Page 18 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

Abigail stepped into the glittering grandeur of Gillian Beaumont’s ballroom, her heart fluttering anxiously beneath the silk bodice of her gown. Though she had attended her fair share of soirées this Season, the moment her foot crossed the threshold into the marble-floored expanse of Beaumont Manor, she felt it—the subtle but unmistakable shift in the air, the elevation of expectation. This was not just another ball. This was a stage carefully curated by the indomitable Lady Gillian.

Above, twin crystal chandeliers sparkled with relentless elegance, suspended like galaxies of frozen starlight. Each candle flame flickered with golden intensity, casting soft glows across the vaulted ceilings painted with delicate frescoes of mythological scenes. The ceiling had been recently restored, the colors still fresh, and their mythic gaze seemed to watch the guests below with amused detachment.

The walls were paneled in soft ivory and gilded at the corners, their sweeping height draped with silken damask in a muted shade of sage green that somehow whispered of wealth without ever needing to speak it aloud. On either side, tall windows framed with embroidered brocade curtains let in the faint light of the moon, though the candlelight inside far outshone it. Musicians were stationed upon a raised dais at the far end of the room, their instruments tuned to perfection, the strains of a delicate minuet already drifting into the air like scented smoke.

The scent of orange blossom and beeswax polish mingled subtly with the fainter trace of rosewater and fine perfume. Footmen in immaculate livery glided between guests like shadows, bearing silver trays of sparkling wine and slender flutes filled with pale punch that glowed softly in the light. Everything was orchestrated to perfection.

And Gillian Beaumont’s presence was everywhere, even when she could not be seen.

Though Abigail could not yet spot her hostess amid the swirl of brightly clad guests, the tone of the evening had been unmistakably set. Each movement, every spoken word, seemed to obey the silent dictates of a woman known for her elegance, her exacting standards, and her formidable will. This was her court, and she its undisputed queen.

Abigail felt it in her bones.

She had chosen her gown carefully—pale blue silk, simple in silhouette, with delicate embroidery of silver thread curling like vines along the hem and sleeves—but the moment she stepped inside, she wondered if it had been too understated. Not for fashion’s sake, but for the moment. Would Lady Gillian see her as a fitting guest? Or as an interloper—an outsider who dared to step onto Beaumont territory under the pretext of courtship?

Beside her, Harriet Darlington surveyed the room with practiced efficiency, the silk fan in her gloved hand fluttering rapidly as if already calculating how best to navigate the sea of influential acquaintances.

“Lady Harrow is over there,” she whispered sharply. “And Lord Bexley’s wife—do you see? That monstrosity in lilac silk? You mustn’t let her see you looking anxious, Abigail. Straighten your shoulders. You’re here with purpose.”

Abigail obeyed, more from habit than conviction. Her eyes flicked around the room—past jewel-toned gowns, embroidered waistcoats, and the occasional gleam of a medal pinned to a lapel—searching for Arthur. Not yet.

Charles Wescott, ever calm and perceptive, stepped beside her and offered his arm. “Breathe,” he murmured. “You look perfect. Better than perfect. Now let’s find our hostess before your mother attempts to parade you directly into the path of Lord Edward Colton.”

Abigail allowed herself a breathless smile as she took his arm. Together, they moved further into the room, careful to avoid one of the looming potted palms that framed the entrance like sentinels.

A quartet of young ladies paused as she passed—whispers following like ripples in water. Abigail caught the edge of her name, and though their faces remained pleasant, their eyes flickered with appraisal. It was not malice. It was curiosity. Speculation. A girl like Abigail Darlington—clever, composed, rumored to be courting Arthur Beaumont—would always draw interest, especially within the walls of his mother’s house.

The music swelled. A group of dancers turned elegantly across the floor. The ladies’ gowns fanned and shimmered as they moved, and the men’s heels clicked in time with the strings. Laughter sparkled in the air like champagne, yet a quiet tension threaded beneath it all, as though every guest were aware that they were being observed, assessed—perhaps by Gillian herself.

It was only then that Abigail spotted her.

Lady Gillian Beaumont stood near the hearth, her posture immaculate, her dark gown embellished with jet beads that glinted like black diamonds. Her chin was slightly raised, her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest she had the measure of every person in the room and found most of them wanting.

Her hair, arranged in a style elegant without ostentation, was crowned with a comb of polished silver that gleamed beneath the chandelier’s glow. She was speaking to another matron, but her gaze—piercing and perceptive—drifted past Abigail even as her lips continued to move.

Abigail stiffened.

There was no overt hostility in Lady Gillian’s expression—merely scrutiny. Evaluation. As though she were calculating precisely how these guests fitted within the greater narrative of the Beaumont legacy.

Abigail could feel the unspoken question in the air.

She pressed her free hand against the smooth fabric of her gown and drew herself up to her full height. She would not shrink from the moment. Not here. Not now.

This was Arthur’s world—and perhaps, if she could navigate it with grace, it might one day be hers too.

Arthur stood near his mother, and his sister, Eliza. Abigail’s breath caught involuntarily as she met Arthur’s gaze, his deep blue eyes holding hers just long enough to send a pleasant warmth cascading through her chest.

His formal greeting was polite and cordial, yet his voice carried an unmistakable sincerity that stirred within Abigail a tentative hope that perhaps their charade might indeed have begun to transform into something more real.

“Miss Darlington,” Arthur murmured, bowing gracefully, his tone softening slightly. “You are looking especially lovely this evening.”

A delicate blush warmed Abigail’s cheeks, and she smiled shyly as she curtsied before him. “Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.”

Harriet, her eyes sharp with subtle calculation, greeted Arthur with carefully measured politeness, clearly displeased that her daughter had chosen to attend to focus her attentions on a mere Viscount rather than on the arm of Edward Colton. Charles, however, extended his hand warmly to Arthur, his genuine affection evident.

“You have quite outdone yourself, Lady Beaumont,” Harriet said, shifting her attention to Gillian, her voice pitched just loud enough to ensure Abigail overheard her quiet disdain. “The ballroom looks absolutely delightful.”

Abigail felt a sudden pang of unease as Gillian’s eyes coolly appraised her from head to toe, her lips pursed in thinly veiled disapproval. Arthur caught his mother’s glance and tensed subtly, an almost imperceptible stiffening in his posture.

Abigail noted this with quiet discomfort—fully aware she was being judged inadequate. She was obviously a disappointing match for a future Viscount, in his mother’s eyes at any rate. The fleeting pang deepened her anxiety, reminding her once again how tightly society’s expectations bound her every choice.

As Harriet and Gillian moved aside to converse quietly, Abigail released a silent breath she had not registered she had been holding, grateful for the brief reprieve. Charles and Eliza were already chatting comfortably, leaving Abigail and Arthur standing slightly apart.

Arthur leaned closer, his voice soft yet reassuring. “Do not let her opinion distress you, Abigail. My mother holds no sway over my regard.”

His words brought immediate comfort, yet Abigail lowered her gaze, her heart fluttering unsteadily. “Still, I would not wish to cause tension in your household, Arthur, or do anything that would cause her to dislike me further.”

“Let that concern rest with me,” Arthur insisted gently. “Tonight is yours to enjoy. I want you to forget about society for a while and ignore the expectations of others. After all, worrying about them won’t make them disappear.”

“Too true,” Abigail agreed with a smile. “No sense in wasting a good worry.”

He smiled at her beatifically, his quiet sincerity melted her lingering anxiety, and drew a genuine smile to her own lips. As Abigail walked deeper into the ballroom to mingle, she glanced over her shoulder, catching Arthur’s lingering gaze. Warmth spread through her again; a quiet hope tentatively blossoming despite the mounting complexities of their situation.

The evening soon reached a dazzling crescendo, with couples swirling gracefully to the strains of a waltz and flashes of color spinning about the room as ladies’ gowns floated around them.

Abigail moved through polite conversations, yet her eyes repeatedly sought Arthur’s reassuring presence across the crowded ballroom. He remained at the edge, seemingly detached yet ever watchful. The invisible connection between them brought Abigail unexpected joy, making even tedious social exchanges more bearable.

Being away from her haranguing mother for more than five minutes also brought with it a sense of peace she hadn’t felt for weeks. Abigail had been concerned that her mother would have been pushing her into the arms of eligible bachelors all evening, but Lady Harriet seemed far more interested in asserting her own place in society this evening.

While this brought blessed relief, it also filled Abigail with an impending sense of doom. For her sudden lack of attention meant that her mother had clearly decided Edward would be her betrothed before the end of the Season.

Determined to rid herself of such negative thoughts, Abigail sought out a footman carrying refreshments and sought solace in a glass of wine to calm her fluttering nerves and provide a spot of respite.

Her contentment was short-lived, however. Edward Colton appeared suddenly before her, his usually oppressive presence impossible to avoid. Abigail’s stomach tightened reflexively, dread pooling within her.

“Miss Darlington,” Edward cooed, his smile thinly masking the hard glint of possessive triumph in his eyes. “There you are. I was trying to find you, but you have been rather elusive this evening. Might I have the pleasure of this waltz?”

Every fiber of Abigail’s being protested most vehemently. She wanted to make her opinion of this man known once and for all now that her mother was not there to chide her, but she found her lips curving upwards into a somewhat unconvincing, but ladylike smile. Edward’s meticulously cultivated charm could not disguise the discomfort she felt in his company. Yet society’s ruthless expectations offered her no escape.

“Of course, Lord Colton,” she replied softly, forcing politeness through clenched teeth. Her hand felt heavy as she placed it upon his arm, her heart sinking a little further as he led her onto the crowded dance floor.

As they began to dance, Abigail’s discomfort grew as she noticed one sweaty, gloved hand in hers while the other rested almost forcefully at her back. His grasp was firm, almost possessive, his movements subtly dominating, forcing her compliance.

“You dance beautifully tonight,” Edward remarked smoothly. “But I would expect nothing less from my future countess.”

The words turned Abigail’s blood cold, her breath momentarily hitching. She fought to maintain her composure, dread filling her at the certainty in Edward’s eyes.

“You presume too much, my lord,” Abigail replied quietly, striving to keep her voice steady. “Nothing is yet decided.”

Edward’s grip tightened slightly, his voice lowering with deceptive softness. “Society has already decided, Abigail. It would be wise not to fight the inevitable.”

A shiver of fear raced through Abigail, threatening her carefully constructed composure. Her eyes desperately sought Arthur across the ballroom, her heart aching to escape Edward’s oppressive grasp and return to Arthur’s comforting, steady presence.

At last, the waltz ended, the music fading mercifully. Edward released her reluctantly, bending slightly to whisper into her ear, “we are far from finished, Abigail.”

She felt ill as he stepped away, leaving her shaken amidst the swirling sea of silk and laughter. Her breath came unsteadily, her heart pounding as Arthur stepped determinedly toward her, clearly intending to reclaim her side. Abigail’s relief was immediate, yet mercilessly brief.

A sudden, abrupt hush fell over the crowded ballroom, the atmosphere shifting palpably. Heads turned expectantly toward the entrance. Abigail followed the collective gaze, her chest constricting sharply as a strikingly beautiful woman entered the room, accompanied by her equally distinguished husband. Instantly, whispers began to ripple excitedly throughout the guests, curiosity sharpening every gaze.

Lady Sophia Carter had arrived.

Abigail’s pulse quickened in anxious curiosity as she instinctively turned toward Arthur. His face paled slightly, his eyes fixed upon Sophia with unreadable intensity, tension rigidly lining his posture. Abigail’s heart twisted painfully, a new wave of uncertainty and fear overtaking her.

Sophia Carter moved gracefully through the crowd, every gesture elegant and choreographed, fully aware of the impact of her entrance. Abigail felt suddenly plain, and overshadowed, her newly found hope swiftly dissipating. How could she compete with a woman who so effortlessly captured attention, whose presence seemed to dominate the whole ballroom with immediate effect?

Arthur’s reaction also left Abigail deeply unsettled, her confidence wavering as she saw a look of hurt and barely suppressed pain flash across his face. She had begun to hope Arthur felt something genuine for her, something beyond their careful deception. But now she questioned everything. Perhaps Sophia remained the true keeper of Arthur’s heart. She might be unobtainable, but wasn’t the forbidden fruit all the more tantalizing than any to which you could lay claim?

Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, Abigail forced a composed expression, determined to hide her inner turmoil. However, she couldn’t help but notice Edward’s calculating gaze flicker between Arthur, Sophia, and herself, a smile curling unpleasantly upon his lips. It was obvious that he somehow sensed an opportunity in Sophia’s sudden return, an opportunity to exploit Arthur’s distraction and Abigail’s vulnerability.

Does he know about our plan? Has someone told him?

Despairing, Abigail moved swiftly toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, needing space to regain her composure. The crowded room suddenly felt stifling, and claustrophobic, and she did not trust herself to maintain any semblance of self-control. She leaned against one of the marble columns by the open French doors, her fingers tightening involuntarily in the fabric of her gown.

She sensed rather than saw Arthur’s approach, his presence an anxiety-inducing mix of comfort and unrest. His voice, quiet and sincere, whispered gently, “Are you all right?”

She forced a smile, avoiding his gaze. “Of course, my lord.”

He hesitated, sensing her unease. “Sophia’s presence changes nothing between us, Abigail.”

Abigail finally looked into Arthur’s eyes, her heart yearning desperately for reassurance. “Are you certain, Arthur? Your reaction—”

“My reaction is surprise, nothing more,” Arthur insisted quietly, sincerity filling his voice. “I promise you. I did not think she would turn up, despite my mother’s rather insensitive decision to invite her.”

Abigail searched his expression desperately, finding sincerity and vulnerability mirrored clearly. Her heart fluttered anxiously, she felt caught somewhere between tentative hope and painful uncertainty. She sighed softly, her eyes holding his. “I want to believe that.”

Arthur took her hand gently, the warmth of his fingers steadying her trembling heart. “Then believe it. Please.”

She drew courage from his earnestness, nodding slowly. “I shall try.”

Arthur’s relief was palpable, his gentle smile soothing her lingering fears. Yet, even as Abigail relaxed slightly beneath his gaze, a familiar, unpleasant voice intruded suddenly upon their quiet intimacy.

Edward’s voice, mocking yet charmingly malicious, spoke softly, “Lady Sophia’s return appears to have rattled you both. A curious thing, isn’t it?”

Arthur’s expression darkened immediately, his eyes narrowing in quiet warning. Abigail stiffened instinctively beside him, dread twisting painfully inside her.

Edward continued smugly, his voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “One wonders if old flames ever truly die, Beaumont. There’s nothing quite like the loss of your first true love, is there? It never quite goes away.”

Abigail’s stomach churned violently, the nausea rising swiftly with Edward’s unbridled callousness. Arthur’s expression became dangerously cold, yet Edward only smiled triumphantly, fully aware of the wounds he had successfully reopened for Arthur and the seed of doubt he had successfully replanted in Abigail’s mind.

Abigail realised abruptly that Edward knew far too much, saw far too clearly—and intended to use this knowledge mercilessly against them.

She had no idea how he had come about this information, but it was suddenly painfully apparent that he would do whatever was in his power to thwart their union—feigned or otherwise. Fear rose sharply within her, overshadowing all else. The fragile hope she had nurtured now felt painfully naive.

What cruel games did fate still have in store? Abigail wondered desolately, silently gripping Arthur’s hand tighter.

The evening stretched painfully ahead, every joyful note now ringing hollow as Abigail stood trembling at the precipice of fear and uncertainty.