Page 12 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The Beaumont carriage pulled away with smooth elegance, disappearing around the corner with a clatter of hooves on cobblestone and a flick of polished wheels. Abigail lingered for a moment in the entrance hall, her gloved hand resting lightly on the banister. Her mind was still half in Hyde Park—half in that sun-drenched tea shop, where conversation had felt like the unfolding of a page in a cherished book.

She took in a deep breath and exhaled, softly as she climbed the stairs and made her way to her chambers. Upon opening the door, she was startled to find Lydia in her room, organizing her dresses, and accessories ready for the next social occasion.

“Sorry, miss. I did not mean to frighten you. Shall I lay out your blue silk for this evening, miss?” came the familiar voice of Lydia, her maid, standing patiently nearby.

“No problem, Lydia. My thoughts were elsewhere. Yes, thank you,” Abigail replied, removing her bonnet and gloves. “And mayhap the pearl drop earrings.”

“Shall I run you a bath, miss?”

“Thank you, Lydia. That would be most kind of you.”

***

The sun was lowering as Abigail moved to the window and stood for a moment, staring out across the rooftops while Lydia busied herself with her evening gown.

The sky was soft with the last light of day. Below, a street vendor called out to passersby, the distant clatter of a carriage wheel echoed from the mews. And yet, despite the familiar London sounds, the air felt different now—taut, expectant, as though she had crossed some invisible threshold.

By the time she had changed into her evening gown, Abigail was almost— almost —able to convince herself that the outing to Hyde Park and the tea-shop had been nothing more than a successful act. Just another chapter in the charade to convince the ton of a blossoming courtship.

Except her skin still tingled faintly where Arthur’s fingertips had brushed her hand. And the words they’d exchanged over tea echoed with startling clarity in her mind.

Quite honestly, she had not expected to enjoy herself and she couldn’t help but be troubled by the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed an excursion so keenly.

Arthur Beaumont had, quite against her expectations, made her feel seen. He had listened without seeking to impress, spoken without needing to control the conversation. He had asked what she thought about Marcus Aurelius. About Rome . And he had listened to and understood her answers.

She wasn’t used to that.

“Miss?” Lydia prompted gently. “Would you like help with your hair?”

“Yes, please,” Abigail said, and seated herself before the mirror.

As Lydia carefully pinned her hair into an elegant chignon, Abigail stared at her own reflection. The young woman who looked back at her was the same, and yet… quite changed. There was a brightness in her eyes she hadn’t noticed before. A flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with added colour or the sun.

A gentle knock on her bedchamber door interrupted her thoughts. A footman stood in the doorway, bowing.

“Your mother asks that you join her in the drawing room. She says… your guests will arrive shortly.”

Abigail frowned. “Guests?”

“Mr. Edward Colton and his mother.”

The footman left before Abigail could muster a suitable expression of dismay. Of course. Edward. She should have known the reprieve wouldn’t last.

Why did her mother insist on continuing this dreadful idea? Was a promenade out with Arthur not enough to convince her that there were more suitable options than that abhorrent man?

Any lingering warmth from the morning evaporated as the footman closed the door.

Surely the gossip-mongers had spread rumors about their tea-room visit by now! She had no doubt that rumors of their trip would have circulated all over London—and beyond—before she’d even returned home, so why did her mother not desist with this nonsense?

Abigail took several calming breaths, and descended the stairs with carefully schooled composure. The scent of roasted duck and buttered vegetables hung in the air—one of her favorite dishes—but the thought of an evening spent with Edward stifled her appetite.

When she entered the drawing room moments later, Harriet was already positioned near the fireplace, examining a cut crystal decanter with the air of a woman who expected guests of diplomatic significance.

“Ah, Abigail,” her mother said, barely looking up. “Do stand a little straighter, darling. They’ll be here any minute.”

“They?” she asked, knowing full well that her fate was sealed, but determined to make a point to her mother that she was less than impressed.

“Lord and Lady Colton. Edward and his dear mother. I told you this morning, did I not?”

“No, you did not ,” Abigail replied evenly, clasping her hands before her. “Judging from your demeanour, I assumed we were expecting royalty.”

“Oh. Well. No matter.” Lady Harriet continued, as if her words were of no consequence. “They’ll be thrilled to see you. Besides, you must have known this would be the natural next step. Lady Margaret is quite taken with you, and Edward… well. He has made his interest clear.”

“Yes. Indeed, he has. Though I had rather hoped you would recognise by now that the feeling wasn’t entirely mutual.”

“What did you say, dear? You really must stop mumbling. Enunciation is one of the first things expected of a marriageable young lady.” She waved her hand as if to say she had done her best, but Abigail was a lost cause.

Abigail gave her no response. What was the point?

A few moments later, the butler opened the door with all the subdued theatricality he could muster. “Lord Edward Colton and Lady Margaret Colton.”

Abigail rolled her eyes to the heavens, and then closed them for a moment as if willing herself to remain calm. She pictured herself sitting in a beautiful garden next to a lake that sparkled in the sunshine. She visualized the flowers, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the gentle sound of insects. It was a beautiful moment of respite; a glorious departure from the inevitable noise that was about to invade her peace.

Pray give me strength.

Edward entered first, all polished boots, gleaming cufflinks, and—as ever—a smile that tried too hard. He reminded Abigail of a shark. Had he always had so many teeth? His mother followed closely behind, elegant in a way that suggested wealth layered over icy calculation.

“Lady Harriet,” Edward beamed, striding forward and bowing deeply. “A delight, as always.”

“Lord Edward,” Harriet purred, accepting his hand with a transparent pleasure that made Abigail feel ill. “And Lady Margaret, how lovely of you both to join us.”

Abigail offered a curtsy, as restrained as etiquette allowed.

Edward turned to her. “Miss Darlington. You are looking especially radiant this evening.” His gaze swept over her, lingering too long, too knowingly. His eyes dropped from her lips to the neckline of her dress. “You truly are a vision.”

“Thank you,” she murmured wishing the ground would open beneath her. She smiled with practiced politeness, even as her stomach turned.

Dinner was announced soon after, and Harriet directed the seating with precision. Edward, naturally, was placed at her right hand, across from Abigail, who took her place with a grace born of years of practice, folding her napkin into her lap. Lady Margaret sat further down.

Edward wasted no time in dominating the conversation. How that man loved to hold court—loved the sound of his own voice.

“I must tell you,” he began, “I have recently acquired a new gelding—Arabian stock, fine legs, coat like burnished gold. Quite a conversation piece in the stables.”

“Indeed,” Lady Margaret said. “His name is Ajax. Edward insists on classical names for all his horses.”

“How refined,” Harriet purred, her eyes shining with the kind of maternal glee that always made Abigail feel like a prize to be given away.

Abigail took a measured sip of her wine, not because she particularly wished to drink, but because it gave her an excuse not to speak. She had considered drinking several glasses to dim the memory of the evening, but it wouldn’t do for a lady to have a loose tongue. She was bound to voice her true opinions and that would never do. She would never hear the end of it.

The wine was decent—light and dry—but did nothing to ease the dull throb forming just above her eyes. A headache, slow and creeping, born not from the evening’s exertions but from the relentless barrage of empty conversation.

Edward’s voice rolled on. “Of course, there are challenges. Finding a suitable groom these days is a veritable ordeal. I had to dismiss the last one after he—get this—served my gelding tepid water.”

He laughed as if this were an extraordinary anecdote.

Abigail did not.

Harriet dutifully laughed along, her fan fluttering. “Oh, how dreadful!”

“Yes, quite unacceptable,” Lady Margaret agreed. “And of course, Edward handled the situation with such authority. He’s always had an instinct for management. Even as a boy, he insisted on overseeing the household accounts when his father was abroad.”

“A prodigy,” Harriet breathed. “So very rare in men of his age.”

Abigail resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she set her glass down with a little more force than she intended.

She thought of Arthur—quiet, considered Arthur—who had said less in an hour than Edward had in two minutes, and yet he had conveyed so much more thought, more insight, more genuine conversation.

Edward spoke as if he were narrating an endless monologue to an audience of fawning admirers, with no expectation—or perhaps no desire—for the opinions of others.

“You were lovely at the musicale,” Edward said suddenly, turning to her. “My mother was so disappointed to have missed your performance. I assured her it was exquisite.”

“It was tolerable,” Abigail replied. “I prefer reading to performing.”

Edward waved his hand. “Well, yes, but all ladies say that. Modesty, and so forth.”

She blinked at him. “ All ladies? Do they?”

He didn’t hear the edge in her voice. Or chose not to.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you must come riding with me sometime, Miss Abigail. Ajax takes well to new company. I imagine he’d be charmed by you.”

Abigail resisted the impulse to remark that she had no desire to charm a horse. Instead, she smiled with what she hoped was sufficient blandness to discourage further enthusiasm. “I shall consider it.”

Edward beamed, utterly convinced by his own success.

Beside him, Lady Margaret nodded approvingly—as though the match were all but sealed—before offering her own contribution. “Of course, I do think Abigail would find our countryside estate quite peaceful. It has a lovely library—though mostly filled with my late husband’s law books.”

Abigail inhaled slowly through her nose, then reached for her wine again.

Her mother jumped in. “Oh, how wonderful. Abigail simply adores libraries.”

“Indeed,” Abigail said, with a smile that was more grimace than anything else, “so long as the books aren’t legal treatises.”

“What a marvelous sense of humour!” Lady Margaret laughed.

Edward laughed too loudly. “A spirited wit! I adore that.”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was a claim.

Abigail glanced at the chandelier overhead, entertaining—for the briefest of moments—the image of it falling directly onto the table. At least that would be an interruption. A welcome one. Even if it landed on her head.

“Of course,” Edward said, between mouthfuls of soup, and bread which he chewed with his mouth open, “what I admire most in a young lady is a balance of liveliness and decorum. There’s a line, you see. A woman must be clever, but not too opinionated. Modest, but not dull. Graceful, but not aloof. It’s a fine art, really.”

Abigail stared at him. “Indeed. So reassuring to know the correct balance has already been so precisely defined.”

Lady Margaret patted her son’s hand fondly. “Edward is a great admirer of symmetry—in horses, in gardens, and in courtship .”

Harriet laughed again, this time with a touch of pride that made Abigail’s stomach twist. “My daughter is fortunate to attract such discerning admiration.”

“I consider it no less than my duty to offer it,” Edward said solemnly, as if he were laying a wreath at the tomb of an honored statesman.

Abigail’s fingers clenched around the stem of her glass. She made a conscious effort to relax lest she might shatter it accidentally.

Perhaps an injury wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. At least I would have an excuse to leave.

She was invisible. Or rather, not invisible—present, but only in the way an ideal portrait was present. A woman to be spoken about, arranged, praised, and claimed, but never really known. They all spoke around her, over her, through her. As if she were already some man’s possession, to be discussed in terms of suitability and ornamentation, like a drawing room chair or a well-mannered spaniel.

If she opened her mouth and screamed, would they notice?

Probably not.

And for one wild, treasonous moment, she considered doing just that. Not to alarm anyone, or to cause scandal, but simply to make it clear that she was here. That she had thoughts. That she existed, not as a vision or a name on a guest list, but as a woman with opinions and preferences and a rapidly deteriorating sense of patience.

Instead, she forced another smile, colder this time, and glanced toward the windows, toward the waning light of day. How far away Hyde Park suddenly felt. How much farther still the quiet intelligence of a certain Viscount who asked questions instead of giving lectures.

As the second course was served—roasted duck with a red currant glaze—Lady Margaret dabbed delicately at her mouth with a lace-trimmed napkin and turned her sharp gaze fully on Abigail.

“My dear,” she said, her tone the brittle sort of sweetness that carried daggers beneath it, “I must say, your complexion has improved tremendously since the Season began. When I saw you last spring, you had such a... pale quality about you. Almost sallow. But now you’ve found some colour.”

Abigail blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or take offense. So, she was in the room after all, but only as someone to be criticized and judged. Marvelous.

“London air agrees with me, I suppose,” she replied evenly, reaching for her wine glass. Noticing she was running dry, a footman topped up her glass and she clocked a look from her mother which told her to slow down.

Lady Margaret nodded. “Indeed, or perhaps you’ve finally begun to grow into your features. That can take time in some girls. Late bloomers, as it were.”

Across the table, Harriet chuckled as though that were the most delightful remark she’d ever heard.

“Oh, Lady Margaret, you do have such a way with words,” she cooed.

Abigail glanced at her mother. Not even a flicker of defense in her expression—only satisfaction that her daughter was being noticed .

Lady Margaret pressed on. “I was saying to Edward only yesterday how refreshing it is that you’ve not succumbed to any of the more vulgar fashions. That dreadful French style—colour in excess and a décolletage best suited to actresses. I told him, ‘Edward, now there’s a girl who’s been raised properly.’”

Abigail felt her spine stiffen. “I’m sure you flatter me, Lady Margaret.”

“Not at all,” she replied smoothly. “It’s simply true. Of course, one always hopes for natural elegance in a prospective match. And as I said, yours is… developing nicely .”

Abigail stifled a choke as she almost inhaled a piece of duck.

At least now I can see where her son gets his version of being complimentary.

Edward gave a low chuckle. “She’s always so precise, my mother.”

Abigail fixed a thin smile in place. “Indeed.”

The conversation soon shifted to the state of the theatres in Covent Garden, and Lady Margaret’s lament that so many playwrights had turned to “pedestrian” themes. She spoke over Harriet with regularity and dismissed Abigail’s attempts to contribute with a wave of her hand.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the light operettas,” she said with a gracious smile. “They’re more suited to a feminine sensibility. All those romances and melodramas…”

“I prefer Shakespeare,” Abigail replied.

Lady Margaret blinked. “Really? I always found him rather... weighty. All that…male ruminating. Brooding gents, and tragic heroines.”

And wouldn’t the world be such a dull place if we all shared the same opinions?

Abigail gritted her teeth and counted to three before responding.

“He does have a great deal to say about the way power and ambition corrupt the soul,” Abigail countered.

Lady Margaret gave a condescending laugh, as though amused that Abigail would bother herself with such thoughts. “How clever of you to think of it that way.”

If Abigail had not spent years mastering the art of polite conversation, she might have buried her fork in the tablecloth… or, better yet, would have thrown it at Lady Margaret.

Instead, she sat straighter and said nothing, letting her silence speak louder than words.

Edward spoke of his recent visit to the family estate—how tiresome the steward had been, how difficult it was to find good help these days. He complimented Harriet’s table settings, praised the wine with a flourish, and offered a thinly veiled comparison between the Darlingtons’ silverware and a set gifted to his mother by a duchess.

Abigail said little. She picked at her food. She answered when addressed. But the lively, thoughtful woman from that morning had vanished, tucked carefully away beneath the armor of social composure. The familiar, suffocating weight of expectation pressed down upon her shoulders like waterlogged wool.

And through it all, Harriet was the epitome of a charming, insipid hostess.

Abigail folded her napkin, slowly and with great care. If she didn’t, she might throttle someone with it.

Harriet beamed across the table, utterly oblivious. “Such delightful company, is it not?”

Abigail gave a hollow laugh. “Delightful, indeed.”

And she wondered, as Edward launched into a tale about the breeding habits of his favorite mare, whether madness—or even death— might be preferable to marriage.

Edward’s every empty compliment was received like a prize. His self-congratulatory stories were met with nods and encouraging laughter. Her mother didn’t so much as glance at Abigail, not truly—and certainly not with any interest about how she felt.

Abigail turned her gaze to the tall windows, letting the sounds of the room blur together. How was it that only hours earlier, she had sat at another table with another man and felt that she could be so unapologetically herself?

Arthur had not tried to flatter her. He had not spoken over her, or to her as though she were some prize to be won. He had asked her about Cicero . He had quoted Marcus Aurelius without smugness or showmanship. He had listened .

She could still hear his voice.

Assumptions are dangerous things.

What, then, what could she assume now?

That Edward wanted to marry her. That her mother wanted the same. That society would cheer the match and judge her ungrateful if she resisted.

But what about what she wanted—had anyone ever asked?

By the time dessert was served, Abigail felt the weight of the entire day catching up with her—an aching contrast between two worlds. The first, shared with Eliza and Arthur, where conversation had meant connection and performance had blurred into something more. And now, this—a table laid with silver and crystal, where words were currency and affection merely a performance for gain.

She looked across at Edward. He smiled at her, possessive and certain. He continued to dominate the conversation, praising himself and gently mocking lesser men, while Harriet and Lady Margaret clucked approvingly like mother hens. Abigail watched them from across the table, the two mothers united in their shared ambition.

And all the while, her resolve crystallized.

This could not— would not —be her life.

She had seen something better. Not grander. Not richer. But truer .

She might not yet understand what Arthur Beaumont truly felt for her—if anything—but she knew what she felt in his company. Ease. Respect. Possibility.

When the butler came to clear the last of the dishes, Abigail offered a cool smile to Lady Margaret, a brief curtsy to Lord Edward, then excused herself with impeccable grace.

But, as she ascended the stairs at a measured pace, her stiff posture gradually softened with relief upon her successful escape, her thoughts remained solely fixed upon Lord Arthur.