Lord Browning was seated behind his broad oak desk, a half-finished letter before him, but he set his pen down the moment Jasper entered. His sharp eyes took the younger man in from head to toe—measuring, but not unkind.
"You're a man with something on his mind, Jasper," he said, gesturing for him to sit. "I doubt you've come to talk horses."
Jasper gave a quiet chuckle, then stood straighter instead of taking the offered chair. "No, sir. I've come to ask for something far more precious."
The Earl's brows lifted slightly, though his lips twitched with the beginning of a smile. He folded his hands before him and waited.
"I would like your blessing to marry Abigail."
Silence settled in the room for a breath. Then another. Lord Browning leaned back in his chair with a slow exhale, his gaze going soft—not at Jasper, but at some distant memory.
"Did I ever tell you what your mother said at one of our Christmas gatherings? You were no more than three and ten, I believe. Little Abigail was trying to sneak a cookie from the dessert table before dinner, and you—an eager lad—snuck one for each of you. We found you both under the table, grinning like fools, thinking no one had noticed."
He chuckled. "Your mother and my Grace were watching from the stairwell, giggling like schoolgirls. She leaned over and said,'If one of our children's going to run off and marry yours, my money's on Abigail. Those two are thick as thieves.'"
Jasper smiled, his shoulders relaxing at the memory.
"We all used to joke about that, didn't we?" Lord Browning continued, his voice softer now. "That one of you would marry and bind our families together properly." He paused, eyes meeting Jasper's. "I suppose it was less of a jest than we thought."
"It seems it was always meant to be," Jasper said, his voice steady but filled with emotion.
Lord Browning rose slowly from his chair and came around the desk, placing a hand on Jasper's shoulder. "Your father is gone now—God rest him—but I hope you know, you will always have a father in me. We may not share blood, but we've shared nearly everything else. And now, with you marrying my Abigail, you'll be my son in truth. I want you to know how proud I am of the man you've become."
Jasper nodded, his throat thick. "That means more than I can say, sir."
"Well then," the Earl said, clearing his throat and straightening his waistcoat, "go ask the girl before I change my mind."
Jasper grinned. "With pleasure."
Jasper stepped out into the crisp morning air, the scent of lavender drifting on the breeze. He knew precisely where to find her. Abigail always sought peace among her flowers when the house was too loud or the world too heavy. It was one of the things he loved most about her—how grounded she was in the simple beauty of the earth.
He crossed the lawn at a brisk pace, his boots brushing through the dew-slick grass, and slowed as the garden came into view.
There she was.
It struck him suddenly and with stunning clarity—the first time he had truly seen her, not as his friend's little sister orthe daughter of his parents' friends, but as herself—had been at his parents' funeral. She had been just six and ten then, barely more than a girl, sitting quietly with his sister in a dark frock, her eyes filled with compassion and unshed tears. She hadn't spoken much, but her presence had offered more comfort than any words ever could.
He hadn't named it then, hadn't dared—but some part of him had started waiting that day.
He'd worn the mantle of Duke with solemn resolve, duty always at the forefront. The pressure to marry well, to secure the future, had loomed large from the beginning. And yet... he had delayed. For years, he'd waited—brushing off matchmaking mamas, turning away eager debutantes. Telling himself he needed time, that he needed to focus first on learning the weight of his title, to establish himself as Duke before tying his future to anyone else.
But now, seeing Abigail in her garden, surrounded by sunlight and lavender, he knew the truth.
He hadn't been waiting for time.
He'd been waiting forher.
Abigail stood on the stone path, her skirts gathered delicately in one hand to avoid the damp, a small basket looped over her arm. She moved with unconscious grace, plucking sprigs of lavender and wild daisies, tucking them into the basket with a practiced eye. A few loose curls had escaped the ribbon at the nape of her neck, catching the morning light like spun gold.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
"You'll put the florists out of business," he said at last.
She turned with a start, then smiled when she saw him. "You'll ruin my arrangement if you trample those marigolds."
He stepped around the bright orange blooms with exaggerated care. "Forgive me, I'm a man in haste."
"Oh?" Her brows rose with interest, though her smile was teasing. "What great errand brings you to my garden uninvited?"
