Page 1 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The magnificent carriage rumbled along the lengthy, tree-bordered avenue that led to Lady Jane Fairchild's estate while the horses’ hooves muffled upon the gravel way. Moonlight gleamed upon the sprawling lawns extending on either side, their gentle inclines shaded by venerable oaks and towering elms.

Statues of classical figures flanked the sweeping driveway, their marble faces cast in shadow, watching on silently as the stream of carriages made their stately progress toward the manor. Beyond the formal gardens, a distant fountain sent a steady trickle of water into the night air, its calming sound lost beneath the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the cobbled streets and gravel, and the occasional murmur of conversation from inside the carriage.

Lady Jane Fairchild, the Dowager Countess of Westmere, was a formidable figure in society, known as much for her lavish entertainments as for her unwavering influence over the ton. A widow of ten years, she had used her wealth and position to maintain a household where politeness reigned, but where secrets thrived beneath the gilded surface.

Her annual ball was considered one of the highlights of the Season, attended by the most distinguished families, and often marked the beginning of advantageous matches—or whispered scandals.

Abigail Darlington knew this all too well. As the carriage drew closer to the imposing entrance, she allowed her gaze to drift across the perfectly sculpted topiaries and the flickering lanterns that lined the gravel path.

The imposing, and somewhat intimidating, facade of the manor loomed ahead, its symmetrical elegance a tribute to its architect’s genius. From the high arched windows, candlelight glowed in warm invitation, illuminating the silhouettes of guests already mingling inside. The sound of distant laughter and the soft strains of a string quartet reached her ears even before the carriage rolled to a stop.

Abigail had visited many impressive homes before, but none quite like this. Lady Jane Fairchild’s estate was not merely a show of wealth; it was a declaration of permanence, of power.

Everything about it exuded confidence, the kind that came from generations of accumulated influence. This was the kind of life Abigail would never experience unless she married well. A sobering thought settled in her chest. Her father, Baron Silas Darlington, was a wealthy man, but his fortune, built on trade, would never elevate her beyond what she was—respectable but not truly distinguished.

Without an advantageous match, her life would be spent under the watchful eye of her mother, Lady Harriet Darlington, who would endlessly parade her from one social event to another in pursuit of a title that high society dictated, but something that she wasn’t remotely sure she wanted.

A footman dressed in the household livery stepped forward to open the door, and Lady Harriet Darlington was the first to descend, her lilac gown gleaming under the candle-lit entrance. Abigail followed, her fingers tightening around her fan as she lifted the hem of her emerald gown and stepped onto the stone.

The night air was crisp with the scent of freshly trimmed lawn and hedges, the perfectly maintained gardens a testament to Lady Jane Fairchild’s impeccable taste. The great doors of the manor stood open, revealing a sweeping staircase that led to the ballroom beyond, its golden light spilling into the entrance hall like a promise of splendor.

Taking a steadying breath, Abigail stepped through the stylish double doors of Lady Jane’s manor and climbed the staircase beyond into a world of shimmering candlelight, swirling silks, and the ever-present murmur of polite conversation.

The scent of polish, perfumes, and freshly picked flowers hung in the air, complementing the invigorating notes of the violin, harp, and pianoforte. Everywhere, clusters of elegantly dressed men and women engaged in the time-honored tradition of courtship—their smiles carefully measured, their laughter practiced, their conversation courteous.

The rhythmic footfalls of newcomers’ dancing shoes sounded as guests made their way across the polished floors. Servants circulated with quiet efficiency, collecting coats and guiding arrivals toward the heart of the gathering.

Abigail caught a glimpse of Lady Jane Fairchild herself, standing near the ballroom entrance, regal in a gown of deep violet, her silver hair coiled into an elaborate yet elegant arrangement that reflected her age and authority. Her steely eyes swept over each guest, acknowledging some with a nod, and favoring others with a faint smile of approval.

Abigail met her gaze briefly as she passed, offering a polite curtsy, which Lady Jane returned with an approving incline of her head. Though the dowager countess was not an outright matchmaker, she took great pleasure in observing the social maneuverings of the ton. If she found amusement in their intricate games of courtship, she remained impassive, being too dignified to let it show beyond the barest flicker of intrigue in her expression.

The ballroom itself was a masterpiece of grandeur. Gilded chandeliers dripped with countless wax candles, casting flickering golden light upon the polished oak floor. The walls were embellished with elaborate plasterwork, gilded moldings framing painted murals depicting idyllic pastoral scenes.

Velvet-draped alcoves provided secluded nooks for whispered conversations, while towering floral arrangements filled the air with the delicate perfume of roses, lilacs, and jasmine. The effect was dazzling, an illusion of romance and enchantment that cloaked the room in an almost ethereal quality.

Long tables lined one side of the room, laden with an extravagant feast. Silver platters bore an array of delicate pastries, crystal bowls gleamed with candied fruits, and ornate serving dishes displayed an assortment of fine cheeses.

Footmen in crisp livery moved with silent efficiency, refilling goblets of wine and champagne, offering dainty porcelain cups of spiced syllabub, and ensuring no guest was left wanting for anything when it involved overindulgence.

The spectacle before Abigail was breathtaking, highlighting the sheer opulence and social ambition of the ton. She should have been delighted to have received an invitation, and thrilled by the bountiful prospects such an event might afford her in the marriage-mart quest.

Yet, to her, all of this extravagance felt like a cleverly disguised cage, its golden bars forged from expectation and duty. She was required to be there rather than attending through any personal want or need. She let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the delicate lace trim on her glove as she sought solace behind a fluted marble pillar at the edge of the room. From this vantage point, she could observe the intricate dance of ambition and pretense without fully engaging in it.

As she watched the familiar rituals unfold, she was struck by how little had changed. Every Season, the same faces, the same tedious conversations, the same practiced gestures designed to ensnare a match.

She remembered her first Season with a bitter smile. Then, she had still clung to the hope that somewhere within this pomp and spectacle lay the possibility of something real. She had watched other girls meet their intended partners and imagined herself falling into a courtship that felt effortless. How naive she had been.

Instead, during her first year, she had stumbled through a series of often embarrassing disappointments. Awkward introductions to lords who spoke at her rather than with her, gentlemen who eyed her as one might a prized filly at auction, but had zero interest in listening to anything she had to say. One particularly disastrous encounter had involved Lord Withersby, a man nearly thrice her age, who had droned on about his extensive collection of snuffs and pipes and how he sought a wife who would appreciate them.

Her mother had been livid when Abigail had failed to express due enthusiasm. “He was a perfectly respectable match,” Harriet had hissed that evening, “and you could not manage to feign the slightest interest in his hobbies?”

That had been the beginning of her disillusionment. By the second Season, she had abandoned all hope of romance. She had become adept at sidestepping eager bachelors, at navigating the gauntlet of introductions with a cool, detached efficiency. And yet, here she was, standing at another ball, repeating the same cycle. How much longer could she endure it?

She was drawn from her thoughts by a soft voice.

“Abigail?”

She turned to see Eleanor Tidemore, an old acquaintance from school, standing beside her. Eleanor was everything a young lady of the ton ought to be—bright-eyed, flushed with excitement, and practically shimmering with the giddy thrill of the evening.

“I had hoped to see you tonight,” Eleanor said, taking Abigail’s hand. “It is all so wonderful, is it not?”

Abigail forced a polite smile. “Indeed. It is absolutely stunning. You look very well, Eleanor.”

Eleanor did not seem to notice the lack of enthusiasm. “Lord Blackmore has asked me to dance,” she whispered, her cheeks coloring as if on demand. “I think he might be considering an offer.”

Abigail murmured something appropriate, but the conversation only solidified her sense of detachment. Eleanor was playing the game so eagerly, so willingly, as though it were an adventure rather than a tiresome performance. Would she, too, look back on this night with fondness? Would she speak of it as the moment she first knew she would be wed?

Abigail envied her ease, her ability to believe in the illusion. Surely she couldn’t be the only young woman who was so disillusioned with it all at such a young age.

As Eleanor flitted away, Abigail’s attention returned to her mother. Lady Harriet was in her element. She moved through the crowd with the precision of a general, subtly guiding conversations, introducing Abigail’s name in all the right circles.

Abigail was surprised that further introductions were warranted. She must have met the majority of these suitors at least twelve times each, and those she hadn’t met directly would no doubt have been subject to her mother’s trademark spiel telling them they simply must meet her because she was a perfect match for them . Her mother had attempted to maneuver her into the path of three eligible suitors so far this evening, each one more tedious than the last.

The first, a Mr. Percival Bletchley, was the heir to a vast estate in Norfolk and had twice boasted, without irony, of his new mechanical cheese press. He discoursed on dairy yields and the temperaments of his cows with a veneration that might befit the noblest of epics, and seemed to regard a lady’s capacity for admiration of his agricultural efficiency as the pinnacle of courtship.

The second, Viscount Retton, while undeniably handsome in the way of a marble bust—handsome but entirely lifeless—spoke exclusively in quotations from poets he could barely pronounce. He had recited a rather dreadful passage from Ossian while they stood near the refreshment table, his gaze intense and unwavering, as though she might swoon at any moment from the sheer weight of his borrowed profundity. Abigail had smiled politely while plotting her escape and trying not to laugh.

The third, Mr. Giles Pomeroy, had a fondness for gaming that bordered on obsession. He had regaled her with detailed accounts of his latest triumphs at White’s, as though the precise order in which he played his cards in a game of faro might somehow impress upon her the depth of his character. When he had casually inquired whether she might consider herself a ‘lucky charm’ in a low murmur that was, no doubt, meant to be flirtatious, she had very nearly abandoned her ladylike decorum altogether.

Each encounter had left her with the growing conviction that she might gladly forsake all future introductions if only she might slip into the nearest library and lose herself among volumes more sincere than any of the men presently in attendance.

Abigail had learned long ago that she was but a piece on her mother’s carefully arranged chessboard. Harriet would make her move, ensure introductions were made, and then step back, watching to see how the game played out, being quick to berate her if Abigail did not play the game as she should.

No doubt she had already made mental notes on how best to proceed. How many conversations had she orchestrated tonight? How many potential matches had she lined up?

Abigail sighed, lifting a glass of wine from a passing tray. She had barely taken a sip before Harriet appeared at her side. “Put that down, dearest. You do not want to lower your inhibitions, or appear too forward.”

Abigail placed the glass back without comment.

Then the mood suddenly shifted, and Abigail felt the change before she saw him.

“Ah, here comes Lord Colton,” Harriet said, her voice lifting with satisfaction.

A chill rippled across Abigail’s skin, although she couldn’t pinpoint why. This gentleman’s reputation preceded him, and it wasn’t particularly positive.

Lord Edward Colton approached with his usual air of entitlement, his dark, glinting eyes filled with an unnamed unpleasantness. As he minced through the crowd, other guests subtly moved aside as if trying to evade an obnoxious odor. A group of young ladies lowered their voices, their laughter faltering as they turned away. Even a passing footman averted his gaze.

These were all subtle things, but Abigail noticed. Lord Colton appeared blissfully ignorant to others’ opinions of him. How nice it must be to be so willfully obtuse.

There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, which made Abigail feel nauseated, as did the way his long, spindly, gloved fingers twitched slightly at his side before stilling. From what little she had heard about him, this was a man used to getting what he wanted, and who did not take kindly to resistance.

And then, there was his voice.

“Miss Abigail,” he drawled, his voice somehow raspy and adenoidal at the same time, the syllables coiling around her name like a snake coiling around its prey. “How delightful to see you this evening, and your delightful mother, of course. Would you do me the magnificent honour of dancing with me?”

His tone was rich, with an almost oily thickness, as though he savored each word; the sound somewhat syrupy as if he were speaking through a mouth full of thick, clotted cream. It made her skin crawl, as though she had brushed against something moist and unclean.

His smile was insincere—too broad, too knowing, his slick, moistened lips catching the candlelight. His tongue slipped between his lips and reminded Abigail of a slug. He bowed, but there was something possessive and leery in the way his gaze roved over her as though, in his head, he had already claimed her.

Desperate to quell the roiling nausea in her stomach, her gaze flickered past Edward, toward the tall figure by the window. Lord Arthur Beaumont had not moved, but she knew he had seen her. His dark blue eyes rested on the scene before him, his expression unreadable.

She thought back to a dinner party months ago, where Arthur had made an offhand comment that had stayed with her. Someone had praised the efficiency of the marriage market, and he had said, in his dry way, “ah yes, efficiency—the very foundation of romance.”

She had barely known him then, but she had laughed at his sarcasm. She was not laughing now.

What must he make of this spectacle? Did he find it as wearying as she did? The thought was strangely comforting. Someone else who not only understood that all of this was an elaborate illusion, but also found the whole concept preposterous.

Edward shifted slightly, and cleared his throat in a less-than-subtle means of drawing her attention back to him. His expectant smile had tightened, but his eyes held something colder, something almost greedy and controlling. Harriet, beside her, let out a soft but meaningful breath, the slightest nudge toward acquiescence. She nudged her daughter lightly with an elbow when she didn’t respond straightaway.

Abigail swallowed. There was no polite way out of this.

And so, she hesitated just long enough to let the moment stretch, the tension between expectation and reluctance hanging in the air as the music swelled around them.

The orchestra struck the first chord of a glittering waltz that swept through the room like a declaration. Conversation paused. Eyes turned toward the floor. Pairs formed with practiced ease—young ladies simpering behind fans, gentlemen offering gallant bows—and into that expectant hush, Lord Edward Colton extended his hand toward Abigail Darlington.

“Well, Miss Abigail…” he said, his voice silky and insistent. “Would you favour me?”

The weight of her mother’s gaze bore into her side before Abigail even turned. She didn’t have to look. She could feel Lady Harriet Darlington’s anticipatory stillness, her social instincts twitching with delighted triumph at the prospect of such a wealthy, titled suitor paying court to her daughter. It was the sort of match she had schemed for across the Seasons and countless introductions.

Every fiber of Abigail’s being resisted the idea of placing her gloved hand in Edward Colton’s. But to refuse him would be to create a scene. A ripple in the carefully constructed veneer of civility. A public insult that would rebound upon her mother tenfold. She could feel Lady Harriet’s eyes boring into her back.

Abigail summoned her most practiced smile.

“Of course, my lord,” she replied.

He took her hand at once, his clammy glove enclosing it in a grip that was slightly too firm. Abigail followed him, feeling as though she were a mouse stepping into a trap. Her feet moved of their own accord, sweeping into the elegant position expected of her. Her body obeyed but her heart rebelled.

As they moved onto the dance floor, Abigail schooled her expression into one of polite neutrality, determined to endure the next few minutes with at least the semblance of civility. Edward, of course, mistook her silence for admiration.

As the music swelled and they began to glide in time with the orchestra, Edward leaned in slightly. His breath smelled sour—a hint of stale brandy and self-satisfaction. Her stomach threatened to flip. She turned her head slightly and made a conscious effort to breathe through her mouth.

“I must say, Miss Darlington,” he began, his voice already puffed with pride, “you handle yourself quite admirably on the floor. Not, of course, that I expected anything less. Your mother told me you were trained in the Italian style—though I personally find the French method superior, wouldn’t you agree? Far more precise footwork.”

Abigail offered a delicate nod. “Indeed.”

He smiled smugly. “Quite so. I told my own dancing master the same, just before I dismissed him last autumn. He was too fond of flourishes. A man ought to dance like a gentleman, not a dandy at a village fête.”

They turned with the music, her gaze drifting over his shoulder in search of respite.

“Still, I suppose there’s a place for flair,” he added thoughtfully. “My hunting lodge, for example, is decorated with a rather elegant carpet I procured in Vienna. Not that I hunted in Vienna, mind you—ghastly cold—but one must keep up appearances.”

Abigail smiled tightly. She concentrated on her steps, praying for a swift conclusion to the set.

“Speaking of keeping up appearances,” Edward went on, “I’ve had the most dreadful time trying to find a valet with adequate starching standards. Do you know, my last one actually creased my cravat the wrong way round for a dinner at the Duke of Bellmore’s? The indelicacy of it. I was forced to take it off halfway through the soup.”

Abigail blinked. “Halfway through?”

“Indeed! I made my apologies to the duke, of course. Told him I refused to offend his cook by appearing so… unbecomingly wrinkled. The man was quite impressed by my depth of feeling.”

“I’m sure he was.” Abigail offered weakly.

Edward looked immensely pleased. “I do think that’s what society lacks these days, Miss Darlington. A refinement of sensibility . People forget that character is demonstrated in the starching of a cravat, in the polish of one’s boots. It’s all a matter of principle, really.”

Abigail had ceased truly hearing him. Her mind drifted—toward the terrace doors, toward fresh air, toward any place other than here. It was the only way to survive his relentless chatter.

“And I must tell you,” Edward continued, undeterred, “Lady Grantham’s musical evening last week— dreadful . They had a soprano who screeched like a cat. I said to her, quite loudly, ‘My lady, if the piano sobs any harder, I shall have to request a handkerchief!’ She laughed, of course. Couldn’t help it.”

Abigail stared straight ahead, her mouth fixed in a careful curve of amusement. “Charming,” she murmured.

“I thought so. You know, my dear, it is a rare pleasure to begin the evening with the most sought-after young lady in the room,” he said.

Abigail inclined her head without replying. Her smile held, but just barely, as brittle as spun glass.

“You flatter me, Lord Colton, though I very much doubt that is true,” Abigail said modestly.

“I daresay there will be no lack of offers for you before the night is through,” he continued, his eyes sweeping the room as though he were measuring his competition. He smiled like a fox that had found a well-stocked hen-house. “But none so eligible as mine, I assure you.”

Modesty is not your forte, Lord Colton, Abigail thought but didn’t say. It seemed the ton had got something right during their idle gossip after all. This was a lord who clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and believed in his own self-importance a little too much.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding in a negative way. She had been taught to behave like a lady, but she was not weak. She did not want him to think she was rude, but neither was she willing to court the first person who spoke with self-conviction. Lack of modesty was not a quality she found desirable, even if it was justified. In this case, it most certainly was not.

Her feet followed the steps flawlessly, muscle memory guiding her while her mind floated somewhere above, disconnected and quietly panicking. How long was a waltz? Three minutes? Five? Surely not more. She could endure five minutes. Anyone could get through five minutes.

Edward spoke without pause. He was clearly opposed to silence, companionable or otherwise. Abigail suspected the former was not one with which he was very familiar.

“Of course, I have no need to rush into matrimony. A man of my position may afford to be discerning. But I must confess, Miss Abigail, I find myself quite taken by your—how does one put it—your refinement.”

She managed a polite murmur. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“Not at all,” he said with a smile that exposed too many teeth. “You carry yourself with such composure. It is a rare quality these days. Elegance. Sophistication. Grace. A kind of timelessly discerning and demure appeal that so many young ladies of the ton seem to lack.”

Composure was all she had and it was the only thing keeping her upright. He was insufferable.

That sheen of sweat on his upper lip had started to bead and she noticed how it tracked its way towards his lower lip like a raindrop on a window pane. Abigail told herself to look away, but her eye was drawn to it in a kind of disgusted, morbid fascination.

Edward’s voice dropped slightly, as though sharing a confidence. “You see, I have found most young ladies to be utterly tiresome. So many empty heads beneath powdered curls. But you… you are different. Beauty and an intellect that surpasses most. Just don’t let it go too much to your head, Miss Darlington,” he smirked. “We don’t want you acting above your station. Esteemed gentlemen such as myself don’t appreciate that.”

Heavens, does he even hear himself?

Abigail could feel the eyes of the room upon them as they turned. Every spin swept them past watchful chaperones and eager mothers pushing for the best possible matches.

Somewhere out there in the sea of colorful gowns and expensive satin and lace, her mother was surely standing tall with pride, imagining her daughter almost three quarters of the way to a proposal. Though it was impossible for her to believe, there would be other mamas of the ton who envied the attention Lord Colton was bestowing on someone else’s daughter.

They were most welcome to him, Abigail thought, wishing someone would intervene. Alas, she would have no such luck.

Meanwhile, Abigail’s skin crawled.

She wanted to be as far away as possible from this horrible man, but her feelings held no weight in such a situation. Propriety demanded she behave respectfully, no matter how condescending or patronizing the words that came from this ‘gentleman’s’ mouth. She had to maintain a polite, dignified, ladylike persona at all times. Young debutantes were to be admired, and should speak only when invited to. It was not their place to express an opinion unless it was the one society deemed appropriate.

She couldn’t help but be aware of the proximity of this odious man. Lord Edward’s hand on her waist was respectful in placement but not in pressure. It lingered long enough to feel possessive.

His fingers, encased in pristine gloves, seemed to radiate entitlement and an uncomfortable heat. Every word out of his mouth cemented her impression of a man who believed himself a prize to be won—and believed her already ensnared.

He launched into a tale about a recent expansion to his estate—something to do with imported marble and Italian architects—and Abigail found herself nodding at all the appropriate intervals without registering a single meaningful detail.

His words held no meaning; a monotonous drone akin to the sound of the irritating buzz of an insect. Her mind wandered instead to the towering marble statues in Lady Jane Fairchild’s gardens, to the cold indifference etched into the faces of gods and warriors.

She would have given anything to be standing in that garden, breathing the cool night air, rather than being imprisoned in this seemingly endless waltz.

“…and I told the tradesman quite firmly, I would not accept anything less than perfection,” Lord Edward was saying. “Quality craftsmanship and experience, Miss Abigail. It is a principle I hold to in all things. There is no room in my life for less than perfection.”

I suspect you will find yourself wanting if that is what you seek, Lord Colton.

Abigail pressed her lips together to maintain her smile. She was aware, acutely, of every muscle in her face. Of the burn behind her eyes. The stifling lace at her throat. The oppressive beat of the music that had once seemed lovely but now felt like the ticking of a clock, marking each interminable second.

He pivoted, guiding her expertly into the next turn. “You are quiet, Miss Abigail. Tell me, what do you look for in a husband?”

The question brought her mind back to the reality of this situation. It was a question, but a part of her knew he had no intention of hearing her answer. She could have said a love of poetry, a fondness for long walks, an unshakable belief in kindness—and he would still believe she meant a country estate and a full set of ancestral silver.

“I look for…” she paused. What was the appropriate answer? Respectability? Security? “...meaningful conversation, companionship, and respect.”

Edward chuckled, clearly amused. “Ah, so many of the fairer sex would say the same nowadays. But in the end, women all desire the same comforts—a fine house, a few delightful children, and a man capable of managing them both.”

She stared at him. Not directly. Just past his ear. Imagining the marble gods in the garden again. Imagining that one of them might magically come to life, climb up to the roof, drop through the ballroom ceiling on a rope, and rescue her with all the drama and romance of a Greek epic.

The final notes of the waltz began their descent, mercifully signaling the end.

Thank goodness. The past five minutes has felt more like four days.

Abigail exhaled, just once, before smoothing her features again. She curtsied as the music ended, her shoulders aching from the effort of quelling her nausea.

“A delight as always, Miss Abigail,” Lord Edward said, releasing her hand with a flourish. “You give the Darlington name credit. Most agreeable company.”

“You are very kind, my lord,” she replied.

She turned before he could say anything more, offering a final nod before retreating into the crowd. Her pulse raced, her palms were damp from his clammy hands, despite the gloves, and she fought to keep her breathing measured.

Inside, she felt as though she had been submerged. The ballroom had closed around her like water, dragging her down to drown in its murky depths, and Lord Edward Colton had been the weight tied to her ankles.