Page 10 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The door to the Beaumont carriage closed with a soft click, muffling the outside world as though sealing them within a different reality altogether. Abigail settled onto the deep velvet seat, with the same careful precision she applied to every element of her public life—every gesture artfully composed, every breath measured with the weight of expectation.

She arranged her skirts with practiced ease, though her fingers lingered longer than necessary over the folds of fabric, betraying the faint tremor that danced beneath her gloves. This was not just another carriage ride. It was, for all intents and purposes, the prologue to a performance she and Arthur had both agreed to star in—an elaborate theatre of courtship, visible to all the ton and yet rooted in illusion.

The interior of the carriage was precisely what she might have expected from the manor of Beaumont. Elegant but not ostentatious, meticulous in its appointments, as though the very air had been instructed to behave with refinement.

Polished mahogany trim lined the windows, the rich navy velvet of the seats gleaming faintly in the diffused morning light, and the faint scent of polish and lavender suggested the interior had been recently cleaned—either for company or simply in keeping with the Beaumonts’ notorious attention to detail.

Opposite her, Arthur sat with the composed detachment of a man accustomed to controlling every outward emotion. He did not fidget, did not shift, did not even glance toward her. Yet something in the stillness of his frame suggested that his thoughts were far from settled.

His gloved hands rested lightly atop one another, and his gaze, fixed momentarily on the passing street beyond the window, seemed distant—though whether it was disinterest or deliberate avoidance, she could not tell. To his right, Eliza sat poised and bright-eyed, the very picture of unaffected good humor. Her dress, a soft green that mirrored the spring hedgerows outside, set off her auburn hair with effortless charm. She leaned forward slightly as the carriage gave a gentle jolt into motion, her eyes alight with barely restrained mirth. Outside, the muffled rhythm of hooves against cobblestone echoed like a heartbeat—steady, unhurried. The sort of pace that gave one time to think.

Unfortunately, thought was exactly what Abigail was trying to avoid.

This was their first public outing under the guise of courtship. It felt both absurd and oddly significant. Her mother had watched from the drawing room window with a furrowed brow and the tight-lipped smile of someone who had already begun re-calibrating her expectations.

No doubt Harriet would spend the afternoon interrogating the footman for details and composing imagined conversations that might have occurred between Abigail and Lord Beaumont in the three-minute journey to the carriage.

Abigail couldn’t understand why her mother seemed so ill at ease. She had wanted her to seek a good match of her own volition, but now that she had secured a promenade with a suitor of her choosing, Lady Harriet seemed almost disappointed. Was it because she had wanted to find a future husband for her? Or something else entirely?

Beside her, Eliza’s voice broke through Abigail’s spiraling thoughts.

“Oh, but I must confess, Miss Darlington,” she began with the easy candor of a younger sister too used to being overlooked, “I’ve been looking forward to this drive all morning. Arthur rarely takes me anywhere remotely diverting. It’s usually some dreadful obligation or another involving either parliamentary tedium or Mother’s insufferable garden parties.”

Abigail offered a smile, polite but sincere. “Then I am doubly honoured to be the cause of your reprieve, Miss Beaumont.”

“Oh, please,” Eliza said with a conspiratorial grin. “If you’re to be my brother’s paramour—even in the staged sense of the word—I insist you call me Eliza.”

There was no artifice in her tone, no affected sweetness. Just genuine warmth. Abigail blinked, slightly disarmed by the casual invitation to familiarity. She had not expected that. She had expected politeness, certainly. Polished manners, a sense of familial duty. But not this—this easy generosity, this willingness to welcome her into confidence so quickly and without reservation. It warmed something in her, something she had not realized was cold.

Very well,” she said, her voice softening. “Eliza.” Abigail leaned forward, lowering her voice to a hush. “I see your brother has filled you in on our little act of deception.”

“You needn’t concern yourself about Eliza’s ability to keep a secret, my lady,” Arthur reassured. “I imagine she’s rather enjoying herself in this role. She should have had a career on the stage.”

Eliza winked and drew her finger across her lips as though she were sealing them shut. “And I shall call you Abigail,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “Unless you’d prefer something dreadfully formal—Miss Darlington? Lady Pretend Suitor?”

Arthur gave a quiet snort, and Abigail found herself laughing before she could help it. “Abigail will do just fine,” she said, her amusement real and unfeigned.

Eliza leaned back with satisfaction. “There. I knew we could be friends. I’ve always admired women who can see through society’s nonsense without collapsing into misery. You have that look about you.”

Abigail arched a brow, amused. “What sort of look is that?”

“The sort that says, ‘I have better things to do than be decorative for my mother’s friends.”

That earned a genuine smile from Abigail. “Well, it’s not far from the truth.”

Eliza beamed, clearly pleased. “I knew it. “There. We are now properly acquainted, and the charade may proceed unimpeded.”

Arthur spoke at last, his tone as dry as the winter wind. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Of course, I am,” Eliza replied breezily. “It’s not every day one gets to be part of a deception involving reputations, bouquets, and artful glances. Besides, Abigail and I shall get on splendidly. I can already tell.”

Abigail’s brow arched. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because you have the expression of a woman who would rather endure anything than be subjected to another ball full of preening suitors.”

“I see you’ve read me well,” Abigail murmured.

Arthur looked between them, exhaling softly. “Heaven helps me. I’ve allied myself with a pair of conspirators.”

Eliza beamed. “Only the cleverest sort, of course,” she replied without missing a beat. “You wouldn’t expect anything less from two intelligent women forced to spend their youth trapped in a social theatre, would you?”

Arthur merely raised an eyebrow in reply, but Abigail caught the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth. It was a fleeting shift, like sunlight slipping through a window. Gone before it was truly seen.

Abigail’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. His expression had returned to its usual inscrutable neutrality, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking beneath that careful composure.

Eliza turned her attention back to Abigail. “Tell me—do you read novels?”

The question, so unexpected and delightfully ordinary, brought an instant spark to Abigail’s eyes. “Incessantly. Though not always the kind approved of by my mother.”

“Perfect,” Eliza said with glee. “I’ve just finished Pride and Prejudice . Have you read it?”

“Twice.”

“Eliza,” Arthur interjected, sounding faintly pained, “must you subject Miss Darlington to your relentless Austen tirades?”

Abigail tilted her head. “Oh no, I welcome it. There are few joys greater than watching a man squirm at the mention of women having opinions.”

Eliza dissolved into delighted laughter. Arthur said nothing but inclined his head in quiet surrender, the corners of his lips twitching in spite of himself.

And just like that, the stiffness in Abigail’s shoulders eased.

The conversation flowed easily after that. They spoke of theatre, of London’s best bookstores, and the latest scandals at Almack’s—though Eliza reported those with a tone so laden with irony that Abigail couldn’t help but laugh. They also spoke of social disasters so excruciating they had no choice but to be funny in retrospect.

Eliza regaled them with an account of a musicale where she had been forced to endure an hour-long conversation about a gentleman’s recent foxhunt, while Abigail contributed the tale of a cousin who had proposed marriage with a speech stolen directly from a gothic novel.

“You’re jesting,” Eliza gasped.

“Alas, I am not,” Abigail replied. “He began with, ‘My soul is yours, though my fortune lies in disrepair.’”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly. “And people wonder why we’re disillusioned.”

He chuckled softly—an actual chuckle—and Abigail, catching the sound, felt the strange flutter return. It wasn’t affection, exactly. Not yet. But it was… pleasant. Familiar. Like sharing a secret no one else in the room knew.

The ease between them, so unforced, caught Abigail off guard. It had been so long since she had felt truly at ease in the company of near-strangers—especially near-strangers of rank and title. And yet here she sat, exchanging dry quips and literary preferences with Lord Beaumont’s sister, while the man himself watched her with a gaze that had grown more intent with each passing mile.

She could feel it—that attention, like the sun warming her skin even when veiled behind clouds. It was not oppressive. Rather, it was steady. Thoughtful. And that, perhaps, was more disarming than all the flowery flattery in the world.

The strength of his gaze startled her. It wasn’t romantic—nothing as clumsy as that—but there was something in the way he studied her now, as though seeing her afresh. His dark blue eyes, so often detached and distant, held a quiet alertness that made her pulse skip. As if he were memorizing her expression. Calculating some unseen equation in his head.

Their eyes held for just a second too long.

Abigail looked away, pretending to study the blur of houses passing by the window. The city had begun to thin now, Hyde Park’s familiar trees and open lawns appearing ahead.

She busied herself with conversation. “And you, Eliza? What do you read when you’re not tormenting your brother with novels?”

“Poetry,” she said, though her tone was playful. “But don’t tell Arthur. He’ll say it rots the mind.”

“I said no such thing,” Arthur muttered.

“You implied it.”

Arthur sighed, looking out the opposite window. “I merely stated that Byron is a self-indulgent narcissist.”

Eliza leaned toward Abigail. “Which, of course, is why I adore him.”

Abigail grinned. “I find a little self-indulgence now and then quite restorative.”

Arthur gave her a sidelong look. “You do.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement threaded with irony and something else—a flicker of interest, of curiosity.

For a moment, Abigail saw the trap opening beneath her feet. She had meant this entire arrangement as a shield. A deflection. But now, seated in this carriage, laughter still lingering on her lips, she felt her footing shift. Not dangerously. Not yet. But noticeably.

She had not expected to enjoy herself.

Worse, she had not expected to enjoy spending time with him .

And from the way Arthur kept stealing glances at her—those brief, flickering looks when he thought she wasn’t watching—he hadn’t expected to enjoy their time together either.

The ride through Hyde Park passed more quickly than she had anticipated in a blur of leaf-dappled light and blooming flowers. As the carriage rounded a curve near the Serpentine, a trio of riders cantered past, all glossy coats and clipped bonnets, while a pair of older ladies walking arm in arm paused to stare at the carriage, their heads tilted with unmistakable speculation. Abigail caught the glance exchanged between them—curiosity, interest, a shared whisper. Arthur raised his hand in dutiful greeting, but they seemed far more interested in gossip.

The game is afoot! Let the performance begin.

Though she would never admit it to herself or anyone else, it was almost thrilling to play this new role. Yet, seated here, across from the man who was now her partner in pretense, and beside the woman who had already, against all expectations, become something startlingly close to a friend, Abigail found herself uncertain of where the play ended and the truth began.

And that—more than Edward, more than her mother, more than society—was what unsettled her most.