Page 14 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

Sunlight spilled generously through the tall sash windows of Abigail Darlington’s dressing room, casting long golden beams across the polished floorboards and gilded mirrors. A delicate scent of lavender permeated the air from sachets tucked into linen drawers, and beneath the filtered morning light, the room looked like a page from one of her novels—graceful, orderly, and deceptively tranquil.

But any semblance of tranquility was merely an optical illusion.

The chamber was a quiet flurry of activity as preparations for the afternoon’s outing to Egyptian Hall reached their peak. Ribbons were unfurled across the bed, and silk slippers lined up for inspection. Abigail sat poised at her vanity, her spine straight but her mind far less composed than her posture suggested.

Her thoughts raced, skipping from Arthur’s lingering glance during their last conversation, to the vague unease in her chest at the idea of being paraded through yet another public outing under the guise of a courtship that—at least in theory—meant nothing.

Lydia, standing just behind her with a patient, practiced air, lifted another section of Abigail’s dark chestnut hair and began to wind it into a soft coil. Her fingers moved with deft precision, anchoring the twist with a discreet pin.

“Are you quite certain about the green muslin, miss?” she asked quietly, her eyes bright with enthusiasm as she held it up to the window to catch the light. She glanced at Abigail’s reflection in the mirror. “The lavender taffeta would bring out the colour in your eyes.”

Abigail smiled faintly, though her mind was far from fabrics. “No… the green, I think. It’s the same I wore to Lady Ainsworth’s garden breakfast last spring.”

“Ah,” Lydia murmured, smoothing a curl into place. “A favourite, then.”

“Familiar,” Abigail said, then after a pause, “safe.”

Lydia arched a brow, but did not press further. She knew when her mistress wanted to speak—and when she did not.

A few moments passed in companionable silence, broken only by the faint clink of silver hairpins being set aside. Abigail’s fingers toyed with the edge of her vanity cloth. She felt the tension building, not unlike the tightness of her corset being pulled just a fraction too snug.

“Do you think I’m mad, Lydia?” she asked at last, her voice low.

The maid paused mid-motion, then resumed her work with studied calm. “That would depend, miss. Mad for trusting a Viscount? Or mad for trusting yourself?”

Abigail let out a soft breath. “Both, mayhap.”

Lydia met her gaze in the mirror again, her eyes steady. “You’ve always trusted your own judgment, miss. You’re sharper than any young lady I’ve ever seen cross this threshold. If you’re worried, it means you’re thinking. And I reckon that’s far more dangerous than being mad.”

That drew a reluctant smile from Abigail. “You ought to be a philosopher.”

“I’ll settle for a lady’s maid with an opinion,” Lydia said with a hint of mischief, tucking a final curl into place. Her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “If I may be so bold, miss, Lord Beaumont will be very taken with you.”

Abigail glanced toward the dress, freshly pressed and laid out across her bed, its fabric shimmering subtly in the sunlight. “Thank you, Lydia. You always say the right things.”

Lydia smiled, pleased. “You do flatter me, miss, but I shall admit I take great pride in dressing you for Lord Beaumont’s eyes—if I may say so. He seems a fine gentleman. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, miss. It’s rather lovely.”

Abigail laughed gently, concealing the flutter in her chest at the mention of Arthur’s name. “You may say so, but be careful. One might almost suspect you of romance. It’s important we don’t seem to try too hard.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “Beg your pardon, miss?”

“Nothing, Lydia. Merely a reminder to myself,” Abigail replied quickly, her eyes dropping momentarily from her own reflection.

Abigail felt a pang of affection for the young maid’s sincerity and allowed the moment of light-heartedness to linger. Lydia’s warmth and candor had become indispensable to her, especially now, when so much in her life felt uncertain.

“Now, let’s talk about gloves. Cream or dove-grey?”

“Cream,” Abigail replied, rising to her feet. “And perhaps the pearl-drop earrings, if they’re still in the drawer.”

“They are,” Lydia confirmed, already moving to retrieve them. “And the reticule?”

Abigail glanced at the heap of belongings neatly arranged atop the chaise. “The green beaded one, I think.”

“Yes, miss.” Lydia handed her the tiny bag with a respectful nod. “You shall impress, if I may say so. Miss Eliza and Lord Beaumont won’t find a single thing amiss.”

She turned toward the mirror once more, this time studying herself with a more critical eye. The soft green muslin flattered her complexion. Her hair was arranged with elegant simplicity. Her gloves, fan, and reticule were all perfectly coordinated.

She looked every inch the lady embarking on a well-formed courtship. Lydia had worked her usual magic—the delicate sweep of her curls, the elegant simplicity of the gown’s neckline, and the subtle gleam of pearl earrings borrowed from her mother’s collection. It was a careful balance of effortless charm and restrained elegance, entirely suitable for the outing.

And yet, the reflection looking back at her felt like both herself and a stranger.

“You’ll dazzle the whole of London, miss.” Lydia said.

Abigail’s smile was wistful. “Let us hope only a portion of it, and not all at once.”

A gentle knock broke their quiet interlude. The door opened slightly, and Harriet peeked inside, her sharp eyes immediately noting Abigail’s chosen attire.

“The green is acceptable,” she pronounced curtly, “though you might have considered something more striking. Still, perhaps Lord Beaumont will prefer subtlety.”

Before Abigail could reply, her mother disappeared down the hall, leaving an amused Lydia shaking her head. “Well, it seems you’ve chosen wisely indeed, miss,” she jested. “Or acceptably, at least.”

Abigail nodded once. Her gloves were already in place. She lifted her chin, summoned a smile that would serve her in good stead, and walked toward the door.

Charles waited for her downstairs, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion—a deep-blue coat, buff breeches and polished shoes—his hat tucked neatly beneath his arm. “Abigail, you look splendid. Egyptian Hall shall scarcely know what has befallen it,” he jested gently, his eyes sparkling with their usual warmth.

Abigail smiled warmly, feeling at ease with her cousin’s easy presence. “I rather doubt it. But it shall at least make the day tolerable.”

He laughed gently. “Ever the realist.”

She laughed softly, linking her arm in his as they descended the steps to the waiting carriage. “Not really. Indeed, not today. It’s a performance, after all.”

Charles glanced at her curiously, a flicker of understanding passing briefly over his features before he smiled again. “A performance it shall be. One we shall execute flawlessly.”

They entered the waiting carriage, and soon it was rolling smoothly along bustling London streets, vibrant with merchants hawking their wares, elegant carriages threading skillfully through the traffic, and street performers vying for attention. Abigail watched quietly, her mind preoccupied with the upcoming meeting and the ongoing charade with Arthur.

“Charles,” she began softly, “Do you ever worry that we might be playing a dangerous game?”

Charles looked thoughtful, folding his arms as the carriage moved toward Piccadilly. “Life itself is a dangerous game, Abigail. But if anyone can handle it, it’s you. Besides,” he added lightly, “Arthur Beaumont seems honourable enough.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Abigail sighed gently, though a slight worry still lingered in the depths of her heart.

***

The Egyptian Hall on Piccadilly, known affectionately by some members of the ton as “England’s Temple of Wonder”, stood proudly beneath the late afternoon sky. Since its construction, it had rapidly become one of London’s most fashionable destinations, attracting crowds of the city’s most refined inhabitants, who eagerly embraced any opportunity to demonstrate their intellectual curiosity and sophisticated tastes.

Its facade, inspired by the temples of ancient Egypt, was a marvel of exotic beauty, elegant columns carved to imitate lotus stems, and vibrant frescoes that hinted at the wonders within.

The entrance was thronged with elegantly dressed patrons—a vibrant tapestry of London society mingling beneath the intricately painted ceiling.

Inside, Abigail immediately felt the change of atmosphere. A hushed reverence prevailed, broken only occasionally by the gentle rustle of skirts or the quiet murmur of admiration. The air was thick with a palpable sense of awe as Abigail and Charles entered the first gallery.

“Oh, Charles,” Abigail whispered, her eyes wide as they took in the array of artifacts displayed meticulously beneath protective glass. “It’s utterly splendid.”

Charles nodded, impressed. “Indeed. It seems half of London has turned out today.”

“With good reason,” she replied, moving toward an ornate, gilded case. Inside lay a necklace of finely wrought gold, inlaid with carnelian and turquoise. Its elegance was astonishing, each stone catching the muted light and winking mysteriously.

“Look here,” Abigail said softly, her voice low in the quiet of the gallery as she took in the beauty of the intricate craftsmanship. “This piece belonged to a priestess of Hathor—see the depiction of the goddess’s cow-horned headdress at its center?”

Charles leaned in, fascinated. “And what does that signify?”

“Hathor was the goddess of beauty, music, and love,” Abigail explained gently, tracing the shape lightly on the glass. “Her priestesses wore such amulets to invoke her protection and blessings. The stones represent life and rebirth—most appropriate, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charles chuckled softly. “A fitting talisman for our charade, mayhap?”

Abigail raised an eyebrow, feigning sternness. “Very funny, cousin. Mind yourself now. There are far too many ears around.”

They moved on, their gazes drawn upward to massive sandstone statues that were most imposing in their silent dignity. It was Charles’s turn to share his knowledge as he gestured toward an enormous basalt scarab, beautifully carved and inscribed with hieroglyphs.

“Did you know, Abigail,” he began warmly, “the scarab beetle was sacred to the Egyptians because it represented Khepri, the sun god associated with creation and renewal? They believed the beetle rolled the sun across the sky every day.”

“Truly?” Abigail’s eyes shone with genuine interest.

Charles nodded eagerly. “They placed these carved scarabs within tombs, believing they would aid the deceased in their journey through the afterlife—ensuring their rebirth.”

“I hadn’t thought you such a scholar,” Abigail jested affectionately.

“I’ve learned to keep pace,” Charles responded with a laugh. “After all, I must be able to converse intelligently with you and your Lord Beaumont.” He gave her a knowing wink.

She flushed softly at Arthur’s name, just as voices approached them from behind, and a rich female voice politely intruded.

“Surely you don’t intend to keep all your knowledge to yourselves?”

Turning, they found Eliza Beaumont, vivacious as ever, accompanied by her brother Arthur, whose presence immediately quickened Abigail’s pulse. Their smiles were bright and greetings were exchanged with genuine warmth. Abigail was conscious of the many eyes subtly turning their way, whispering excitedly at the quartet’s gathering.

Arthur greeted them cordially, his eyes lingering appreciatively on Abigail. “Miss Darlington, Charles—what an unexpected pleasure to meet you here.”

Eliza, as charming as ever, linked her arm companionably through Abigail’s. “I hope you’re prepared for a thorough exploration; Arthur is determined to prove his expertise.” She drew Abigail into an animated conversation as they moved along. “Have you ever seen such treasures? It’s as if all the history of the Nile is here before us!”

Their party moved along, encountering other fashionable members of society. Abigail gracefully exchanged pleasantries, but secretly wished the group would leave her alone with Arthur.

At one point, Lord Ellsworth, known for his tedious conversation, paused before an ancient urn, confidently misidentifying it as Roman. Abigail politely corrected him, earning a subtle smile of admiration from Arthur.

They passed through another gallery filled with impressive statues of pharaohs, each figure an embodiment of authority and history. Abigail’s eyes fell on a striking relief panel illustrating Pharaoh Ramses II triumphing in the battle of Kadesh.

Arthur stepped closer, his voice soft. “An extraordinary piece. Ramses believed himself divinely favoured. His self-assurance shaped an empire.”

“Do you admire him for that?” Abigail asked softly.

He considered her question seriously. “I admire the clarity of purpose. But perhaps humility is something we all should seek more earnestly.”

Their conversation deepened as they lingered by the display, unnoticed by the others. Abigail felt a quiet intimacy building between them, and it startled her how natural it felt.

Nearby, Eliza and Charles discussed another exhibit, their laughter mingling easily. Abigail observed them quietly, noting the growing affection between her cousin and Arthur’s sister, and wondered if their charade might yield more genuine relationships than anticipated.

Indeed, Abigail found herself naturally gravitating toward Arthur, their steps intuitively aligning as they lingered before an intricately painted wooden sarcophagus, richly adorned in semi-precious stones and gold leaf.

“This is extraordinary,” Abigail murmured softly, her eyes tracing the delicate hieroglyphs lining the coffin’s sides. “These symbols here—they recount the deeds and virtues of the individual within, guiding them safely through the perils of the afterlife.”

Arthur leaned in slightly, his voice equally hushed, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the carvings. “Imagine being remembered thus, your life written plainly, your character judged fit or unfit for eternity. A rather daunting prospect, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite,” Abigail agreed softly, meeting his gaze briefly, her heart suddenly quickening under the sincerity of his look. “It’s sobering to think of our actions measured so explicitly. Though perhaps comforting as well, to know that some people’s worth might be acknowledged beyond this life.”

“Do you believe in such things?” he asked quietly, his tone almost earnest beneath its casual veneer. “Perhaps it encourages us to consider how we live our lives. Mayhap it encourages us to be better people—more thoughtful about how we treat others.”

Abigail considered him seriously for a moment. There was something profound in the way he looked at her then, and Abigail felt a flutter of nervousness beneath the warmth spreading in her chest.

Arthur nodded slowly to himself as if letting the thought settle, his eyes still fixed on hers with a quiet intensity. “A thoughtful life—is that what you wish for, Abigail?”

Her voice softened. “Yes, I think so. Far more so than a fashionable one surrounded by rules and obligations. I believe that if we were to focus our attentions on being kind half as much as we worry about following societal obligations, the world would be much greater for it.”

Their conversation was interrupted gently by Eliza’s voice behind them. “Abigail, Arthur! Rescue me—I fear my head will burst with knowledge! Charles insists I learn about the burial rites depicted here. I fear I may not sleep tonight if I listen much longer!”

Laughter rippled gently through their small circle, dissipating the spell between Abigail and Arthur and pulling Abigail reluctantly away from his steady gaze.

They regrouped, moving together once more, but Abigail’s mind lingered on their quiet exchange. The afternoon, which had begun as mere artifice, was becoming something more genuine. Each glance Arthur gave her seemed less contrived, each conversation more personal, each silence more meaningful.

As they continued through the hall, Abigail felt her heart stir uncertainly. Their charade, so carefully orchestrated, was beginning to feel less like performance and more like reality—an unforeseen shift that was both exhilarating and deeply troubling. Amidst her growing affection, Abigail remained mindful of the delicate nature of their arrangement and the dangerous, watchful eyes of society surrounding them.

Yet for now, amidst the relics of ancient Egypt, surrounded by friends, and beneath Arthur’s attentive gaze, she allowed herself a moment’s reprieve, surrendering to the fragile hope that perhaps, against all expectations, something real was indeed emerging from their careful pretense.

Her pretend courtship with Arthur Beaumont was beginning to feel dangerously authentic.