The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones as they made their final approach through the bustling streets of London. The city's energy pulsed all around them—vendors calling out their wares, carriages weaving through crowded roads, ladies in bright bonnets and parasols walking with purpose. It was a world apart from the sleepy countryside Bramblewick resided in.
Emmeline had scarcely stopped chattering since their carriage departed Bramblewick the previous day. Her little face remained pressed to the window as she narrated everything she saw with her nonsensical babble, from the painted shopfronts to the flower sellers balancing baskets on their hips. The previous night's stop at a bustling inn had delighted her—so many new faces, sounds, and smells. Now, she sat wide-eyed, practically bouncing in Mrs. Rigby's lap with excitement.
Abigail, on the other hand, was silent.
She sat next to Jasper in the carriage, hands folded in her lap, eyes forward. The only indication of her nerves was the way she pinched the edge of her shawl between her fingers, knuckles white against the fabric.
Jasper felt the tension radiating from her like a storm waiting to break.
She had not spoken a single word to him during his final two visits to Bramblewick before their departure—not about the travel plans, not about the Season, not even about Emmeline. She'd sat with perfect politeness and unyielding silence.
What did you expect, Finch? he thought grimly. That she would leap for joy—or count her blessings—at the notion of living under the same roof as the husband who had once treated her so callously?
He had torn her away from the quiet safety of her parents' estate, where she had spent more than a year trying to rebuild the pieces of herself. Of course she resented him. Of course her silence spoke louder than any protest.
It felt as though every step he took was on a razor's edge—each one requiring perfect balance between reconciling with his wife and daughter, leading his household, and doing no further harm.
The carriage turned a corner, and there it was—his London townhouse. Their home for the Season. A stately structure of cream stone and tall windows, the family crest affixed to the wrought-iron gate. The very same house he had lived in all his life during every Season, and yet today it felt foreign— transformed by the knowledge of who would be stepping through its doors.
He thought back to the same time last year. He had been bitter then. Angry. A man devoured by pride and lies. But even in his fury, even when he believed her brother had wronged Charlotte, he had kept to himself. He could not bring himself to touch another. And when the truth had finally pierced the fog of his vengeance, it had nearly undone him. First came the guilt—and the fear that Abigail would not accept his apologies. But once he found Greystone Hollow empty, that fear transformed into something deeper: a paralyzing dread that she might be lost to him forever.
He kept trying to reassure himself now that he had found her. Found them. And though he could never erase what he had done, he was determined to make amends.
He'd made arrangements before their arrival—secured a skilled modiste for Abigail and Emmeline both. Abigail would require new gowns for the Season, appropriate to her station. Her current wardrobe, though lovely, had been sewn by the local seamstress in the town near Bramblewick. But now she would need gowns for dinners, calls, assemblies, and balls. Even day dresses required the right cut and style.
As for Emmeline—Jasper's heart softened just thinking of her. Her hair was a darker shade of blonde than his own, a perfect blend of his and Abigail's, and her eyes—so unmistakably her mother's—held him in thrall. A tiny dimple nestled in her chin, a sweet reflection of his own. She had him entirely wrapped around her little finger.
The thought of all the moments he'd missed was a sharp, constant ache. He'd never imagined Abigail would fall pregnant from their wedding night before he'd abandoned her—now he couldn't imagine a life without Emmeline.
Mrs. Rigby held Emmeline, her arm wrapped protectively around the little girl's waist. Emmeline pointed a chubby finger towards something outside, and Mrs. Rigby leaned down, murmuring quietly about the sights out the window.
The carriage came to a halt.
From the window, Jasper saw the tall form of his steward already stepping through the front doors, as though he had been watching for the family's arrival. The man opened the carriage door with precise efficiency.
"Welcome home, Your Grace," he said, bowing. "Mr. Holling, at your service as always."
"Thank you, Holling," Jasper said as he stepped out first and turned to offer his hand to Abigail. She hesitated only a momentbefore accepting his help with an expression of practiced civility. He then lifted Emmeline into his arms, the child's delighted laugh filling the air.
The staff were already assembled in the front hall, lined up in perfect order—a full presentation for the first meeting of their new Duchess and their daughter. Most had served the Finches for years. Many already knew Abigail from before—either from her childhood visits with Charlotte, from the long-standing friendship between their families, or from the time Jasper had courted her, when she'd been a frequent and warmly received guest.
Still, this moment mattered.
This should have been hers last Season—Abigail, his Duchess, welcomed into her London household. But he had stolen that from her.
Now, at last, she would be received.
As they stepped into the grand foyer, Holling bowed once again. "If it pleases Your Graces, the rooms have been prepared. Mrs. Rigby, if you follow me, I will escort you and our young Miss to the nursery and your quarters." Mrs. Rigby stepped forward and gently took Emmeline from Jasper's arms.
Abigail opened her mouth, a flicker of protest in her eyes, but Mrs. Rigby silenced her gently with a look.
"I will stay with Emmeline whenever you cannot," she said firmly. "And I will not let her out of my sight. I promise you, Ms.—" She caught herself. "Your Grace."
Something in Abigail's shoulders eased ever so slightly. She bent to kiss Emmeline's cheek, lingering for a moment, before stepping back. Mrs. Rigby curtsied and followed Holling up the staircase, Emmeline still chattering while her head moved on a swivel, trying to take everything in—from the grand chandelier to the paintings on the wall.
Jasper turned to Abigail. "Come, wife," he said quietly. "Let us greet our staff and then allow me to show you to your rooms. After you are refreshed, I can give you a full tour of the house. It is yours, after all—yours and Emmeline's."
She regarded him coolly for a moment. Her chin lifted with practiced poise.
