Page 2 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

Lord Arthur Beaumont stood near the tall, arched window of Lady Jane Fairchild’s ballroom, his arms loosely folded across his chest, his demeanor unhurried and unobtrusive. He watched the room with the cool, analytical detachment of a man who had long since ceased to find any novelty in its pageantry. From his position, he saw everything—and none of it surprised him.

He had noticed the moment Lord Edward Colton had approached Abigail Darlington with the air of a man bestowing an honor rather than seeking a dance partner.

The stiff angle of Abigail’s shoulders, the half-second hesitation before she extended her hand—these subtleties were invisible to the casual observer, but not to Arthur. A flicker of dry amusement curled at the corner of his mouth as they moved into the waltz, Colton predictably launching into a soliloquy no doubt celebrating his own virtues.

“Another conquest?” came a familiar voice beside him.

Arthur didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. “Ah, sister. Come to pry or to chide?”

“A little of both,” Eliza Beaumont said, her tone light as she joined him. She followed his line of sight. “Edward seems rather taken with Miss Darlington. Her father, Baron Silas Darlington, is still abroad, I hear,” Eliza added thoughtfully. “But his absence hasn’t lessened the interest in his daughter one bit. It seems a profitable connection in the tea trade is just as alluring as ever.”

Arthur made a noncommittal sound. “Edward is rather taken with his own reflection, and Miss Darlington is simply the nearest polished surface.”

Eliza laughed softly. “You’re dreadful, Arthur. And absolutely accurate. I’ve never seen a more narcissistic man.”

Arthur allowed himself a small smile. Abigail Darlington was enduring the dance with admirable grace, though her eyes had the distant, glassy look of a woman mentally retreating into a far-off place to spare her sanity, and she looked as if she would rather be anywhere else.

“She’s quite lovely,” Eliza said thoughtfully. “Intelligent, too, from what I’ve heard. Don’t you think so?”

He finally turned to look at his sister. “You’re not matchmaking again, are you?”

“Not exactly,” she replied, arching a brow. “I’m only suggesting you stop scowling at everyone long enough to consider the possibility that not all women in the room are like the rest.”

Arthur’s expression shifted minutely. “You speak as if you believe I am blind.”

“Not blind,” Eliza said gently. “Just… understandably guarded.”

He didn’t respond.

She continued. “I know what happened with Lady Sophia Carter who wounded you. But that was years ago. Not everyone is so calculating. Some people are genuine. I promise.”

Arthur looked back at the dance floor. The waltz was drawing to a close. Abigail’s curtsy was executed perfectly, but Arthur saw the tightness in her fingers as she withdrew her hand from Colton’s. There was no affection in her expression—only relief, minimal and quickly veiled, quite invisible to the untrained eye. Arthur suspected that the dance had felt a lot longer to Abigail than it had to everyone else.

“Genuine or not,” he said, “this is all an act in which we are forced to take part. We are but actors on a stage—pieces on a board, and the game remains the same year after year after year.”

“Mayhap,” Eliza said, “but even in a game, there are those who long for truth. I think Miss Darlington might be one of them.”

“You got all of that from watching her dance with someone else?”

Eliza only smiled in response, but she had lodged the thought in his mind. Eventually, she braved a little more digging.

“You used to be more open. More hopeful. Do you remember that summer before you left for the continent? You used to draw, paint… laugh even.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “And look where that got me.”

He hadn’t intended the words to come out so sharply, but Eliza didn’t flinch. She’d had a lifetime of learning the nuances of her brother’s mannerisms and moods, but she was one of the few people he allowed to speak to him like this without reproach.

“It got you experience,” she said quietly. “And pain, I know. But it doesn’t mean you have to stop hoping altogether. Things happen for a reason, and sometimes, the things that hurt us teach us the most valuable lessons.”

He turned away from the dance floor, his gaze drifting to the high ceiling, the gleaming chandeliers, the flicker of candlelight across gilded moldings. Deep down, he knew his sister was right. She was always so measured and thoughtful in her reasoning. And she saw through him far more clearly than anyone else, despite the walls he had tried to construct around himself for protection.

“I trusted Sophia,” he said after a long pause. “I let myself believe in something. And in the end, she chose a man twice her age because his estate was larger. Because he could offer her a diamond parure and a hunting lodge in Yorkshire.”

Eliza’s voice was soft. “More fool her. She was the one to blame for her predicament.”

“No,” Arthur said, a bitter twist to his mouth. “She was pragmatic. She knew what she wanted, she knew exactly how to get it, and it didn’t have much to do with love on her part. I was the fool.”

He hadn’t spoken of Lady Sophia Carter in years. He had locked that humiliation away, buried it beneath quiet evenings and scholarly pursuits. But the memory still stung.

He had struggled to shake the image of her smiling up at him, her hand on his arm, her promises. They were never explicit, but always implied. He’d believed she reciprocated his feelings and she’d done nothing to dissuade him. There was a brief period of silence followed by the betrothal announcement in the Gazette . He hadn’t seen her since.

“You were in love with the idea of her,” Eliza said. “Not the woman herself.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur murmured. “But it was enough to teach me. I have no interest in playing the fool again.”

“Then don’t,” Eliza said, stepping closer. “But don’t let one mistake define your whole life. You hide behind your cynicism as if it’s armor, but it’s just a wall, Arthur. And it’s a lonely one.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the earnestness in her eyes. The hope. The frustration. The affection. Sophia hadn’t owed him anything, but her honesty would have made the heartache much easier. She had ruined him for everyone else.

“You think I should court Miss Darlington?” he asked, sounding more amused than serious.

“I think,” Eliza said with a gentle smile, “you should talk to her. Not every interaction has to end in courtship or disaster. Sometimes people are just… kindred spirits.”

Arthur sighed. “Kindred spirits. It sounds like the sort of nonsense poets scribble into margins.”

Eliza grinned. “ You used to write in margins. I think it’s high time you found yourself a new muse to rekindle your creativity. You always had such a wonderful way with words, Arthur.”

He shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

“And what about you, dear sister?” he asked suddenly. “Have you discovered any promising suitors in tonight’s glittering throng? Surely a sharp eye like yours has narrowed the field.”

Eliza laughed. “Now who’s deflecting?”

Arthur raised a brow, feigning innocence. “I’m merely showing an interest in your prospects.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, amused. “There are a few gentlemen of note. Mr. Charles Wescott is charming and refreshingly unpretentious. And Captain James… well, I admire his quiet sense. There’s depth there.”

“Ah, so you do have a preference.”

“Not quite,” she replied, her smile more subdued. “I’m simply observing. Just as you are. But unlike you, I’m still open to the idea of something unexpected. Hopeful… even.”

Arthur turned his gaze back to the floor, but her words lingered.

Eliza glanced at him, then tilted her head thoughtfully. “Out of interest, do you think well of them? Wescott and Captain James, I mean. You’ve always been a better judge of character than most, Arthur.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Captain James is… agreeable, honest, implicitly trustworthy, and a genuinely good friend. Well-mannered. Tolerates my cynicism. I appreciate that he doesn’t take himself too seriously. And he seems to genuinely like people. That’s rarer than you might think at these events. I’d also trust him with my life.”

“And Westcott?”

“Steady. Principled. A man who thinks before he speaks. I’d trust him to be honourable.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “And, I suppose, I’d trust him with my sister’s heart.” He paused for a moment, gauging her reaction. “It is obvious that he thinks very highly of you, Eliza.”

Eliza smiled. “That’s the most brotherly thing you’ve said all evening.”

Arthur allowed a chuckle. “I wouldn’t want you to be bored, but I also wouldn’t tolerate anyone making you unhappy. I may have my flaws, but I do keep track of what matters.”

“I know,” she said softly. “And I appreciate it. I don’t need you to approve of every man I speak to, Arthur—but I do value your opinion.”

He softened at that. “Then I shall answer honestly. If either of them means to court you seriously, they had better be serious men, or they shall have to answer to me, friends or no. You deserve someone who sees your worth—and not just your dowry or your family name.”

“Well,” she said, bumping his shoulder gently, “likewise, my dear brother. I wish exactly the same for you. I hope you find a match that makes you happy sooner rather than later.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but nudged his sister affectionately with his arm. He was loath to admit it but, in truth, there was a deep-seated part of him that hoped for that too.

***

Later, Arthur stepped away from the ballroom, drawn not by discomfort but by a quiet desire to breathe. The weight of silk and perfume, the ceaseless rustle of fans and flirtation—it was all too familiar, and endlessly tiring.

He paused near a column beside the tall French doors that opened onto the terrace. The cool night air drifted in with the scent of jasmine. He wasn’t alone.

Abigail Darlington stood just beyond the open doors, half-hidden by shadows, speaking to her cousin, Charles Wescott. Arthur watched them silently, unnoticed in the half-light.

There was a lightness to her posture now, the weariness of earlier gone, replaced by something relaxed and authentic. Her voice, though soft, held a wry edge as she recounted the details of her dance with Lord Edward Colton.

“…monologue about marble tiles and the decline of feminine intellect,” she was saying. “And he used the word ‘discerning’ twice.”

Charles gave a low, appreciative chuckle, the sound echoing faintly in the cool air. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t fall in love with him on the spot? Goodness, woman, you are unbreakable. What does a man have to do for you to succumb to his magnificent charms?”

“I nearly fainted from rapture,” Abigail replied, her voice deadpan. “Although I was sorely tempted to pierce myself with my hairpin just to escape yet another remark about his uncle’s marble flooring.”

“I can’t imagine why you’re still unmarried,” Charles said, leaning against the door frame with an easy smile.

“Oh, it’s a mystery,” Abigail murmured. “Though I dare say it may stem from the fact that I am compelled to select among a gentleman who compared my violin to a milking stool, another who expounded upon the meaning of the word ‘literature,’ and a third who devoted twenty minutes to describing his hounds’ bowel habits.”

“Ah yes,” Charles said with mock solemnity. “The sacred trinity of marital eligibility—milking stools, air-headed wives, and defecation. Perhaps not the most agreeable discourse for intimate moments.”

“Charles!” Abigail chided, playfully slapping her cousin on the arm. “You shouldn’t say such ghastly things in public.”

“You play your part of horrified damsel of the ton beautifully cousin, but we all know that, deep down, you’d shed the perfect lady image in a heartbeat.”

Abigail turned toward him slightly, her silhouette lit softly by the glow from the ballroom behind them. “Do you suppose there is any man in London capable of speaking to a woman as though she might possess a brain and a mind of her own?”

“Present company excluded?” he asked lightly.

Abigail gave him a look. “You’re family. It doesn’t count.”

He tilted his head. “Then, no. I suspect you are utterly doomed.”

She smiled, but the expression faded a little, her gaze drifting toward the garden beyond the terrace. The night was still and fragrant, the moonlight catching on the damp leaves like spilled silver. At that moment, she would’ve liked nothing more than to disappear into the gardens and escape.

“I don’t know that I want it anymore,” she said quietly. “Marriage, I mean. At least, not in the form my mother envisions. I fear I’ll lose myself in it. One becomes a wife, and everything else—your thoughts, your preferences, your person —is quietly swept aside like dust on a mantel. I can already feel myself disappearing with every polite conversation, every forced effort to be polite with the most awful individuals.”

Abigail sighed in exasperation. “I probably wouldn’t even be addressed by my name anymore. I’d just be someone’s wife, incapable of making a single decision without my husband’s advice, or worse, his permission.” She paused thoughtfully. “That…obviously, is if I were addressed at all.”

Charles regarded her with a new softness, one that replaced his usual jesting. “You’ve always been more than the ton could handle, Abby. You have a mind for something greater. That doesn’t disappear just because you fall in love.”

“And what if one never does? Fall in love, I mean. I understand that one cannot always be so lucky to find a love match, particularly in modern society, but it would be nice to believe that it could happen. What if I never find anyone that I can even stand?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then, with a half-smile, he said, “then you and I shall retire to the countryside to raise goats. Or maybe we could read novels aloud to one another. Otherwise, you will have to tolerate your mother’s meddling for the rest of your days. Which is worse?”

She laughed at that—rich and unguarded. “I think I might have to pass on the goat rearing,” she said. “But I do like the sound of the reading. I could certainly do with a break from my mother. I know she means well, in her own way. But…it is rather suffocating.”

He gave a small bow. “Discount the goats and your mother, then. We’ll dispense with plans A and C and revert to B. I shall ensure my voice is properly trained for reading with projection. Perhaps I’ll audition with a passage from Radcliffe.”

“Oh, please… spare me the melodrama,” she said, and her smile, though still tinged with amusement, softened at the edges. “You always know how to make things feel a little less… heavy. I am so grateful for you, Charles.”

“That’s because I’ve watched you carry the weight of your mother’s ambition for too many Seasons,” he said, his voice low now, tender. “You never complain. You never rebel—not really. But I see it. And I know it isn’t easy.”

Abigail exhaled, a long and quiet breath. “It isn’t rebellion I fear,” she said at last. “It’s that I might concede. That one day, I’ll be too tired to resist or put up a fight any longer, and I’ll marry someone like Edward Colton. Someone with alcohol-fueled breath and a sweaty top lip who calls me discerning and imagines he’s sealed the deal by paying a compliment that isn’t really a compliment at all.”

Charles’s jaw ticked, just slightly. “You’re quite extolling his virtues! That won’t happen, Abby. I won’t allow it.”

She turned to him then, her eyes clear in the moonlight. “And what if there’s no one else?”

“There will be,” he said simply. “Someone who sees you for you, and not your fortune. Who respects your thoughts rather than tolerates or dismisses them. Someone who looks at you and sees not a prize—but a partner.”

Abigail looked away, blinking hard. “You make it sound so simple.”

He smiled. “The best things often are. We just tend to get in our own way.”

Arthur turned away. He had already heard too much. In truth, he had found the conversation intriguing, and couldn’t help but find Abigail Darlington’s candor incredibly refreshing.

But he didn’t want to intrude. More than that, he didn’t want to admit how strangely hollow it made him feel, to watch her find solace in someone else’s easy companionship. It wasn’t exactly jealousy—not that—but something quieter, and perhaps a little sadder. The ache of disconnection. Of possibilities glimpsed and dismissed.

He had told Eliza it wasn’t protection, this emotional distance he kept. That it was experience. But now, in the hush of the night, watching a young woman find refuge not in wealth or rank but in the company of a male family member who simply understood her, Arthur felt the first tremor of doubt. Perhaps there were women in the ton who were bearable. Perhaps he’d been far too hasty and dismissive.

Miss Darlington and Charles Wescott shared a familial bond not dissimilar to the one he had with his sister, that had been built on years of history and trust. Was it even possible to find a romantic attachment with the same level of confidence at such spectacles as these? How could anyone separate the authentic characters from those who merely wanted to secure titles, societal positions, and wealth?

He wasn’t so sure anymore.

He lingered for another moment in the shadows pondering on whether a life of solitude might prove a safer choice than putting his heart out on the line again. Then, with a soundless sigh, he returned to the ballroom.