Page 13 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The table at Beaumont Manor gleamed with all the grandeur expected of a noble household. Wax-polished mahogany reflected the flicker of candlelight, while crystal decanters glowed like amber beneath their silver stoppers. Porcelain dishes, each bearing the Beaumont crest in gold filigree, sat in precise alignment atop linen so pristine it might have been cut from freshly fallen snow.

All the pageantry of rank and tradition was in place, and yet Arthur sat at the head of it with a weariness that not even the finest claret could dull. The family dining room was its own theatre of war. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, and the table was dressed to impress no one but itself. Nothing about it felt welcoming.

Lady Gillian Beaumont sat next to Arthur on his right, her posture impeccable, her expression composed in that particular way that suggested watchfulness behind every sip of wine and every neatly folded napkin. Her presence commanded attention, not with warmth, but with precision. She presided over dinner with the calm authority of a seasoned general inspecting her troops.

Arthur was looking around, his expression one of bland civility, honed over years of social obligation. Across from him, Eliza, his younger sister, picked at her pheasant with uncharacteristic quiet, her fork moving listlessly through her salad, and her usual lively charm muted as if anticipating battle.

Arthur knew this meal was not about food.

He braced himself.

The evening thus far had been filled with inconsequential pleasantries—remarks on the unusually fine spring weather, praise for a recent charity concert, idle speculation about upcoming events in the Season. It was all a prelude. Arthur knew it. Gillian knew it. Eliza, perhaps more sensitive than either of them to her mother’s moods, certainly knew it. His mother never rushed. She prepared her ground first, waited for just the right moment, and then struck with lethal precision.

It came, as it always did, under the guise of civility.

“Arthur,” Lady Gillian said, dabbing delicately at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, “am I to understand that your attentions this Season have been directed almost exclusively toward Miss Darlington?”

Eliza paused, her fork suspended mid-air and shot her brother a quick glance, her eyes wide with silent sympathy. Arthur placed his wine glass back on the table with careful deliberation.

“You understand correctly. We’ve met a few times,” he replied evenly. “At various engagements.”

“Hyde Park yesterday, I believe. And before that, Lady Maria’s musicale.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed.”

Gillian tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Curious. I confess myself... surprised. Especially considering the eligible young ladies you’ve ignored entirely who seem far more suitable. Lady Catherine Wilmot, for example. Or Miss Winthrop. Both quite well-situated, charming and fond of your company. They’re quite taken with you, too, I might add.”

Eliza sat very still.

Arthur’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment and he dabbed his mouth with a napkin before he replied. “Miss Darlington possesses intelligence, composure, and clarity of thought. I find her conversation refreshing and her company most agreeable.”

Gillian gave a cool, almost pitying smile. “‘Refreshing and agreeable’? Arthur, you owe it to the Beaumont name to make a match worthy of your station. One does not marry someone for being agreeable. You must think beyond polite conversation.” His mother said this lightly, though the sharp edge beneath her words was unmistakable. “Your match ought to reflect your title.”

Arthur maintained his external composure but, underneath the table, his nails scored half-moon crescents into the palms of his hands.

“She is intelligent,” he said calmly, “and far more sincere than most young ladies I have had the pleasure to meet.”

His mother’s lips thinned, and her eyes were cool and clear. “Miss Darlington is... pleasant to be sure, though she is unexceptional in pedigree. Her father is a newly ennobled baron and her mother, while tireless in ambition, is hardly a model of discretion.”

“Yet her father is titled. I see no need to enter into an alliance that offers nothing beyond a gilded pedigree,” he answered, his tone cool. “Miss Darlington’s family is respectable. Granted, her father’s title is newly made—but his business acumen and political career have earned him considerable regard.”

“That he is titled is hardly the point,” Gillian said, waving her hand as if brushing aside a fly. “He earned rather than inherited his title, at any rate.”

“Mama,” Eliza interjected gently, “surely we’ve never been a family to scorn merit.”

Gillian raised one perfectly arched brow. “Do not interrupt, Eliza. I did not say I scorned merit. But we must be realistic. You, of all people, should appreciate the importance of alliances.”

Arthur set down his fork, and exhaled sharply. “We are speaking of a woman’s worth as though it is determined solely by ledger and lineage.” His jaw clenched. “She is not a fool. And I assure you, if anyone is misinterpreting our acquaintance, it is not due to any encouragement on her part.”

Gillian was quiet for a moment, assessing him.

“You presume I speak from prejudice, Arthur, but I speak from experience. Do not mistake my realism for cruelty,” Gillian said, her voice soft but unyielding.

“We live in a world governed by expectation. Your name carries obligations, Arthur, and with those responsibilities come limitations. I understand Miss Darlington may provide you a measure of amusement. But surely you can see that she is not a viable match. The Season is not a game.”

“I never said it was.”

“Then do not behave as if it were.” She adjusted her bracelet, her tone casual—too casual.

Arthur stared at the silver candelabrum in the center of the table, its branches casting elegant shadows across the linen. It would be easier to say nothing. To let the conversation drift elsewhere.

But he had tired of simplicity.

“She is not amusement ,” he said pointedly. “She is intelligent, well-read, and possesses more dignity and self-possession than most of the so-called ‘viable’ matches you have paraded before me.”

Gillian’s expression remained composed, but her eyes had cooled.

“Eliza,” Gillian said suddenly, “did you not say Miss Darlington refused Lord Colton’s offer of a dance at the last ball?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps she declined,” Eliza said carefully, “but so did half the room.”

Gillian’s mouth curved into a smile that held no mirth. “Even so. She treads a dangerous line, that girl. A young lady cannot afford to cultivate too much independence—not if she wishes to maintain her prospects.”

Arthur reached for his wine, his knuckles white around the stem of the glass. “Mayhap she has no interest in maintaining prospects that would see her married off like livestock.”

His mother’s voice softened. “My dear, this is not a personal affront. Please don’t take such offence. I simply wish to see you settled with a woman who understands our world. Our responsibilities. One who will not make herself a burden.”

Arthur took a sip of wine, savoring the burn. His mother continued.

“If you are so determined to champion Miss Abigail,” she said, “you may find the task more challenging than you expect. Word reaches me that Lady Sophia Carter has returned to London—with her husband.”

The name hit him like a gust of cold air.

Sophia.

He hadn’t heard her name spoken aloud in a long time.

The room stilled. The conversation abruptly halted. Even the fire seemed to pause, its gentle crackle suddenly louder.

Eliza looked down at her plate.

While she acknowledged the effect of her words, Lady Gillian did not flinch. “Sophia,” she said after a beat, “was everything a future Viscountess should be. Poised, well-connected, accomplished. That she chose otherwise is her misfortune. Not yours.”

“Is that why you mention her?” Arthur asked quietly. “To remind me of what I failed to keep?” He pushed a piece of roasted duck across the porcelain, carefully, deliberately, as if it mattered. His appetite had deserted him. Matchmaking was one thing, but this level of cruelty felt like a step too far.

Gillian reached for her wine glass and took a delicate sip. “I only mention her because I thought you should be aware of her return. She arrived back from Florence with her husband earlier this week. I imagine they will be quite in demand. She is, after all, still remembered fondly in certain circles.”

Gillian set down her glass with an audible clink. “You ought to be aware of those who shape the conversation in this city. That includes old flames. And new distractions.”

He gave a single, clipped nod. “Noted.”

Gillian’s eyes were sharp. “I only thought you should be aware.”

It struck him hard.

Back in the city where he had once imagined—foolishly, so foolishly—that they would build a life together. The woman who had once looked at him with promise in her eyes, only to throw him aside for a title that outweighed his by a fraction.

He took another sip of wine. Then another. But the burn did nothing to dispel the heat building at the base of his throat.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Your intelligence gathering is, as ever, impeccable, Mother.”

Arthur pushed back from the table.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I find I have little appetite for further nourishment… or to endure any more of this conversation.”

He walked out, his shoulders stiff, leaving Gillian in imperial silence and Eliza watching him go with quiet worry.

***

The club was quiet that evening, the kind of quiet peculiar to the more exclusive establishments of London. A low hum of conversation in polished corners, the rustle of newspapers, the occasional clink of crystal against wood. The scent of fine tobacco lingered in the air, and the fire crackled behind a marble hearth.

Arthur stood near the mantelpiece for a long moment, drink in hand, before lowering himself into one of the deep leather armchairs beside the hearth. He exhaled slowly, as though casting off the weight of the evening. The shadows around him deepened, softened by the firelight. For the first time all day, he allowed his posture to ease.

Moments later, James Fitzwilliam entered the room with his usual unbothered charm, shedding his coat and gloves with casual grace before sinking into the armchair opposite his friend.

“You look as though you’ve spent the evening in a storm,” James said, peering over the rim of his glass.

Arthur’s mouth lifted faintly. “Worse. I spent it with my mother.”

James offered a sympathetic grimace. “A fate I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Was it the usual barrage of matrimonial strategy, or has she expanded into managing your political career as well?”

“Matrimonial, as ever,” Arthur replied, swirling his brandy. “With the added dagger of informing me that Lady Sophia Carter has returned to town.”

James blinked. “Sophia?”

Arthur nodded once, his jaw tight. “Back from Florence. With her husband.”

There was a pause.

“I see,” James said carefully. “And you’re…?”

“Unsurprised. Unsettled. Unmoved. I haven’t decided yet.”

James leaned back. “Forgive me, but you don’t sound unmoved.” He hesitated for a moment. “Are you all right?”

Arthur gave a short laugh. “As well as one can be when reminded of former idiocy in love. It’s the memory of the thing that stings. Not the woman herself.”

James didn’t press him, instead settled back into his chair with a quiet hum of acknowledgment. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly between them.

At last, Arthur leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low.

“There’s something else.”

James arched a brow.

Arthur stared into the fire. “The courtship. With Miss Darlington. It’s not real.”

A moment passed before James replied. “Not real? Oh, good,” he said. “We haven’t had a proper scandal in weeks.”

“It’s a ruse. An agreement between us.” Arthur glanced toward the doorway, ensuring no one lingered nearby. “We made a pact—to shield ourselves from social pressures, to satisfy family expectations. Nothing more.”

James gave a slow, incredulous chuckle. “You’re jesting.”

“I assure you; I am not.”

“Oh, Heavens,” James said, shaking his head. “And here I was beginning to think you’d genuinely softened.”

Arthur grimaced. “That’s the problem. It was supposed to be clean. Practical. But I find myself—”

He hesitated, the firelight catching in the glass he still held. “I find myself... enjoying her company. More than I intended. More than is advisable.”

Arthur ran a hand over his face. “Now I find myself looking for her. Listening more carefully than I ought. I know when she’s in a room before I see her. She says things that stay with me. Days later, I’m still thinking about them.”

James gave him a long look, then leaned forward. “Then the arrangement is no longer harmless.”

“No,” Arthur said quietly. “It’s not.”

“I never intended for it to become real,” Arthur said.

They sat in silence once more, the fire the only sound between them.

Unbeknownst to either gentleman, seated just beyond a high velvet screen on the far side of the room, a third party had taken particular interest in their exchange. Just beyond the reach of the firelight, concealed behind a wide column near the reading alcove, the man sat in silence with his back to the wall, a newspaper folded idly in his lap. His expression gave nothing away. But his eyes were sharp. Watching. Listening.

Edward Colton had arrived at the club half an hour earlier and, spotting Arthur and Fitzwilliam engaged in private conversation, had taken up a quiet post in the shadows. He had not initially intended to eavesdrop. But once he heard the cadence of Arthur’s voice, low and confessional, and caught the word “ruse,” he found himself motionless, his ears pricked.

And when Arthur spoke of the ‘agreement’ with Miss Darlington, of enjoying her company more than he ought, Edward’s eyes lit with slow, gleaming satisfaction.

Of course, he had heard on the grapevine of their little stroll through Hyde Park and their public appearance at the tea room, but it hadn’t fazed him in the slightest, so confident was he of his own success with Miss Abigail’s mother. It was always the mamas of the ton that held supreme power in these situations, and he very much doubted Lady Harriet would be satisfied with Arthur Beaumont as a suitable match if he was the alternative.

It had been an annoying little glitch in his plan that he intended to smooth over quickly and efficiently. After all, Arthur was hardly a threat. And now he was discovering that it had all been a performance. The lingering glances, carriage rides, and promenades—it had been nothing more than a charade. A fabrication designed to mislead society, no doubt with the complicity of the girl herself.

He briefly wondered what pressures had prompted the initiation of this little ploy, but quickly lost interest, finding the whole concept rather boring. Whatever their reasons, they weren’t his to care about. It would be a fleeting interest, a passing flirtation which hadn’t been entirely real in the first place.

And yet… it sounded as though at least one of the pair was beginning to experience a fondness. Arthur had expressed enjoying Miss Darlington’s company, and Edward would need to put a stop to any reciprocal feelings if his plan ought to succeed. Not that he thought Abigail would be even vaguely impressed with the likes of Beaumont as a suitor.

He could scarcely resist clapping his hands together. This was the leverage he needed, but did he know how to utilize it to its best effect?

The knowledge that the Viscount of Westbrook had orchestrated a false courtship, and that Miss Abigail Darlington had been party to it, was more than idle gossip. It was a scandal in waiting. And should the right people be made aware of it—should the whispers be directed carefully, strategically—it would unravel their little game with devastating precision.

But Edward did not intend to simply expose the pair.

No, his ambition stretched further.

He had long since decided that Abigail Darlington would be his bride. He had little use for sentiment—but she would be an invaluable possession for the advancement of his interests, and her family name offered enviable social stability and fortune. Her father’s connection to the tea trade remained of particular interest to him, as did her reputation for modesty and distinction.

And now, he possessed the means to corner her into accepting his suit. All he needed was the right moment, the right manipulation of public perception, and perhaps a subtle suggestion of impropriety. After all, society rarely required facts to form its judgments.

He allowed himself a slow, pleased breath, folding his newspaper with quiet precision. The weight of this revelation was delicious, heavy with potential. He rose from his chair with the same cool nonchalance with which he had entered, abandoning his untouched drink, pausing only to sweep a hand over his coat front as if brushing off the final specks of dust from a long day’s scheming.

The corridor beyond the reading room stretched long and dim, the sconces flickering at intervals like cautious confidants. He walked slowly, thoughtfully, each footstep measured as he plotted, his mind whirring with calculation.

He could, of course, announce the truth at once—drop it like a stone into the glittering pool of society and watch the ripples spread. But no, that would not do. It would be too sudden, too transparent, and perhaps worst of all, it would make him appear vindictive.

And Edward Colton would not be thought petty. No, he would be strategic. Cunning. Precise.

He would begin by pressing himself further into Abigail’s company, cloaked in courtesy, armed with plausible innocence. He would be the picture of concern—gentle, and admiring, yet persistent in his attentions. And should she rebuff him again, he would appear wounded, but never angered. A man of feeling.

She would not realise until it was too late that every kind word was a noose, every gesture of gallantry another knot in the trap he was laying.

But the big revelation—the true satisfaction—would come in stages.

He would first turn public sentiment. Begin with idle conversation among matrons of leisure, and men of idle wit. A murmured observation about how sudden the courtship seemed. How odd that neither Arthur nor Abigail had ever shown much interest in one another before. He might even allow someone else to wonder aloud whether it was not all a little… staged.

And then, when those whispers had begun to take root, he would water them with care. A mis-delivered letter. A conversation, carelessly overheard. A knowing glance passed to the right lady at the right musicale. And then, at the moment of greatest delicacy, he would take his pièce de résistance to Harriet Darlington herself.

She, he knew, was ever hungry for prestige and propriety and would be enchanted by his attentions as she always had been. But, what would she do if she discovered her daughter’s reputation could be teetering on the brink of ruin? If she believed a man like Arthur Beaumont had trifled with Abigail’s future for the sake of convenience? To what might she agree to preserve her daughter’s standing?

The answer was clear.

A respectable offer. From a man of title, wealth, and evident interest. He had no doubt he could sway Harriet without the threat of a scandal. She had been more than willing to entertain him in the hopes that her daughter would be betrothed to him before the Season was out, but Abigail was proving harder to convince, and now he had exactly what he needed to make her see sense.

He could already imagine it. Harriet fluttering, and frantic, clutching pearls and protocol while Abigail sat, pale and furious, realizing just how thoroughly the game had turned against her. And he would smile.

He would smile, and offer himself with solemn gravity, as if he were honoring her by bestowing upon her the most precious gift rather than sealing her into a prison of his own design.

Oh, yes. He would have her. Not for love—he was far beyond such illusions—but for power. For satisfaction. For revenge.

Emerging into the foggy chill of the London street, he paused beneath a flickering lamp and turned his face upward. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and damp stone, a scent he found oddly invigorating.

The night was silent save for the distant rattle of carriage wheels and the echo of boot heels on cobbled alleys. He lingered a moment, one gloved hand resting against the iron railing that bordered the club’s steps, and allowed the full shape of his plan to settle like a mantle across his shoulders.

Arthur Beaumont thought he could manipulate society, and play the courtship game by his own rules. And Abigail Darlington, with her pride and her wit, thought herself clever enough to outpace the system.

But neither of them had factored in Lord Colton.

Neither of them had realised that the man they had dismissed—the suitor refused, the guest overlooked—was watching.

Plotting. Outsmarting them. And ready to strike.

With one final glance at the darkened club behind him, he turned and disappeared into the night, already composing the first line of gossip that would begin the unraveling.

Let the facade continue and the games commence.

He would be waiting for the moment it cracked and he was almost bursting with joy at the prospect.

For once, Edward Colton had the upper hand.

And he intended to make it count.