Page 50

G raham stood at the washstand, razor poised at his throat, staring at his reflection in the small mirror. The hand holding the blade trembled, hovering just above his soap-lathered jaw. He exhaled slowly, willing his fingers to steady.

They did not obey.

Water droplets from his damp hair trickled down his bare chest. The steaming bath had eased the aches in his muscles, but could not soothe the lingering tension in his mind. His body remained coiled tight, as if still braced for the magistrate's verdict to fall against them.

He lowered the razor and leaned forward, both palms flat against the washstand.

The girls were safe. Abigail was safe. They had won.

So why do my hands still shake like a candle in a draft?

Somewhere beyond the adjoining door, Abigail moved about her chamber. He listened to the soft whisper of fabric, the occasional creak of floorboards.

Graham looked at the razor again, running his thumb along the handle. He had managed this simple task countless times before. A soldier had no valet and after the war, he had never retained one. But for some reason in the quiet sanctuary of his own bedchamber, the routine felt impossible.

He set the razor aside with a sigh and wiped the soap from his face before pulling a fresh shirt on. He left it unbuttoned as he crossed to the door that led to Abigail’s room. His hand hesitated on the latch.

You kissed her before half of London's legal establishment. Surely you can knock on her door.

He knocked once, softly, then pushed the door open before he could lose his nerve.

Abigail sat at her dressing table, brush suspended mid-stroke, her hair cascading past her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror—hers wide with surprise, then softening with welcome.

The sight stole his breath. She wore only her nightgown and a silk dressing robe, her skin flushed from her bath. All the words he had planned evaporated.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said, acutely aware of his half-dressed state.

“It’s alright. Come in,” she said, turning to face him.

Graham hovered at the threshold, caught between retreat and advance."I thought... That is, I was attempting to..." His hand rubbed at the stubble on his jaw.

"Have you misplaced your razor?" Abigail's lips curved in a teasing smile.

"The razor is not the problem." He held one hand out to demonstrate the faint but persistent tremor. "Not ideal when holding a blade to one's throat."

Abigail set her brush down and rose from the dressing table. Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed to him. "I could help," she offered, then added, "Though I've never attempted it before."

Graham's brows rose. "Perhaps we shouldn't risk it."

"You're a doctor. If I make a mistake, you could fix it." She reached up, tracing her fingertips along his jawline through the stubble. The touch sent a jolt through him, making him sway toward her.

"Hard to sew up your own jugular," he muttered, hardly able to make the word coherent as his body responded to her.

She skimmed her fingers over his lip. "Would you prefer to grow a beard like Dr. Wallace? I'm not sure I could kiss you through all that wilderness."

A laugh escaped him—unexpected, genuine. "God forbid."

He caught her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. The lavender smell of her soap enveloped him and he drank it in. The delicate bones of her wrist beneath his fingers felt like the most precious thing he'd ever held.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, "that if I close my eyes, I'll sleep until next week."

"Then perhaps," Graham murmured against her skin, "we should stay awake."

He bent his head, claiming her mouth with his. This kiss held none of the desperate relief of the courtroom. It was slow, deliberate—a promise rather than a celebration. Abigail's hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, and he felt her sigh against him as she melted into his embrace.

Graham gathered her closer, one arm at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. Her hair tangled around his fingers as he deepened the kiss, tasting tea and honey and exhaustion and joy all mingled together.

When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "Abigail," he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips.

Before she could respond, he swept her into his arms. She gave a small sound of surprise, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

"Graham! What are you?—"

He crossed to her bed in three long strides and laid her gently upon it, following to kneel beside her. The lamplight cast her in gold and amber, her hair spread across the pillows like spilled silk.

Graham caught her hand again, pressing a kiss to each fingertip. "Do you know," he said between kisses, "that I've imagined touching you like this since that first day at Beacon House? When you stood in that storage room fighting with that ridiculous chest?"

Abigail's eyes widened. "Even then?"

"Especially then." His mouth quirked. "Though I was loath to admit it, even to myself."

He lowered himself beside her, propped on one elbow so he could watch her face. The back of his hand brushed along her cheek, down the column of her throat, lingering at the pulse point where her heartbeat fluttered beneath his touch.

"I was terrified today," he admitted. "Not of Hollan or the asylum or even the court. I was terrified of losing you. Of watching them strip away everything that makes you shine, and being powerless to stop it."

"They didn't succeed." Abigail's voice was soft but firm. "We're still here. We won."

"You were so brave." His fingers stroked the silk at her shoulder.

She shook her head. "I was falling apart inside."

"But you didn't break." Graham's voice roughened with emotion. "Do you have any idea how extraordinary you are?"

Abigail's eyes filled with tears. "Graham?—"

He kissed her again, not to silence her, but because he couldn't bear another moment without tasting her. Her hands slid into his damp hair, holding him to her as the kiss deepened, urgent now with need too long denied.

Outside, London continued its afternoon bustle. Carriages clattered over cobblestones. Lamplight bloomed against the gathering dark. But within the sanctuary of their room, time slowed to the rhythm of shared breaths and whispered promises.

For that moment, there was no past to haunt them, no future to fear. There was only this—this moment, this connection, this love that had endured trials by fire and emerged stronger for the tempering.

And when at last they lay together in the quiet aftermath, Abigail's head rested on his chest. His hands were steady now, strong and sure as they traced patterns on her skin.

"I love you," he murmured against her temple. "I should have told you sooner."

Abigail lifted her head, giving him a sleepy smile. "You did tell me," she said, pressing a kiss to his chin. "Every time you stayed when you wanted to run.

Lincoln was right. The next chapter is going to be full of light —and her name is Abigail.

She laid her palm over his heart. "And I love you. Not because you're a duke or a doctor or because of the girls. I love you because you're Graham. Because you try.”

He gathered her to him and, for once, Graham did not fear what was waiting in the darkness of his dreams.

A soft moan escaped Abigail's lips as Graham's mouth moved from hers to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer, savoring the warmth of his breath against her skin.

A sudden clatter in the hallway forced them apart. Footsteps—small, hurried ones—thundered toward the drawing room. Graham's hands fell away, though reluctantly, as Abigail straightened her skirts and pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks.

"Uncle Graham! Aunt Abigail!" Heather careened into the room like a cannonball fired from a ship's broadside. Her dark curls bounced, half-escaped from their ribbons as she flung herself onto the sofa between them, shaking the entire piece of furniture with her enthusiasm.

"We missed you terribly!" She squirmed into the space, elbows and knees seemingly everywhere at once. "Did you have a grand adventure? Where did you go? Did you bring presents?"

“Heather, you were supposed to walk,” Mary Ann said, her entrance a study in contrasts—measured, calm, and perfectly composed. She crossed to Abigail, climbing wordlessly onto her lap with careful dignity. Only the way she clutched at Abigail's sleeve betrayed her need for reassurance.

"Hello, my darling," Abigail murmured, pressing a kiss to Mary Ann's temple.

Ms. Norwood appeared at the doorway, her posture as rigid as ever, though something in her expression seemed slightly off. "Miss Heather, one does not demand presents at every turn," she admonished, though her heart didn't seem fully in the reprimand. "Your aunt and uncle have had a trying day."

Heather deflated slightly. "Yes, Ms. Norwood."

"The girls have had their supper and are ready for bed whenever you wish," Ms. Norwood said, her voice carrying an undercurrent that Abigail couldn't quite identify. "I'll be retiring to my room, unless you need anything further."

Graham shook his head. "Thank you, Ms. Norwood. We'll see to the girls from here."

Ms. Norwood nodded and turned to leave, but not before Abigail caught the shadow that passed across her face.

"I'll be right back," Abigail said, gently shifting Mary Ann onto the cushion beside her. She exchanged a glance with Graham, who gave a slight shrug.

She caught up to Ms. Norwood in the hallway, the governess's steps quickening as if to avoid precisely this conversation.

"Ms. Norwood," Abigail called. "Is everything well?"

The governess paused, squaring her shoulders before turning. "Quite well, Your Grace. The girls behaved admirably today, though I believe the Dowager spoiled them with sugared almonds."

"That's not what I asked."

Ms. Norwood's gaze slid away. "I'm simply tired. The day has been... eventful."

"How un-Quakerish of you to evade the truth," Abigail said, stepping closer.