Page 17 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

Arthur Beaumont’s sleep was troubled, his body restless beneath silken sheets, his brow furrowed with unconscious distress. The room was dark, silent save for the muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, a sound barely perceptible but resonating like a distant, mocking heartbeat.

In his dream, the air was thick with the scent of roses, cloying and over-sweet, the petals almost bruised underfoot as if they had been trampled in haste. Arthur stood beneath the heavy moonlight of an all-too-familiar terrace—one he had known in another lifetime, when hope had still bloomed and his heart had not yet hardened to the world. The stone balustrade glistened as if wet with dew or tears, and the wind whispered secrets in a language he half-remembered.

Sophia stood before him.

Radiant. Beautiful. Terrible.

Her golden gown shimmered like molten coin, clinging to her like flame. Her hair, once so soft in his memories, now fell in deliberately molded curls, as sculpted and sharp as a crown of thorns. She smiled—and how lovely the smile had once been. But now it curled too wide, too knowing. Her teeth gleamed like pearl… or bone. Her lips were a grotesque sneer.

“You never were very good at seeing anything clearly,” she said, her voice as sweet as it was poisonous. “Did you honestly think I would wait forever?”

Arthur tried to speak, but no sound emerged. The air felt thick in his lungs.

She stepped closer. The warmth of her once so welcome. Now, the heat leached from her like smoke from a rumbling volcano, feverish and stifling.

“Always the romantic,” she laughed, as if it were something to be mocked and scorned. She was circling him slowly, her fingers trailing lightly over his shoulder, down his back and across his chest. “Even when I told you what I wanted. And you believed, didn’t you, Arthur? Believed that love could be enough. That charm and sentiment might be sufficient to feed my ambition.”

He turned to face her, his chest constricted and tried to find his voice. “I never knew—”

She stopped him with a single finger pressed against his lips. “Poor, dutiful, romantic Arthur. Poor darling. I almost feel sorry for you. You never listened. You never read between the lines.”

Her eyes flickered with something gleaming and inhuman.

“I wanted power, Arthur. Influence. Not love-soaked sonnets and sappy poetry. Not sketches of imagined futures. You were always such a ridiculous dreamer.”

Her voice echoed strangely, as though it were coming from all directions, carried on wind and shadow. There was something maddeningly eerie about it. It was her voice, and yet it wasn’t. It was an imposter wearing her likeness, but there was something wrong about the whole picture. Something that didn’t quite add up.

He reached for her hand, but she stepped into his embrace instead, in a possessive way that spoke of her need for his attention rather than a sense of desire. Her arms wound around his shoulders with a tenderness that did not match the venom in her words, but had never been a reality in the waking world.

He closed his eyes, relishing the moment while it lasted, burying his face in her golden hair. There was something different about her that gave him a vague hint of misplaced recognition; a flash of something he could not place. Something he didn’t associate with her.

When he drew back, there was another woman in his arms.

Abigail.

He knew not when the transformation had taken place, but the scent was different—fresher, softer, the familiar whisper of lavender and rosewater. Her gaze met his, hazel and luminous, but tainted by a hint of sorrow.

“Arthur,” she said, her voice gentler than the breeze. But she was already drifting away. There was a shadow behind her eyes. A quiet distance. A fragmented dispersal, like blossom petals blowing in the breeze and flying away before they could be caught.

His heart stuttered. Finally, he found his voice. “Abigail—”

But she shook her head, and moved just out of his grasp. “You waited too long.”

Her voice echoed—not as Sophia’s had, cruel and clanging—but hollow, like the final page of a book that had ended without a satisfactory conclusion.

“You couldn’t see the difference,” she said, her face blurring at the edges. “You believed the worst of me before you even gave me the chance to prove otherwise.”

“No—no, that’s not—”

“You feared love more than loneliness,” she whispered. “And now, I’m afraid you have it. Loneliness. Forever.”

Her words were without malice, but full of sadness, as though she couldn’t save him or herself from this lot.

He finally reached out to touch her, but her skin was cold beneath his hands. Her breath ceased to stir. Her body stiffened, then melted from his arms like smoke, drifting upward and away, until there was nothing left but the lingering scent of her perfume and the silence that followed.

And then, in the stillness, Sophia’s voice returned.

Not in front of him—but behind him. A tinkling laugh. A whisper at his ear.

“You see, darling. You never deserved either of us.”

Arthur turned.

She had been standing close enough so that he could feel her breath against his ear, but now she stood at the far end of the terrace, her eyes alight with a ghastly glee. Her gown had darkened, the gold stained with something shadowy and dripping, as though dipped in oil or old blood. Her smile stretched grotesquely, past the bounds of humanity.

“Not good enough to keep me. Not brave enough to fight for her. Poor, dear, Arthur.”

His chest heaved.

“You pretend to be the master of indifference,” she crooned, “but it’s only ever been fear. Fear of feeling. Fear of failing. And you will fail her, too, in the end. You always do.”

The moon turned red above her. Her eyes shone violet in its horribly, sickening light.

A sudden wind screamed down the terrace, tearing rose petals from the bushes. They slashed across his face like razors.

Sophia took one step forward—no longer Sophia, but a skeletal thing draped in silk and memory—and spoke in a voice that made his blood freeze. “She will leave you, Arthur. And you will wake to find yourself isolated and empty. Always. For eternity.”

The image that appeared to be Sophia came a little closer, but he couldn’t bear the proximity of it anymore.

Arthur stumbled backward—

—and fell into darkness.

He jerked awake abruptly, his heart hammering, his breathing ragged. Cold perspiration traced his forehead as he struggled to separate the dream from reality. He lay motionless, staring into the pre-dawn gloom as he struggled to breathe naturally. His skin was soddened, the sheets clinging to his body as he remembered Abigail’s gentle, sad voice lingering softly in his consciousness, in stark contrast to Sophia’s bitter cruelty.

It was just a dream. Not real. Compose yourself.

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed waiting for his breathing to calm, and hoping the horrible images would subside. Eventually, he rose shakily, moving toward the window to pull back heavy curtains. Pale morning light seeped slowly across London, illuminating quiet streets shrouded in early mist. His reflection appeared faintly in the windowpane, pale and troubled, haunted by memories he had long sought to bury.

Why does Sophia still haunt my thoughts? She is long gone. Married. Unavailable. Do I still have feelings for her, or is she merely in my thoughts because of her return?

But Sophia, as she appeared in his dream, was hard to shake from his mind and gave him no feelings of fondness or adoration. If anything, it had brought nothing but fear, and a sense of inadequacy. What if everything she had said in his dream was his brain’s way of highlighting the truth he had always tried to ignore?

He had not even seen her yet and his brain was already playing tricks on him. He could not reconcile the message of his dream with the path he should take in reality. He knew he should ignore it. It was only a dream after all, but it was hard to shake off its vividness.

Frustrated and restless, he summoned his valet, dressing hastily, desperate to escape from his tangled thoughts and seek some semblance of reality to dispel such hideous visions. The quiet solitude of Rotten Row promised clarity, and fresh air—an opportunity to sort through the chaotic whirlwind within his mind.

***

The rhythmic pounding of his stallion’s hooves against the earth brought a fleeting comfort as Arthur rode swiftly through Hyde Park, the cool morning air sharp against his face.

The air was crisp, heavy with the sweet scent of fresh-cut grass mingling with distant blossoms, yet even nature’s tranquility could not fully quieten his restless thoughts.

Arthur’s gaze drifted across Hyde Park’s peaceful scenery—the gently winding paths, vibrant flowerbeds just beginning to bloom, birds singing their joyful songs amidst lush branches overhead. Yet despite this serene backdrop, his heart remained burdened, as though every natural beauty only highlighted his inner disarray.

He noticed a young couple strolling arm in arm beneath a canopy of blossoming cherry trees, their laughter carried gently upon the breeze. The sight stirred painful memories of Sophia—yet more unsettling was the sudden yearning he felt for a similar closeness with Abigail. He was abruptly conscious of a deeper desire, a longing for genuine intimacy, companionship untainted by betrayal.

He pulled the reins gently, his stallion slowing to a contemplative trot as Arthur stared thoughtfully across the placid lake reflecting the clear blue sky. How long had he imprisoned himself in cynicism and bitterness? And at what cost?

Sophia Carter’s return had thrown him back into painful remembrance. He recalled bitterly their final confrontation—her disdainful words, her icy rejection, each phrase etched indelibly upon his memory. He had trusted her completely, had surrendered his heart without reservation, only to discover how cheaply she valued it.

“You’re foolish, Arthur,” she had sneered on their final meeting, her voice dripping with contempt. “Did you truly believe love would triumph over security and wealth? Perhaps someday you’ll understand how the world truly works.”

He had been crushed, his faith in love shattered by her callous betrayal. Afterward, a cold, detached cynicism had become his shield, protecting him from ever feeling such vulnerability again.

Yet now, he found himself again exposed—this time by Abigail Darlington, whose gentle sincerity threatened to dismantle those carefully constructed defenses.

Would he be too late if he didn’t act soon? Was the dream a warning?

He slowed his horse, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, both physically and emotionally. Abigail’s presence filled his thoughts with alarming frequency. Each interaction lingered in his mind, replayed in painful detail—her quiet wit, intellectual curiosity, the genuine warmth in her gaze. He knew this growing attraction threatened more than just his cynicism; it endangered his heart itself.

Arthur’s fingers tightened on the reins, frustration mounting within him. He was trapped between his bitter past and a potential future that beckoned tentatively. Could he trust himself again, or was he destined to repeat past mistakes?

He sighed deeply, urging his horse into a gentle walk. Sophia’s cruelty had taught him caution, indeed—but Abigail was nothing like Sophia. Abigail’s character, integrity, warmth—everything about her was genuine and sincere. He sensed instinctively that any connection he formed with her would not mirror his bitter past, but there were still persistent, niggling doubts.

His fear lingered stubbornly, whispering uncertainties to him. What if he was wrong? What if his heart betrayed him again?

He shook his head, struggling to silence that persistent voice. He had entered their arrangement precisely because it promised emotional safety—yet, he realised bitterly, Abigail’s authenticity had inadvertently drawn him toward genuine feeling. Their charade had become dangerous—not because it risked public discovery, but because it risked awakening hopes and desires he had buried deeply.

Arthur’s horse paused beside a quiet brook, the water’s gentle babbling offering a momentary respite from his turmoil. He dismounted, leading his horse to the water’s edge and stood quietly, staring thoughtfully into the flowing stream.

His mind wandered once more to Abigail—the gentle curve of her smile, the soft timbre of her laughter, her quiet courage in the face of society’s pressures. A quiet longing filled him, unfamiliar and unsettling. He had never expected someone to reach him so deeply again, let alone Abigail, whose companionship had started as a mere pragmatic arrangement.

The realization stirred within him a painful yet irresistible hope. Perhaps he need not be forever bound by Sophia’s bitter legacy. Perhaps Abigail represented a second chance—a different path. He shivered slightly, confronted with a decision he felt unprepared to make.

Could he allow himself to trust again?

The weight of uncertainty pressed heavily upon him, intensified by the memory of Abigail’s words in his dream: “Will you forever let Sophia haunt your future?”

He drew a steadying breath, shoulders straightening slightly. Sophia Carter had betrayed him—but he would no longer let that betrayal define him. Abigail was not Sophia, and perhaps he was no longer the naive young man he once was.

The past, he realised slowly, did not need to dictate his future.

Yet even as hope stirred tentatively, caution lingered, deeply ingrained. How could he be certain Abigail felt similarly? What if he was merely deluding himself again?

He rubbed his temples wearily, acknowledging his fear even as he fought it. Abigail’s sincerity was undeniable; surely, she would not deceive him intentionally. But what if he misread her friendship as something more?

Arthur felt torn—caught between lingering fears and tentative hope. For the first time in years, he yearned genuinely for connection, for love. Yet the scars from Sophia’s cruelty still stung sharply, cautioning him.

He remounted his horse slowly, resigned to continued uncertainty. For now, he would proceed carefully, guard his heart—but he would not deny the possibility of happiness outright.

As he guided his horse slowly back toward home, his thoughts calmer, more reflective, he knew one thing clearly: Abigail Darlington had sparked within him feelings he’d long believed impossible. Whatever uncertainties lay ahead, he could not deny that truth any longer.

For better or worse, Abigail had begun to break through his defenses. She represented something dangerous yet beautifully compelling. Hope.

Arthur sighed softly, resignation mingling with quiet anticipation. He could no longer run from his feelings; now, he had to face them.

Sophia’s shadow lingered, but it no longer held the absolute power it once did. Arthur was ready, at last, to consider a future that included happiness once more—if he dared.

The question remained, would he find the courage to follow it?

***

Returning home, Arthur struggled to find any relief from his thoughts. Restless, he changed swiftly and sought refuge at the gentlemen’s club, where he found James Fitzwilliam settled comfortably in a quiet alcove. James looked up from his newspaper, perceptively noting Arthur’s troubled expression.

“My dear friend,” James began gently, setting aside the paper. “You look as though the weight of London itself rests upon your shoulders. Will you speak of it?”

Arthur sank gratefully into the chair opposite James, releasing a weary sigh. “It’s Abigail. Our charade has grown far more complicated than I anticipated.”

James raised an eyebrow, a faint smile curving his lips knowingly. “Has it truly? Or perhaps the complication is within your own heart.”

Arthur hesitated, then nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’ve been haunted lately—by memories of Sophia. Her return to London reopened wounds I’d thought healed.”

James’s expression softened sympathetically. “Sophia Carter was a beautiful but selfish woman, Arthur. Her cruelty should not govern your future happiness.”

Arthur rubbed his temples wearily. “I understand that logically, yet my heart rebels. The thought of trusting Abigail, of allowing myself to hope again, terrifies me.”

James leaned forward, his voice quietly earnest. “Fear is understandable. But answer me this—does Abigail’s sincerity feel anything like Sophia’s artifice?”

“No,” Arthur replied immediately, emphatically. “Abigail is entirely different—honest, intelligent, compassionate. Yet what if I misinterpret her kindness? What if I risk everything only to find myself betrayed again?”

James shook his head, a note of gentle reproach in his voice. “You cannot live forever governed by the shadow of one woman’s cruelty. Abigail deserves better—and so do you. Happiness often requires courage, Arthur. It requires vulnerability.”

Arthur’s expression was deeply thoughtful, absorbing James’ words. “Mayhap you’re right. But the step feels impossibly daunting.”

James smiled reassuringly. “Then begin slowly. Trust grows gradually, built one careful moment at a time. You’ve nothing to lose by allowing Abigail a chance,” he said. “However, I hear on the grapevine that the Earl of Colton has practically claimed Abigail for himself, and her mother is only too happy with that match, so don’t waste too much time.”

Arthur felt some tension ease within him, the strength of James’s wisdom a steady anchor. “Thank you, James,” he said softly. “I’ll consider your words carefully.”

“See that you do,” James replied warmly. “True love rarely appears conveniently or without risk.”