Page 11 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The morning sunlight filtered through a gauzy veil of cloud with a cool, persistent grace, casting Hyde Park in a palette of soft silvers and muted golds. There was a certain clarity to the air that seemed particular to the season—neither wholly brisk nor yet warm, but carrying the promise of gentler days just beyond the horizon.

The trees, newly awakened from winter’s slumber, wore the fresh green of early spring like a whisper rather than a declaration, their budding leaves rustling in a breeze that danced along the serpentine paths and flirted with the ribbons on bonnets and the edges of silk pelisses.

Birdsong threaded delicately through the air, competing with the distant clatter of wheels and hooves beyond the gates, and the occasional exclamation of a child released from the confines of a drawing room. A pair of gentlemen passed on horseback, their figures striking against the pale light, while a nursemaid hurried after her charge, who had taken an enthusiastic liking to a passing squirrel.

London, ever watchful, loomed beyond the wrought-iron boundaries—its impressive facades and quiet wealth visible through the bare branches, as though the city itself were keeping a courteous distance, permitting its fashionable elite this fleeting illusion of bucolic charm. Yet even here, amidst the clipped hedges and manicured gravel walks, the pulse of society beat steadily beneath polished boots and murmured pleasantries, its rhythm as carefully composed as any ballroom quadrille.

The Beaumont carriage pulled to a smooth stop along the designated promenade, its glossy black panels gleaming like lacquered obsidian. The crest, modest yet unmistakable, caught the light with a muted gleam, drawing the eye of a passing lady whose gaze lingered just long enough to confirm the occupants within.

Arthur stepped down from the carriage first, offering his hand to Abigail as she descended. She took it without hesitation, her gloved fingers warm against his palm, her movements as fluid and composed as ever. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her eyes flicked briefly to the crowd before returning to his face, a shared understanding passing between them. This was for show. But the stakes were no less real.

Eliza alighted next, her usual brightness already engaged, scanning the tree-lined avenue until her smile widened in recognition.

Around them, the park moved on, as it always did. A pair of matrons whispered behind lace parasols. A dog barked from the lap of an elderly baronet. A group of young men—too extravagantly dressed to be entirely respectable—cast curious glances in their direction, already calculating the likelihood of a scandal worthy of supper conversation.

“Charles!” she called, waving.

Abigail’s cousin stood waiting near a gravel path, one hand resting casually on a walking stick, though Arthur suspected he carried it more for style than necessity. Charles Wescott was, in many ways, everything society admired in a gentleman—amiable, attractive, always well turned-out—but Arthur had never minded him. There was a sincerity to him that felt rare.

Charles greeted them with affable charm, bowing to Eliza with warmth and to Abigail with family ease.

“Well,” Charles said, eyes twinkling, “we do present quite the picture, don’t we? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were the toast of the park.”

“Then allow us to give them something worth toasting,” Eliza replied, linking her arm with his.

Arthur turned to Abigail and extended his own arm. She hesitated the barest fraction of a second before taking it, her fingers light upon his sleeve. Together, they fell into step along the main promenade, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot mingling with the quiet hum of other strollers passing by.

They made a striking group, Arthur had to admit. Eliza’s laughter floated ahead of them like music, while Charles kept pace beside her with practiced nonchalance. Beside Arthur, Abigail walked with an air of measured elegance, her bonnet framing her face in shadow and light. She wasn’t speaking, but he could feel her presence like a quiet current beside him.

The early crowd in the park noted them with passing glances—enough to ensure their presence would be remarked upon in salons and supper rooms, but not so much as to invite scandal. Their plan was working.

And yet…

Arthur found himself increasingly aware of how easily the pretense had begun to fit. The weight of Abigail’s hand on his arm, the soft cadence of her voice when she occasionally addressed Eliza or Charles, the way her eyes flicked up at him when someone passed too near—it was all seamless. Effortless.

Troublingly so.

He kept his expression fixed in its usual mask of polite reserve, but the sensation stirred beneath the surface—an unwanted flicker of something warm and admiring.

He pushed it away. Focused instead on the mechanics of the plan. Control was the key.

As they passed under a canopy of budding trees, Eliza proposed they stop for refreshments.

“There’s a tea-shop just off Berkeley Square,” she said brightly. “Very fashionable and completely overrun with scandalous gossip. We’ll fit in perfectly.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Charles said, his tone teasing. “Is that the one with the cherry scones and the entirely deaf proprietor?”

“Quite. He hears nothing,” Eliza said, “and somehow still knows everything.”

Abigail glanced toward Arthur, her expression carefully neutral. “Shall we?”

He nodded once. “It would be my pleasure.”

They returned to the carriage in the same pairs, and Arthur once again helped Abigail inside before following. The ride to Berkeley Square was brief, but quieter—Eliza and Charles exchanged light chatter, while Abigail sat beside Arthur in contemplative silence. She wasn’t withdrawn, merely thoughtful. As if reserving her energy for the next act.

The tea-shop was already bustling with activity by the time they arrived, its charming facade nestled between a bookbindery and a milliner’s shop along a quiet stretch of Berkeley Square.

Its windows, lightly fogged from within, bore the faintest tracery of condensation, softening the view of the cheerful scene inside like a wash of watercolor. Above the lintel hung a freshly painted sign— Bramley delicate lemon biscuits; currant buns; clotted cream and marmalade; slices of almond cake dusted with sugar so fine it shimmered in the sunlight like powdered silk.

The low murmur of voices curled around them, punctuated by the scrape of chair legs and the delicate chime of silver spoons stirring tea. A child laughed somewhere near the counter, swiftly hushed by a nursemaid. In a far corner, two elderly ladies examined their plates with the gravity of diplomats deciding the fate of nations.

Arthur accepted the menu but gave it only a cursory glance. His attention, was fixed on the woman beside him. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Abigail examined the tea selection with a slight furrow between her brows—a mark of consideration rather than indecision.

Her gloved finger traced a slow line down the page. There was something quite captivating in that moment, something unpretentious in the way she moved, focused not on her surroundings or their ever-watching audience but on the simple business of choosing a cup of tea.

She did not fidget, did not glance about to see who might be observing her. If she was conscious of the elaborate performance in which they were all engaged, she did not show it. On the contrary, she seemed to have slipped into her role with disarming ease—neither coquettish nor self-conscious, but steady, composed, and utterly untroubled.

When the server returned, Eliza ordered a fragrant tea with rose petals; Charles, a straightforward breakfast blend. Abigail selected a black tea flavored with oil of citrus fruit, and Arthur requested a strong black tea with lemon—his customary choice—and added a plate of currant cakes and a trio of cream tarts for the table.

As the server departed and their tea was poured from porcelain pots painted with tiny violets, Arthur allowed his gaze to return to Abigail.

She had turned toward him fully now, her expression unreadable, but her manner—calm, inquisitive, almost candid—seemed to invite something beyond the routine politeness of social interaction.

And he, without meaning to, leaned ever so slightly forward. As though, despite himself, he did not wish to miss a single word she might say.

“So,” she said, her voice low but steady. “I believe this is where we are meant to look rapturously into each other’s eyes and murmur about poetry.”

Arthur’s lips curved faintly. “Is that what young couples do these days?”

“That, and argue over which poets are misunderstood geniuses and which should be consigned to the ash heap.”

“I suppose I’d better learn to love Wordsworth, then.”

She smiled. “Not at all. I rather prefer Byron. The messier the better.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, then said, “you surprise me.”

She sipped her tea. “Often, I hope.”

Eliza leaned in from across the table. “What are you two conspiring about?”

“Whether Lord Beaumont has a soul,” Abigail replied mildly.

“An ongoing debate,” Arthur said. “Even I’m not certain.”

They laughed quietly, but Abigail’s gaze remained on him, a glint of something playful behind her composure.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me—do you prefer history to literature, or the other way round?”

Abigail set down her cup. “That’s a bit like asking if I prefer breathing or thinking.”

Arthur blinked. “You are fond of history, then.”

“Passionately. Particularly ancient Rome. The Republic era, to be precise.”

Arthur leaned back slightly, intrigued despite himself. “A surprising choice.”

“It’s not all violence and gladiators,” she said, her voice warming. “There’s rhetoric, philosophy, political maneuvering. Cicero. Cato. The fall of noble ideals. There’s a tragedy to it that feels oddly modern.”

He studied her face, noting how her expression had come alive with enthusiasm. Gone was the polished debutante mask—this was the real woman underneath. Intellect unfiltered. Thought unmarred by performance.

“I hadn’t expected that from you,” he admitted.

“I daresay you’ll find a number of things about me unexpected,” she replied, a touch of challenge in her tone.

“Undoubtedly.”

Eliza and Charles had turned their attention to a nearby table, clearly discussing something gossipy and ridiculous. Arthur was aware of their presence only dimly. Abigail held his attention with quiet force.

“And what of you?” she asked. “What do you read when you’re not being hounded by matchmaking mothers and literary skeptics?”

He hesitated. “History, mostly. Politics. A bit of philosophy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No novels?”

He smirked. “I confess, I have a weakness for gothic melodramas. Only the worst kind.”

Abigail looked momentarily stunned—then laughed aloud. It wasn’t demure or measured. It was full-bodied and utterly delightful.

“Well,” she said, eyes shining, “you’ve just upended every assumption I had about you.”

“Good,” Arthur said, his voice low. “Assumptions are dangerous things.”

Their tea cooled slowly as the conversation stretched onward. They discussed the romantic poets—she adored Shelley, he admired Keats. They debated whether Caesar’s ambition outweighed his brilliance.

Abigail’s eyes lit with quiet satisfaction as she lifted her teacup once more. “I confess I have a particular fondness for Marcus Aurelius. There’s something… grounding in the way he writes. As though he’s speaking not to an audience, but to himself.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened, intrigued by the candor in her tone. “You read Meditations , then?”

“Of course. More than once.”

He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching into something between a smile and a challenge. “Then I trust you’ll indulge me if I share a favourite line?”

Abigail tilted her head, intrigued. “By all means.”

Arthur’s voice dropped slightly, becoming quieter, almost reflective. “‘When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.’”

Abigail didn’t speak right away. The quote hung between them like a shared secret, gentle and steady.

“That one,” she said finally, “makes me feel both small and strangely powerful at once.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “As it should.”

And through it all, something bloomed between them—not affection, not yet, but familiarity. Respect. Interest. A kind of spark that neither had expected and neither entirely welcomed.

At one point, she turned to look out the window, and Arthur studied her in profile—the strong line of her jaw, the thoughtful set of her mouth, the elegant sweep of her neck beneath the edge of her bonnet.

She wasn’t what he’d expected. She wasn’t what society expected either.

And that made her dangerous.

He had often joked that he couldn’t abide young ladies of the ton who insisted on reciting poetry or having it recited to them—and yet, here he was doing that exact thing with Abigail, as if it was something he did every day.

It was unsettling for him to drop his guard.

But as she turned back to him and offered a quiet, knowing smile, Arthur realised—perhaps for the first time—that danger might not be a thing to avoid.

Perhaps, just this once, it was something to explore.

***

The return journey to the Darlington townhouse passed in a quiet sort of contentment. Abigail sat beside Eliza once more, both women quietly conversing about the tea-shop’s confections, their earlier walk, and the number of glances they’d drawn in Hyde Park. Yet, beside them, Arthur remained uncharacteristically quiet.

He listened with half an ear, nodding occasionally, but his thoughts were elsewhere. It unsettled him more than he’d care to admit—that he had not wanted the outing to end. The soft lilt of Abigail’s laughter, her eyes bright when she spoke of Marcus Aurelius, the way her brows knitted ever so slightly when she thought deeply—all of it had lingered with him longer than it should have. He had not expected the performance to feel so… real.

And now, as the carriage wheels clattered over the cobbles once more, drawing ever closer to the Darlington townhouse, a dull twist of reluctance tightened in his chest. The facade had held, indeed. But something beneath it had shifted.

He offered his hand as Abigail stepped down from the carriage, her gloved fingers brushing his only briefly. Their eyes met for a moment—hers calm and unreadable, his carefully masked—and then it was done. The moment had ended.

He offered her a small bow as she curtsied to him, but he did not trust himself to speak in case he told her to come back with them.

He had to remind himself, as he re-entered his carriage with Eliza, that it was supposed to be a game. It was all a ruse, and had to remain only that.