Page 19 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

Arthur’s jaw tightened as Edward Colton’s words slithered through the air, cloaked in civility yet laced with unmistakable venom.

“One wonders,” Edward had murmured, his eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction, “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.”

The silence that followed was brief, but it was piercing.

Arthur did not respond—not immediately. His pulse had begun to thrum just beneath the surface of his skin, cold and steady like the beat of distant war drums. He stared at Edward, his eyes level and unreadable, but inside him something stirred. Something hot and bitter, threatening to surge out of him.

Abigail stood still beside him, and though she remained composed—her chin lifted, her back straightened—Arthur noticed the subtle stiffening of her posture.

A woman trained from childhood in the art of social survival, she knew better than to flinch. But he could sense the tremor beneath her calm, a barely perceptible shift that betrayed how deeply Edward’s barb had struck.

The ballroom carried on. Music drifted on. Laughter fluttered from one corner of the room. But, around them, the air had thickened, rippling faintly with curiosity. A few heads had turned—not many, not yet—but enough. Enough to spark whispers. Enough to plant the first dangerous seed of speculation. And Arthur had a feeling of certainty that Edward was not finished yet.

Arthur’s voice, when it came, was low. “You speak boldly for a man with such little understanding of discretion.”

Edward’s smile deepened. “Discretion is only for those with something to hide. And, who do we know who has something to hide, Lord Beaumont?” He placed his fingers to his lips and widened his eyes dramatically. “Oh, I know. That would be you , wouldn’t it?”

With that, he bowed—ostentatiously and insolently—and turned away, vanishing back into the crowd as though he had merely exchanged pleasantries.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

The gall of the man. At his own estate. The shamelessness. And worse still—the accuracy. Edward had not stumbled across some vague insinuation. No, he had aimed with purpose. He knew about Sophia. And he had wielded her name like a blade.

Arthur’s hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side. The man was insufferable—worse, he was dangerous.

He glanced at Abigail. Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes betrayed her unease. The air between them had shifted—tainted, momentarily, by the shadow Sophia had cast.

Arthur turned to Abigail. “Do not give weight to his words,” he said quietly. “He seeks only to unsettle. Let us not let him think he has won. Let us not give him the permission to ruin the evening.”

She nodded, but her silence was not reassuring. For a moment, it looked as though she was about to disclose something meaningful. There was a flicker of something in her eyes that suggested she was fearful about something, but then it was gone.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” Despite his efforts to offer words of reassurance, the brightness that had lit her eyes earlier in the evening had dulled, the strain of the evening now written plainly in the set of her shoulders as she walked away.

What had she been about to say?

The ballroom was stifling.

Not with heat—though the combination of bodies and candlelight had raised the temperature to an uncomfortable degree—but with the sheer weight of expectation. Of watching eyes and murmured judgments. Of unspoken schemes and unrelenting performances.

Despite standing at the periphery of the room in an effort not to have to speak to anyone until he could organize his muddled thoughts, Arthur found himself nodding to an aging peer whose breath reeked of port and whose political theories were as outdated as his cravat.

He was so tired of the sheer weight he felt he was carrying all the time. The pointlessness of it all. He wanted to speak to Abigail without interruption and freely, but it didn’t look as though the fates would allow him that luxury tonight.

I just wanted her to have a good time. Is that really too much to ask?

He could scarcely recall the last ten minutes of the current conversation, although he had done a reasonable job of making appropriate noises of acknowledgement here and there. It was largely one-sided anyway. Gentlemen of the ton were always so painfully full of themselves and this one-sided conversation was a prime example.

Across the room, Sophia’s laughter rang out—delicate, artful, perfectly orchestrated to be noticeable. She wanted Arthur to notice her, perhaps still long for her. She was asserting her power as a beautiful woman; a pointed reminder of what he could have had.

Arthur did not look. He had already looked once too often. And the memory of her golden presence at the threshold, the poised elegance of her smile, had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not in London, not this Season, not when his life—however falsely—was being reshaped around a woman who, until recently, had meant nothing more to him than a convenient shield against the demands of society.

Abigail.

Arthur’s gaze drifted toward her without conscious intention. She was speaking to her cousin Charles now, her head tilted as she listened, one gloved hand resting lightly at her waist.

The expression on her face was composed, but not entirely serene. She had learned how to mask emotions—hadn’t all of society—but he saw the telltale tension in her shoulders, and the faint shadow in her eyes. She was performing—just as he was—and yet, within that performance, there was something real. Something he had not seen in Sophia. Something that drew him in and unsettled him in equal measure.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Eliza, sharp-eyed as ever, was watching him. She offered him a look that was equal parts inquiry and warning, then returned to her conversation. Arthur stifled a sigh. He needed air.

He had to get out of the ballroom. And he had to speak with Abigail—truthfully, quietly, without the oppressive hum of orchestrated society bearing down on them.

With a murmured apology to the political relic at his elbow, Arthur began to make his way toward the French doors leading to the terrace giving Abigail a pointed look that he hoped would convey his intentions.

The candlelit ballroom gave way to the cool embrace of night, and he stepped outside, inhaling deeply as the chill kissed his skin. The moon hung low and pale above the gardens, illuminating the trimmed hedges and gravel paths with a soft, ghostly glow.

He rested his hands on the balustrade and stared out into the shadows.

His thoughts swirled like the dancers within. Sophia’s return, Abigail’s quiet courage, his own increasing inability to distinguish performance from reality.

A soft rustle behind him broke his reverie.

He turned slightly, already sensing who it was. Abigail stood just inside the terrace doors, the candlelight of the ballroom outlining her figure in gold. She stepped forward slowly, her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor, her expression unreadable.

“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I did not know if you wanted me to follow you out. From the look on your face, I thought you did.” She scanned the terrace briefly to ensure there were other guests present and noted a few other people taking in the cool night air away from the heat of the ballroom.

The very last thing they needed was the whispers of a potential scandal. If the ton could get worked up about something as simple as Arthur preventing her from an accidental fall, they would undoubtedly let their imaginations run wild about a moonlit tryst. Abigail couldn’t help but think that such a situation might provide the perfect solution to their predicament, if Arthur felt willing, but she quickly pushed the notion aside.

“You are welcome to the air as much as I am,” Arthur replied, his voice low. “I find I cannot breathe in there.”

Abigail moved to stand beside him at the balustrade. For a moment, they said nothing. The silence between them was not awkward—it was heavy and charged with words left unspoken, but not unpleasant.

She was the first to break the quiet.

“I do not know what is worse,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “the need to smile for the sake of politeness, or the knowledge that every smile is being scrutinized and weighed for some hidden agenda.”

Arthur turned his head, studying her profile—the delicate line of her jaw, the way the moonlight shimmered in her chestnut hair. There was such a weariness in her voice with which he felt a profound sense of empathy. But more than that—there was longing.

“You wear the mask well,” he said gently.

“I’m so tired of masks, Arthur,” she confessed. “I long for something real. Something… genuine. Something untouched by the expectations of society.”

He looked away, back to the gardens.

“So do I.”

They were simple words, but their weight startled even him. He had not meant to say them aloud.

Abigail turned toward him then, and he faced her in kind. Her eyes searched his, full of questions, full of doubt, full of something deeper that he didn’t know how to name.

“When we began this charade,” she said slowly, “I thought it would be easy. Pretend to care, pretend to be seen. And yet, now…”

Arthur waited, his heart thudding with anticipation.

“…I find that the pretense has made no difference… to my mother at any rate. She will still do whatever she can to ensure that I marry Edward Colton purely to suit her own skewed purpose.

“You cannot marry him,” Arthur retorted. “I cannot bear the thought. He is neither a good person, nor is he deserving of your wisdom, insight, and… beauty.”

There’s another thing, Arthur. I—I no longer know what is pretense and what...what my true… feelings are.”

A relieved breath escaped him—half laugh, half sigh. “Nor do I.”

Another silence fell, but it was no longer comfortable. It trembled with pregnant anticipation and frustrated longing—unsteady, powerful, and growing.

“I thought this arrangement would shield me,” Arthur admitted, his voice rougher now, more vulnerable. “From my mother’s incessant schemes, and from society’s expectations. And yes—perhaps from myself. From the dangers of hoping again.”

Her gaze held his. “Sophia? You still care about her?”

He flinched at the name, though she had asked her question without accusation or judgment.

“Indeed,” he said, after a long pause. “She taught me what it meant to trust wrongly. And what it costs to hope when the other person does not feel the same way as you. She gave me a harsh lesson in unrequited love.”

“And do you think it was true love? Or have you revised your opinion after… her departure? Abigail asked.

The guests at the far end of the terrace were heading back inside, and Arthur and Abigail found themselves alone. While they knew they should follow suit or seek a chaperone, they also knew they would probably not get a chance like this again.

“In all honesty, I do not know,” Arthur said, earnestly. “In truth, I have not had any frame of reference until… quite recently. And I still feel rather confused.”

“And what do you hope now?” Abigail whispered, pressing for the answer she wanted, and needed to hear.

Arthur’s throat tightened. He did not know. Or rather—he did know, but feared to say it aloud.

Instead, he stepped closer.

“There is something I need to say,” he murmured. “And I may regret saying it. But I can no longer pretend that what has passed between us thus far is mere illusion.”

Abigail inhaled sharply. He could see her pulse fluttering at her throat. For some reason, it invoked in him a strange sense of longing and desire.

“I have come to admire you a great deal, Abigail,” he continued, his voice low and steady. “Not only for how well you navigate this world, but for how impressively you endure it. For the way you speak, the way you listen, the way you see and appreciate the world around you.”

She blinked, and in her eyes was something like wonder. His words were genuine, and good to hear, but he was still edging around the subject.

How do you feel about me, Arthur? Truly. Please tell me.

“I never imagined,” he said softly, “that the woman I chose to help me deceive the ton would come to mean so much to me, or that I would feel...”

He lifted a hand—hesitated—and then gently cupped her cheek, the warmth of her skin a revelation beneath his fingertips. She leaned into the touch instinctively, her lips parting slightly.

“I cannot promise anything,” he murmured, “but you must know that I would not lie to you. Not now.”

He leaned forward, closing the space between them with aching slowness, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. Her eyes fluttered closed, and then their lips met in a kiss so tentative, so quietly reverent, it felt like a secret shared beneath the moonlight.

There was no performance in that kiss. No calculation. Only truth. She could feel it.

When they broke apart, neither spoke.

They simply stood there, breathing quietly, their gazes locked, the hum of the ballroom a distant murmur behind them, as if they had slipped into a world entirely their own. Arthur was still holding tightly to her hand.