Page 16 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The gentle golden glow of the early evening sun bathed London’s streets as Abigail and Charles returned from their afternoon at Egyptian Hall, casting elongated shadows across the cobblestones. Yet despite the lingering warmth of the day, Abigail felt a chill of apprehension settling deep within her, a tension that tightened further as their carriage drew nearer to the Darlington townhouse.

As Charles assisted Abigail from the carriage, offering his hand with his usual considerate courtesy, Abigail glanced upward to find her mother standing expectantly at the entrance to their townhouse, her expression fixed in anxious impatience, gloved hands clasped tightly before her in a way that heightened Abigail’s own sense of foreboding.

“Well, that was a most enjoyable outing, dear cousin,” Charles remarked lightly, clearly noting Abigail’s suddenly tense posture. “Though something tells me your mother’s welcome may feel rather less than relaxing,” he added, under his breath.

She managed a faint smile, though the humor failed to reach her eyes. “Indeed. It appears the evening may prove rather taxing after all.”

Charles gave her a thoughtful glance, clearly unconvinced. “If your mother presses you too harshly about Edward again, you know I’m here to intervene, if needed. Just say the word.”

She squeezed his arm gently, grateful for his ever-steadfast support. “Thank you, Charles, but I’ve faced my mother’s determination before. I shall manage.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Abigail walked toward her waiting mother, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation she knew awaited within.

“Abigail, Charles,” Harriet greeted sharply, her eyes immediately assessing Abigail’s appearance. “Abigail, inside quickly now. We must speak urgently.”

Charles raised an eyebrow in silent commiseration as Abigail followed her mother into the townhouse, anxiety tightening within her like an invisible corset. The drawing room door closed behind them, leaving Abigail alone with Harriet and the suffocating intensity of her mother’s expectations.

Harriet wasted little time, turning abruptly to Abigail with a penetrating gaze. “I cannot understand you, Abigail,” she began, frustration coloring her voice sharply. “Edward has shown the utmost patience and persistence in his attentions—he is an earl, for heaven’s sake! Yet you insist upon wasting time with this… this Viscount of Westbrook?”

Abigail straightened her shoulders, maintaining her carefully schooled composure despite her heart beating faster with agitation.

“Arthur Beaumont is an honourable man, mother,” she replied evenly, carefully guarding her tone. “His companionship is most enjoyable, and I like him. A lot. Possibly because our conversations go both ways rather than me having to listen to self-important drivel while being largely ignored. Would you prefer me to be with someone who makes me unhappy?”

Harriet waved away Abigail’s words impatiently, ignoring the reference to her unhappiness. “Enjoyable companionship is irrelevant, Abigail. You know very well that the future of our family depends upon your marriage.”

Which obviously depends on my misery.

Her mother continued. “Edward Colton is not merely a suitable choice—he is a perfect one! He has wealth, position… connections. Why can’t you see the advantages?”

I feel as though I am living in my very own version of Romeo and Juliet.

Abigail pressed her lips together, stifling the sharp retort that threatened to surface. She had grown weary of her mother’s relentless disregard for her feelings, desires, and intellectual aspirations. Her mother saw only the social advantages, and never the personal sacrifices Abigail would be forced to make.

Instead, Abigail chose measured silence, her expression polite yet revealing nothing. Her mother misinterpreted her quietness as obedience, continuing relentlessly, her voice gentler but no less firm.

“Abigail, you must learn to trust my guidance. Marrying Edward would secure your future, and ours . We must think practically.”

Let’s be honest, Mother , she thought, this is about your future rather than mine. You may as well just say it plainly, and save us all some time. You want this match because it benefits you.

“Of course, Mama,” Abigail responded quietly, the words bitterly familiar, their weight oppressive. Her carefully controlled exterior concealed the inner turmoil swirling within—a restless storm of frustration, resentment, and now, increasingly, fear.

Lately, those carefully hidden tears she’d kept hidden for so long, felt dangerously close to the surface; her misery perilously close to a tipping point. Often, she wondered if it would make any difference.

Even if she were to spend her whole wedding day sobbing, her mother would likely interpret her tears as unbridled joy. Anything to assuage her own guilt for her part in her daughter’s unhappiness.

Her mother’s insistence felt different today, more urgent and threatening. Abigail realised with a jolt of panic that Harriet was no longer merely hoping for the match—she was intent on securing it, regardless of Abigail’s objections.

It terrified her deeply, for she knew society would invariably support her mother’s choice.

She could protest, resist, even rebel, but ultimately, if Edward Colton decided upon her, her consent would likely become irrelevant. Society favored men like Edward—titled, wealthy, influential—and Abigail felt an icy dread settle in her heart at the thought of a future as his wife.

Would it make any difference if I were to tell her that I find the man physically repellent? That he makes my skin crawl? That I do not think his pursuit of me is for any of the right reasons? That I believe I will feel thoroughly wretched about the union for the rest of my days?

In this moment of despair, where she willed herself not to cry, her thoughts drifted to Arthur. His gentle attentiveness, his intellectual companionship, his quiet respect for her mind—so starkly contrasted with Edward’s selfish entitlement—shone clearly in her memory, bringing a sudden ache of longing.

Arthur’s mere presence had become a source of genuine happiness. With him, she felt valued as an individual, free to express her intellect, her wit, and her true self without hesitation. She felt safe, and heard. Edward, by comparison, seemed coercive and threatening, a perpetual reminder of how readily her own desires might be smothered by the oppressive hand of societal ambition.

Harriet’s voice drew Abigail back sharply. “You must be receptive tomorrow morning. Edward intends to call, and he will not appreciate indifference, Abigail. Neither will I.”

Abigail swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Yes, Mama.”

“Good,” Harriet concluded, evidently satisfied for now. “I will see you at dinner.”

She swept out of the drawing room, leaving Abigail standing alone, her heart heavy with dread. She stared blankly at the empty chair her mother had vacated, feeling utterly isolated. The threat was becoming real, tangible, and unavoidable. And it was getting closer with every unwanted visit.

***

The following morning arrived swiftly, bringing with it bright sunshine and a sense of grim inevitability. The golden sunshine offered Abigail little comfort, as each passing minute brought Edward Colton’s imminent arrival closer.

Seated before the ornate dressing table, Abigail’s reflection showed a carefully composed mask that belied the anxiety within her, but her hands trembled—the only obvious sign that all was not well. Behind her, Lydia quietly arranged her hair, the maid’s gentle, practiced movements offering a subtle reassurance.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning, miss,” Lydia observed gently, her eyes meeting Abigail’s reflection with quiet understanding. “Is something troubling you?”

Abigail sighed softly, her gaze dropping briefly before returning to meet Lydia’s compassionate eyes. “Lord Colton is expected to visit shortly,” she admitted quietly, a trace of bitterness coloring her voice. “Mother is relentless in her insistence on his suit, and I cannot abide the man.” Her voice wavered on the last word, betraying her fear.

Lydia paused momentarily, her fingers lightly touching Abigail’s shoulder in comfort. “I can see how much his presence troubles you, miss. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but he seems most undeserving of someone as kind and clever as yourself.”

Abigail managed a faint smile, gratitude warming her voice. “Thank you, Lydia. It is not merely his arrogance or self-importance that repels me, but rather…” she hesitated, then pressed forward honestly, “it’s the way he regards me—as though I’m merely another object to acquire. He cares nothing for who I am, nor for what I desire. To him, I would merely be a young lady on his arm to be carted around at social events for appearances. He has no interest whatsoever in a love match, or even a consensual one. It would be a marriage of… inconvenience…for me.”

Lydia’s expression softened sympathetically as she resumed arranging Abigail’s hair. “Perhaps you might speak plainly with your mother, miss. Surely she would understand?”

Abigail shook her head slowly. “My mother understands only ambition. But I cannot—I will not—marry Lord Colton. I refuse to live a life in which I am valued only as a means to someone else’s ends.”

Lydia smiled gently, determination in her voice. “Whatever happens, Miss Abigail, I promise you won’t face it alone.”

Abigail met her maid’s gaze, drawing strength from her steadfast loyalty. “Thank you, Lydia. Your support means more than you will ever know.” Her maid’s kindness, while very welcome, was weakening her carefully crafted composure and resolve. The tears which she had fought so hard now threatened to flow.

Before she could wallow in self-pity she heard the familiar sound of carriage wheels outside, and took in a long, measured breath.

Her heart sank when she heard Edward’s voice downstairs, his commanding tone unmistakable even from her room.

He treats this place like he owns it. He believes he owns everything and everyone he sets his sights on.

Steeling herself, Abigail squeezed her maid’s hand in gratitude and descended the stairs, painting on a ladylike smile and bracing herself to endure yet another opportunity for Edward to talk about his own self-importance.

Edward awaited her in the drawing room, standing beside Harriet with the ease of a man certain of his welcome. His smile was assured and calculated, and—as usual—his gaze swept possessively over Abigail as she entered.

“Miss Abigail,” Edward greeted smoothly, presenting her with a lavish bouquet of richly scented roses. An artfully arranged fresh-cut bouquet of crimson reds and ivory whites. “For you.”

She forced a polite smile, accepting the bouquet with restrained gratitude. It truly was stunning, but beautiful flowers do not make a happy union.

“Thank you, Lord Colton. They’re absolutely lovely.”

Harriet beamed approvingly, delighted by Edward’s overt display. “How thoughtful, Edward. Abigail adores roses, do you not?”

Abigail inclined her head politely. “Of course, Mother. Thank you again, Lord Colton.”

Abigail adored all flowers, but she couldn’t help but note that this was another example of Edward’s lack of interest in her. Had he not asked about her favorite flowers last time he was here, and had she not told him that she favored lilies?

He’s doing it for appearance’s sake. He asks questions but doesn’t listen to my responses. This is all an elaborate, and painfully transparent performance. I can see straight through it.

Edward’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though dissatisfied with her carefully modulated politeness, yet he chose instead to turn toward Harriet. “Lady Darlington, I was hoping Miss Abigail might favour us with a performance today. Her talent knows no bounds and I would love to hear her play again.”

Why does he not ask me himself? I am in the same room!

Harriet immediately took the cue, her tone bright with enthusiasm. “Oh, to be sure, Abigail would be delighted. Go and bring your violin, dear.”

Abigail hesitated briefly, feeling a surge of rebellion at being commanded so openly, yet she knew resistance was futile, and would only prolong the agony. She returned moments later, her violin in hand, her chest tight with anxiety as Edward settled himself comfortably on the settee, watching her expectantly.

She began to play, her fingers moving automatically, flawlessly executing a piece she had practiced endlessly. At least playing prevented conversation.

As long as the violin was beneath her chin and the bow was in motion, she was spared Edward’s grating commentary, and her mother’s ponderous platitudes. It gave her a kind of invisible armor—one constructed not of steel but of sonatas and scales. And yet, she felt like a puppet on a string; a marionette being manipulated to do everyone else’s bidding.

There was no room for expression, no space for spontaneity; she might as well have been carved in wax, her hands guided by unseen strings. The irony was not lost on her that this performance was the epitome of art imitating life.

As she played, her thoughts drifted involuntarily to Arthur. She recalled their shared laughter, their passionate discussions, his genuine respect and kindness. It was a stark contrast to Edward’s calculated charm and possessive gaze.

As the music flowed, Abigail’s mind wandered further, imagining a future filled with Arthur’s quiet companionship—days spent reading together, conversing freely, enjoying a life built on mutual respect and genuine affection. Her heart ached with longing for the possibility she was only beginning to fully acknowledge.

But what if Arthur saw their arrangement purely as practical—a means to an end? What if her growing attachment was one-sided, an illusion fostered by her own foolish hopes?

The last notes faded softly, and Edward applauded generously, though his expression remained unchanged—calculating, assessing, ever watchful.

“A remarkable performance,” Edward pronounced grandly. “How fortunate I am to have such a talented and accomplished future countess.”

His confident proclamation startled Abigail, sending a chill through her. Harriet merely smiled indulgently, utterly blind to her daughter’s discomfort.

How can he be so brazen? He has not offered for me, and I have most certainly not accepted.

Abigail felt the nausea rise as Edward’s statement echoed ominously in her head. She glanced at him, sensing the steel beneath his polished exterior, the ruthless determination hidden beneath his charm. The reality hit her starkly. Her fate had been sealed by society, unless she could find a way out.

And suddenly, Abigail knew with stark certainty that she could never accept a life with Edward. Her heart yearned for Arthur—not merely as a convenient partner in deception, but as someone she truly desired to share her life with. The depth of her feelings frightened her as much as it thrilled her, yet it provided sudden clarity.

I must find a way out.

Whatever the cost, she would fight for her freedom. She would fight for Arthur, for herself, and for a future defined by authenticity and love. Why shouldn’t she have happiness? Didn’t she deserve to make any decisions for herself?

Her mother and Edward continued chatting amiably, unaware of Abigail’s quiet epiphany. But inwardly, Abigail felt her resolve solidify like iron.

No matter what society demanded, no matter the threats Edward posed, Abigail Darlington would not surrender her happiness without a fight.