor monsters might get me,” she replied, as if explaining something painfully obvious.

Abigail, who had been arranging the girls’ clothes for tomorrow on the chest near the window, glanced over with a hint of amusement in her tired eyes.She looked so brittle tonight. Her movements too controlled, her smiles too bright.

Mary Ann, already tucked beneath her covers, looked up from her book. “There aren’t any monsters under the beds. Ms. Norwood checked before we came up.”

“That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Heather countered, stretching further until Graham feared she might topple headfirst onto the carpet.

“Perhaps,” he said, bending to retrieve the toy himself, “the monsters are merely shy.”

Both girls stared at him, momentarily stunned by this unexpected foray into whimsy. Graham scrubbed a hand over his face, a little surprised at himself as well.

The day had been interminable. The article had circulated through the hospital before his arrival.

Dr. Finlay had discreetly removed it from the physicians’ room, but not before several of his colleagues had read the vicious account of his wedding night and the thinly veiled accusations about Abigail.

He’d performed three surgeries with mechanical precision, his fury contained like a dangerous animal in a cage. Not a single tremor betrayed him, not even when Dr. Wilson quietly asked if there was anything he could do. Graham had simply shaken his head and finished suturing the incision.

“Uncle Graham?” Mary Ann’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Are you angry at us?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

Heather twisted her blanket between small fingers. “You looked all thundery when you came in.”

Graham’s throat tightened. He sat on the edge of Heather’s bed, handing her the toy soldier.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said quietly. “Sometimes adults have difficulties that have nothing to do with children.”

“Is it because of the newspaper?” Mary Ann asked, her voice small. “James wouldn’t let us see it, but he looked very stern when he took it away.”

Graham exchanged a glance with Abigail, who moved to extinguish the lamps, leaving only the small nightlight burning.

“Sleep now,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the park if the weather holds.”

The promise of the park effectively distracted Heather, who immediately began plotting how to catch a duck. Mary Ann, however, continued to study Graham in the low light.

“Good night, Uncle Graham,” she said finally. “I hope the newspaper people stop being unkind soon.”

“Thank you,” he said, bending to press an awkward kiss to each girl’s forehead—a gesture that felt foreign yet necessary. “Sleep well,” he murmured.

They withdrew quietly, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. She looked at him, expectant, uncertain. He shifted his weight, reluctant to part.

“I should—” She began

“I’m going to read in my study, if you’d like to join me,” Graham said, cutting across her. The words were stilted and formal.

Please come. The quiet is too lonely tonight.

The previous night, she had sat quietly in the chair across from his desk with her own book, saying nothing but filling the room with her warmth. He’d found himself looking up more often than necessary, just to confirm she was still there.

Abigail nodded with a small smile. “I’d like that.”

They walked in silence down the corridor. Halfway to the study, her hand brushed his—once, twice, a third time that couldn’t be accidental. Graham hesitated, then captured her fingers with his own.

Her hand was cool and small in his grip. She didn’t pull away.

In the study, Graham lit the lamps while Abigail settled into what he’d already begun to think of as her chair. The leather creaked softly as she arranged her skirts.

“It was a good day at the hospital,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. “Mrs. Fletcher’s leg is healing cleanly. And the young chimney sweep with the broken collarbone should regain full use of his arm.”

He was babbling. He never babbled. But he couldn’t bear to speak of what lay between them, what neither of them had mentioned all through dinner and story time. As if the mention of it would shatter the fragile illusion they maintained in these walls.

“Graham,” Abigail said, regarding him over her unopened book.

He looked down at his hands as he pressed them flat against his desk.

“We should talk about it,” she said quietly.

My strong, courageous wife.

He sat heavily in his chair, suddenly weary beyond words. “It’s filth.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

“I nearly throttled Elias at the club.” Graham dragged a hand down his face. “He meant well, bringing me the paper before anyone else could, but I almost?—”

I wanted to feel something breaking. Something that wasn’t me.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the slight tremor in her hands.

“For what?”

“This is my fault. My history. My scandal. If you hadn’t married me?—”

“If I hadn’t married you,” he interrupted, leaning forward, “I would still be living half a life. And the girls would still be strangers to me.”

She fiddled with the book in her lap before slamming it down on the table with something close to a growl. Graham froze in his chair, unsure what to do. Should he go to her? Perhaps offer her a stiff drink?

“Do you know what bothers me most about that vile piece?” She asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

He shook his head.

“Hollan thinks he can use our private matters as weapons.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “As if what passes between us—or doesn’t—has any bearing on your fitness as a guardian.”

“Public opinion matters in these cases,” he said, Elias’ warnings echoing in his ears. “The court considers?—”

“Hang the damned court.” Abigail’s chin lifted. “And hang bloody Baron Hollan.”

A startled laugh escaped but he quelled it lest she think he was laughing at her. “Your vocabulary becomes increasingly colorful.”

“That’s nothing compared to what Marjory said.” Her smile wobbled and tears brightened her eyes.

He rose and crossed to her, kneeling next to her chair.

Hollan will pay for this, for the pain in her eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured, taking her hands in his.“I shouldn’t have left you on our wedding night.”

She shook her head and a tear escaped.“It doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve moved past it, but they made it sound so sordid. As if you’d.. as if we’d...”

He tightened his grip on her hands.“They don’t know what lies between us.” He cupped her face with his hand.

She swallowed hard, holding his gaze.“And what does lie between us, Graham?”

He had no words that could hold the truth of it.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted back to his eyes.

Permission. Invitation. Hope.

Her skin was fever-warm under his palm. Every part of him thrummed with warning and want. He had rehearsed every version of this moment—how he would hold himself back, how he would keep it gentle, patient. Polite.

But he was not a polite man.

His self-restraint splintered with a soft, helpless sound—half laugh, half groan.

He bridged the remaining distance, capturing her mouth with his, fierce and unguarded.

There was nothing careful in the way he kissed her; it was clumsy at first, too desperate, as if he feared she might vanish if there was any pause for second thoughts.

She yielded with a quiet sigh, her lips parting beneath his and her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, grounding him.

When he finally broke away, breath ragged, their foreheads touched, and his hands trembled like a debutante at her coming out.

“I want you,” he breathed, “but I won’t let them take that moment from us. I will not have it be a rebuttal to their lies.”

She tightened her hand around his. “It will be when the time is right.”

He half-laughed, half-sighed, and nodded. “You have the patience of a saint.”

Abigail pulled back, raising a brow.“Well, I do aim for virtue between my well-timed thefts and ruinous social climbing.”

He let out a sharp laugh but the pain that hung around the corners of her eyes stole the mirth.“If they think a handful of ink and lies can define you,” he said, brushing his knuckles down her cheek, “they don’t know the same woman I do.”

He pressed another kiss, gentler this time full of the promise of a thousand unwritten chapters. She sighed when he released her and he was pleased to see the tightness in her expression was gone.

“I think I shall retire. It was a taxing day,” she said.

Reluctantly, he stood and offered her his hand. When she gained her feet, he could not help but pull her close to him again. It was like now that he had tasted her, felt her hear, heard her soft sounds, he couldn’t get enough. He forced himself to let her go and opened the door for her.

She paused on the threshold.“This family will survive and so will you.” She looked over her shoulder and held his gaze for a long moment before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Family. The word settled in his chest, unfamiliar yet right. Heather and Mary Ann, secure in their beds. Abigail, with her quiet strength and stubborn grace. His to protect. His to cherish.

His to fight for.

Graham straightened, a cold clarity descending. He had allowed Hollan to dictate the terms of this battle long enough. The baron thought him weak, thought him cowed by propriety and shame. He would learn otherwise.

He crossed to his desk and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer. The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven as he dipped his pen in ink and began to write.

The clock struck one as he finished the letter. He read it over, nodded once, then rang for a footman, who appeared a few minutes later in a rumpled waistcoat.

“You rang, Your Grace?”

“Send for Mr. Nedley,” he instructed. “Immediately.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Sir, it’s past midnight. Mr. Nedley will be abed.”

“I don’t care if he’s at the gates of heaven,” Graham snapped. “Get him here.”

The footman bowed and hurried away. Graham returned to his desk, pulling out more paper.

Within the hour, Nedley arrived, rumpled and bleary-eyed, his waistcoat askew over his ample middle and his gray hair standing on end.

He paused in the doorway, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“Your Grace, it’s nearly two in the morning,” he protested, tugging his case more securely beneath his arm and stifling a prodigious yawn. “I came as quickly as?—”

“I need this letter in every newspaper in London by morning,” Graham interrupted, handing over the first sheet.

Nedley shuffled forward, wedging himself into the chair across from Graham.

After a moment’s searching through his pockets, he produced a pair of spectacles and perched them on the end of his nose.

His eyebrows crept higher with each line he read, jowls quivering with surprise. “This is unprecedented, Your Grace.”

“It is a warning to those who would threaten what is mine.”

The solicitor tucked the letter into his case. “Very good, sir. Though I must advise at least a modicum of caution in your approach to?—”

“I’m not interested in caution,” Graham cut him off.

“I want legal action against the papers that published today’s article.

Libel, defamation—whatever charges will stick.

And I want a counter-petition against Hollan filed with the Court of Chancery first thing tomorrow.

Let’s see how eager the court is to grant guardianship to a man whose finances are in disarray. ”

“I’m not sure we can prove?—”

“Then find someone who can. I want his every debt, every questionable investment, every mistress and gambling marker exposed.” Graham leaned forward, hands flat on his desk. “He made this personal, Nedley. I intend to respond in kind.” He rang the bell.

The solicitor studied him over the rims of his spectacles, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace. I shall set things in motion immediately.” He heaved himself back to his feet with the help of the chair’s arm.

The footman appeared in the door.

“See Mr. Nedley home and have the plain carriage brought around front,” Graham ordered, finishing the letter before him.

“Very good, Your Grace.” The footman stood aside, watching as Nedley, papers gathered and case clutched against his belly, lumbered towards the door.

The solicitor paused, attempting to smooth his hair, and favored Graham with a weary, but loyal, look. “May I suggest you get some rest, Your Grace? The next few days promise to be especially trying.”

“This is no time for rest, Nedley. I’m just getting started.” Graham waited for the man to leave before he stood and poured himself a brandy, tossing it back and savoring the burn in his chest.

Hollan had poked the bear, thinking it too broken, too weak to respond. By morning, he would understand that he had made a grave miscalculation.

He woke with a start, Abigail’s hand on his shoulder.

“Graham.”

He blinked against the morning light, disoriented. He’d dozed off somewhere just before dawn. His neck ached as he rolled it, trying to shake off the fog in his mind. He caught the look on Abigail’s face—tight-lipped, pale, furious.

“What is it?” he rasped, already rising. “Are the girls?—?”

“They’re fine,” she said shortly.

She held out the Morning Post . He took it, still groggy, and sank back into the chair. The headline made him go cold.

FIRE AT RIVERFORD WAREHOUSE—BARON HOLLAN CRIES FOUL PLAY

“Riverford?” he muttered, scanning the subtext. “That’s one of his holdings. A timber yard. God—was anyone hurt?”

Abigail didn’t answer. “James said you were gone half the night.”

His head snapped up. Abigail’s gaze burned into his.

“Tell me you didn’t do this.”