Page 15 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The subdued murmur of patrons exploring the Egyptian Hall provided a fitting backdrop to the subtle intensity building between Arthur and Abigail. He stood beside her, absorbed in an artifact of remarkable quality—a finely carved stela depicting the Pharaoh Amenhotep III upon his throne, its limestone surface etched meticulously with ancient hieroglyphs.

Arthur’s finger traced a respectful distance from the glass enclosure, his voice unusually animated. “Miss Abigail, take a look at this. It is Pharaoh Amenhotep III, known as ‘the Magnificent’. Egypt reached its pinnacle of prosperity under his rule. His reign was marked by monumental construction projects—temples and palaces that were renowned for their scale and grandeur. Fascinating to study. I believe much of his work is unrivaled.”

Abigail’s eyes sparkled with bright curiosity; a spark Arthur found increasingly captivating. He had often been told by close friends that his love of history was tedious for any audience he tried to win over by talking about it, but Abigail seemed genuinely interested.

“Indeed, I recall reading of his great monuments. But, historians often question whether such displays were reflections of genuine leadership or merely projections of his own vanity and immense wealth.”

Arthur smiled softly, pleased by her knowledge on the subject and such a nuanced response. “Precisely that. History remains divided on the true measure of his character and exactly when he reigned. Though, even with differing accounts, his influence over Egypt’s artistic and international power is undisputed.”

Abigail nodded slowly, her gaze drifting thoughtfully across the stela’s elaborate inscriptions. “The ambiguity of it fascinates me. Every artifact and every inscription conceal as much as it reveals.”

Arthur considered her thoughtfully, her reflection deepening his admiration. Her quiet observations held a rare depth, resonating with his own contemplative nature. “Indeed. Perhaps that’s the allure of history—it invites endless interpretation, never fully surrendering its secrets.”

He paused for a moment, his expression pensive and almost regretful. “I suspect we may never grasp the intricacies of his nature, given how little we truly know of the personal lives of such figures. Unreliable narrators and limited surviving records that contradict one another leave us with many unanswered questions.”

Abigail met his eyes, a gentle, genuine warmth passing between them. “I find comfort in that ambiguity. It reminds me that even our own, unremarkable lives might someday be open to interpretation, understood perhaps more generously by future generations.”

Her words echoed quietly within him. What legacy would he leave? The thought was unexpectedly stirring, prompting introspection he had not anticipated. “I had not thought of it that way, but mayhap you are right,” he admitted softly. “There is something rather reassuring in the thought.”

Their conversation had grown quieter, more intimate, a subtle tension weaving between their thoughtful exchanges. Around them, Eliza and Charles had drifted toward a display of Egyptian musical instruments, their voices lifted in the kind of laughter that came not from amusement alone, but from the discovery of mutual rhythm.

Eliza’s gloved hand hovered over a curious lyre-shaped instrument set behind glass. “It looks like something one might summon wild dogs with,” she murmured, eyes bright with mischief.

Charles leaned slightly closer, arms folded behind his back in a stance of casual interest, though there was a gleam of something keener in his gaze. “You may jest, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been used for precisely that. Egypt seems rather full of things that were once considered sacred and now look positively murderous.”

Eliza laughed—a sound that had always come easily to her, yet now felt richer, warmer somehow. “You ought to write that in the museum ledger: ‘A lyre of wild dog-summoning, likely last played during an unfortunate ceremony involving fire and poor decisions.’ I daresay the curators would be horrified.”

“I daresay they’d have something to talk about at dinner,” Charles returned, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I imagine you’d make an excellent priestess. You’ve the expression of someone who’s read every inscription and found them all wanting.”

“I have read most of them,” she said, tilting her head toward a nearby placard with a dismissive glance. “They’re dreadfully translated. I could do better with a French dictionary and three glasses of claret.”

Charles’s brow lifted in admiration. “Then you are more formidable than I thought.”

Eliza looked at him sidelong. “You thought me formidable already?”

There was a pause—not long, but not meaningless either. “Yes,” he said at last. “Though not in the sense you might think.”

She raised an elegant brow. “How very enigmatic of you.”

“Would you rather I be dull and precise?” he asked, with the ghost of a grin.

“Never dull,” she said, and to her own surprise, her voice was softer than intended. She recovered quickly, gesturing to another instrument—a small, elaborately carved harp whose strings had long since vanished. “What do you make of this one?”

Charles stepped nearer, the line of his shoulder brushing close to hers as he examined the display. “It looks mournful. As though it’s forgotten what it was made for.”

Eliza blinked, startled by the unexpected poignancy. She looked at the harp again, then at him. “That’s… rather poetic, I daresay.”

He shrugged lightly, not quite looking at her. “We are surrounded by relics, after all. It makes one thoughtful.”

“Or sentimental?” she prompted gently.

A smile passed over his face—not mocking, but distant, almost self-aware. “I suppose I have my moments. Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation entirely.”

Eliza folded her arms. “So you do have a reputation to ruin?”

“Most assuredly,” he said, meeting her gaze now, his expression openly amused. “Though I flatter myself it’s more complex than the usual caricature of a fortune-seeking gentleman.”

She studied him for a moment, noting the ease with which he jested and the faint caution in his eyes beneath it. There was charm, indeed, and confidence—but also something watchful, as if he were accustomed to weighing every word before letting it go. A man well-versed in masking depth with levity.

“I don’t think you’re as easy to read as society believes,” she said, surprising herself with the admission.

A flicker of surprise passed across Charles’s features, followed by something warmer, more genuine. “No?” he asked. “And what do you think I am, Miss Eliza?”

She hesitated—then offered a smile, small and sincere. “Still considering. But I like a good mystery.”

He inclined his head, as though accepting the terms of a wager. “Then I hope I prove worthy of your investigation.”

Arthur felt glad for their ease but was content to remain where he was, alone with Abigail in this moment of shared contemplation.

Noticing Arthur’s distracted glance, Abigail followed his gaze toward the other two. A small smile softened her lips. “They appear genuinely content in each other’s company,” she murmured.

Arthur nodded gently. “Indeed. Shared interests do have a way of fostering genuine connections. Not that similar pastimes are as important as values, but a healthy dose of companionship based on mutual interests cannot be a bad thing.”

“And what of us , Arthur?” Abigail asked softly, almost hesitantly. Her gaze met his with quiet curiosity. “Is it history that connects us , or something else entirely?”

Her quiet honesty caught him momentarily off guard. He hesitated, carefully weighing his reply. “Perhaps history is the door through which we find common ground. Yet… today… it feels as though there might be something more meaningful behind it.”

She seemed to hold her breath at his quiet admission, and he realised with sudden clarity the vulnerability he’d unwittingly shown in his words. And yet, the thought of retracting them gave him pause. He found himself unwilling to take them back.

“Tell me,” Abigail said gently, her eyes holding his steadily, “what draws you so deeply to history? Is it scholarly pursuit—the idea of a connection with those who came before us, a deep-seated interest, or something more personal?”

Arthur’s expression softened, appreciating her subtle invitation to share something deeper. “For me, history is both escape and anchor,” he replied slowly.

“It provides wisdom, indeed—but also perspective. Marcus Aurelius, for example, offers a constant reminder of the fleeting nature of our worries—how unimportant our burdens become when seen through the lens of centuries. Whenever things seem overwhelming to me, his words ground me, reminding me of my insignificance, and that many of my anxieties are both unfounded and futile.”

Abigail smiled and found herself nodding in agreement, warmth deepening in her eyes. “His Meditations have been your companion through difficult times?”

Arthur nodded, surprised and pleased by her intuitive understanding. “Oh, absolutely. His words have guided me through complexities more often than I’d care to admit. A thread of calm through the chaos of our short life, during which we spend far more time worrying about what might happen, and less time enjoying what usually does.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It sounds remarkably similar to the solace I’ve found in Mary Wollstonecraft’s works. Her writings challenge me constantly, pushing me to question inherited assumptions, urging me to authenticity; a removal from everything expected of young women today, but a thought process toward which I cannot help but venture.”

Arthur watched her, admiration blossoming unexpectedly within him, her quiet courage deeply affecting. “I sense you take that challenge very seriously.”

“I must,” she replied softly, her sincerity evident. “If one does not strive to live authentically, what remains?”

Their conversation trailed into a comfortable silence, a thoughtful pause in which Arthur contemplated Abigail’s words, realizing how profoundly they resonated. Her authenticity appealed powerfully to him—she was genuine, refreshingly free from pretension, and yet strong enough to navigate the complexities of their shared charade.

In truth, their charade was already feeling far more authentic to him than any of the ‘viable matches’ his mother insisted on procuring for him.

Was there more truth in their lie? Was the fact becoming the true fiction while their pretense transformed into a new reality?

It occurred to him suddenly that he had not thought of Sophia Carter at all during their conversation, and this realization was met with a huge sense of surprise. For so long, Sophia’s betrayal had clouded every perception, and overshadowed every encounter. Yet here, in Abigail’s quiet, compelling company, the shadow had receded significantly.

Arthur turned slightly toward Abigail, studying her profile in gentle appreciation. Her quiet strength, her sincerity—these qualities resonated deeply with him. She was nothing like Sophia, whose beauty belied her true nature. Her charm had been calculated; her affections had proved fickle. Abigail’s allure was subtler, quieter, but infinitely deeper. It stirred within him something entirely new—something unexpected and intriguing.

However, he could not escape the caution that remained like a persistent itch under his skin as a reminder of what he had endured in the past. He recognized a familiar warmth rising within him, reminiscent of feelings he had once held for Sophia.

But this sensation differed—it lacked the restless anxiety, the constant uncertainty, and sense of mistrust that had plagued his relationship with Sophia. With Abigail, the connection felt steady, calm, grounded in mutual respect and sincere understanding.

And while he was wary of embracing too hastily the idea that Abigail might be someone truly special, Arthur knew he could no longer deny that his feelings for her had surpassed the boundary of their careful pretense. He was drawn to her—not merely as a convenient ally, but as someone he genuinely respected, someone whose company he now sought out without pretense. Dare he say, it? A friend.

This quiet acknowledgement startled him. Abigail’s sincerity, her intellect, her gentle humor—all were qualities that made his growing affection feel both natural and inevitable. Nevertheless, a lingering thread of anxiety persisted, and he apprehended that the faintest tug might cause it to unravel entirely, should he have misjudged the circumstances altogether. Opening his heart again meant vulnerability, risking the familiar sting of rejection.

He drew in a slow breath, quietly considering Abigail again.

Could he trust this? Could he trust himself? Did she feel the same way?

Abigail’s presence beside him—calm, sincere, reassuring—felt strangely safe. A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps he did not need to understand these feelings fully just yet. Perhaps he could simply allow himself to enjoy her presence, their connection, without rushing to define it.

Abigail turned to him, as if sensing his thoughts. “You’ve gone quiet,” she said gently. “Have I said something wrong?”

He quickly reassured her with a warm smile. “Not at all. Quite the opposite—you’ve given me much to think about.”

She returned his smile shyly, a soft flush coloring her cheeks. “I’m glad.”

A burst of laughter from Eliza drew their attention again, and Abigail sighed softly. “Mayhap we ought to rejoin them,” she suggested, though her eyes lingered on Arthur’s face, as if reluctant to break their quiet intimacy.

Arthur nodded, feeling both gratitude and disappointment at the interruption. “You’re right. But I must say—I have greatly enjoyed our time together today.”

“As have I,” Abigail said quietly, as if she had surprised herself, the earnest sincerity clear in her eyes.

As they rejoined Eliza and Charles, Abigail’s arm briefly brushed his own, a small contact that sent warmth radiating through him. Arthur allowed himself to relish the gentle intimacy of the moment, deciding that, for now, at least, he would accept these quiet stirrings of feeling as they came—cautiously hopeful, curiously different from the past, and perhaps, ultimately, more real.

He was not yet prepared to name this newfound connection. But, a cautious approach could not be a bad thing. As Abigail smiled warmly at him once more, Arthur acknowledged to himself that he no longer wanted to deny its existence.

For the first time in a long while, he felt genuinely optimistic about what lay ahead—and quietly determined to discover precisely where this new feeling might lead.

***

The carriage had long since begun its steady rhythm along the uneven stones of the street, the sound of hooves softened by the dusk now settling across the city. Candle-light flickered on the panes, the day’s final glow casting a golden hue upon the fine stitching of the upholstery.

Eliza sat across from Arthur in the carriage, her cheeks flushed from the brisk spring air and animated by some inward delight that made her eyes brighter than usual.

“…and he knew the entire structure of a Mozart quintet,” she was saying, her hands fluttering to emphasize each detail, “not merely in theory, but by heart. I scarcely believed him at first, but then he described the viola line from memory! It was astonishing—and you know how few gentlemen take any serious interest in chamber music beyond its use as polite background noise.”

Arthur, who had spent the last few minutes nodding at intervals he hoped were appropriate, made a quiet sound of acknowledgement. He had caught perhaps every third word.

Eliza, oblivious, continued. “It’s rare, truly rare, to find someone so genuinely interested in both music and history—he even asked if I’d read Mr. Burney’s treatise, which I haven’t, but I told him I would, and he offered to lend me his copy. And there was none of that usual patronizing tone, you know? None of the ‘how clever of you to pretend an interest in things you couldn’t possibly understand’ nonsense. He simply listened .”

Arthur made another vague sound, this time in the form of a “Mmm-hmm,” but his gaze was unfocused, fixed not on his sister but on the view beyond the carriage window. Figures passed in fleeting silhouettes—ladies cloaked in evening shawls, bootblacks packing up their trades, flower girls with fading bunches of violets. The ordinary rhythm of London life continued around them, but to Arthur, it all felt strangely muted.

His mind was far from the Egyptian Hall. Far from Eliza’s breathless praise of Charles Wescott and his improbable knowledge of musical forms.

It was with her .

Abigail.

The very name shifted something within him now, drawing taut a string he had not known could be plucked. He had tried, for days now, to maintain the illusion—that this arrangement, this fabricated courtship, was merely a diversion. A convenient ruse. A shield against the prying eyes of society and his mother’s expectations.

But it was no longer so simple. It had never been simple, not truly.

Something had changed.

He had felt it in the gallery, standing beside her in the golden hush, as she spoke of ancient art and forgotten beauty. He had seen it in the precise curve of her smile when she spoke of things that stirred her, and in the way she turned her head slightly toward him as she listened—engaged, sincere, unguarded. And he had felt it, with aching certainty, when she laughed— really laughed—for perhaps the first time in his presence.

She was not performing. Not then. And neither, he realised, had he been.

Eliza’s voice broke through again. “Do you think him insincere?” she asked suddenly.

Arthur blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Charles,” she said. “You’re very quiet, and I can’t help wondering if you dislike him.”

Arthur drew a breath, measured, and sat back against the seat. “I do not dislike him. I think he’s—unexpected.”

Eliza tilted her head. “Unexpected?”

“Yes.” He paused. “In the sense that one expects little, and receives rather more than anticipated.”

She considered this. “That may be the most Arthur-like compliment I’ve ever heard.”

He gave her a faint smile.

“I only ask,” she went on, more softly now, “because I like him. Very much, I think. And not merely in the way one likes pleasant conversation or an agreeable dinner partner. There’s… something else. Something real.”

Arthur turned his gaze to her then, properly. Eliza, his younger sister, who had always possessed a quick wit but rarely betrayed her heart—now looked back at him with open hope in her expression.

“He sees me, Arthur,” she said, almost in a whisper. “As I am.”

The honesty of it stirred something sharp and protective in him, though he offered no immediate reply.

Instead, he looked back toward the window, and the knot in his chest twisted tighter.

He sees me, as I am.

Was that not, in truth, the very thing Abigail had offered him too? Not in words, but in the steady way she looked at him—without pretense, without demand. She did not treat him as a future title or a duty-bound bachelor, nor as the disappointment his mother feared he would become. She saw him —his silences, his guarded behaviour, even his reluctance to belong anywhere too deeply—and treated none of it as failure.

And now, he was beginning to fear that what had begun in jest, in artifice, had become something far more dangerous.

For he had not meant to fall for her.

He had not meant to care.

But he did.

Every glance lingered too long. Every conversation left some trace that echoed long after it ended. When she laughed, she did it with her whole body, and he felt the sound in his chest. When she frowned, he wanted to smooth it away. And when she looked at him with those quiet, thoughtful eyes, it took every ounce of restraint not to reach for her hand and abandon the entire charade—not because it had become unbearable, but because it had become real .

“Arthur?” Eliza prompted gently.

He turned his attention back to her, startled by how far his thoughts had carried him away.

She smiled faintly. “You’re elsewhere tonight.”

“I am,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Forgive me.”

She reached across and took his hand briefly, a gesture so familiar and unpretentious it unraveled something in him.

“You love her,” she said.

He went very still. “Do I?”

“I think so.”

Arthur exhaled slowly and looked down at their joined hands.

“I’m afraid,” he said quietly.

“Of what?”

He hesitated. “That it will not be enough. That what I feel will ruin what we’ve carefully constructed. That if I reach for more, I’ll destroy even what little I’ve been allowed to have.”

Eliza’s voice was soft but firm. “You have never been a coward, Arthur. Do not start to become one now. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

He looked at her—really looked—and gave a small, reluctant smile.

“You and your romantic sentiments,” he said.

“And you with your deflection.” She sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “But you are in love, and that pleases me. I daresay you’re well overdue some joy in your life, and she is too.”

The carriage turned onto Berkeley Street, the lights of Westbrook Manor coming into view through the growing twilight.

As they drew closer to home, Arthur leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

He was tired of dancing around lies.

And if the truth meant risking everything—his pride, his reputation, even the quiet peace he had grown so used to—then perhaps, for Abigail, it was worth the fall.