Page 20 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The following morning dawned bright and still, the spring sun gilding the tops of the London rooftops in pale amber light, and yet Abigail did not feel remotely rested. The dark shadows beneath her eyes, coupled with her pensive silence, told a story that all might not be as well as it currently appeared. Not that there was anyone here with her to realize or care.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains of Abigail’s bedchamber, and for a long while, she remained seated at the window, her eyes trained on the pale blue sky beyond the lace panes, though she saw very little of it.

Sleep had come in shallow snatches, fractured by memories of the previous evening—Edward’s sneering insinuations, the terrible hush that had fallen over the ballroom at Sophia Carter’s arrival, and then—more potently—her moment with Arthur on the terrace. That kiss. That quiet, disarming, entirely unexpected kiss that had splintered the last of her practiced detachment. Nothing had felt artificial in that moment. Nothing had felt impossible to overcome.

She closed her eyes now, recalling the way Arthur’s hand had cradled her cheek with such gentle certainty, the way his lips had met hers with reverence, rather than assumed possession. She had never imagined such a kiss—tender, sincere, and so heartbreakingly real.

And yet it was a kiss born from fiction. Wasn’t it? A fleeting moment where they had both momentarily lost control of their senses and what they were trying to convey. A chink in the carefully constructed armor they had both curated that had no rightful place in a courtship built upon strategic deception.

The more time that passed since that moment, the more she doubted what had seemed so certain the previous night. Her mind kept playing callous tricks on her, undoing any semblance of positivity she had felt the previous evening.

Such was her strength of feeling in all the wrong directions that she began to wish they had both been caught. Suddenly, a scandal seemed more bearable than this wretched and constant sense of chaos and unease.

Abigail rose from her seat and summoned Lydia to help her dress. She chose a walking gown in a muted mauve and a soft bonnet. She did not wish to draw attention, but rather to pass unnoticed among the morning crowds.

She needed clarity. She needed to speak to someone who would listen without judgment and would take away some of the heavy weight that hung around her shoulders. Someone who would understand her better than her mother ever had or ever could.

She needed Charles.

***

Hyde Park had never felt so quiet. It was only just beginning to stir with the rhythms of the day. Carriages rolled leisurely along the outer drives, and the more fashionably inclined early risers had begun their daily parade down Rotten Row. Abigail, however, had chosen a quieter path—a shaded route along the eastern boundary, where only a few devotees of the dawn and their dogs ventured.

Charles was waiting at their designated spot by the old iron gate, leaning on his walking stick with that easy elegance that masked his perceptiveness. As she approached, he tipped his hat and offered his arm.

“You’re early,” he observed with a smile. “I was rather hoping to impress you by arriving first.”

“You have,” Abigail replied softly. “I needed the air.”

The sun filtered through a canopy of pale green leaves, dappling the winding paths in soft patterns of gold. Morning strollers moved at a languid pace along the Serpentine, their laughter faint, their parasols bobbing gently like petals in bloom. The rhythmic clip of hooves on gravel and the rustle of newspapers were the only real reminders that London, with all its ceaseless commotion, still loomed just beyond the hedges.

They began their stroll in silence. Birds chattered above them in the canopy of trees, and the earthy scent of damp spring leaves rose with the breeze.

Abigail Darlington walked with her gloved hands clasped neatly before her, her bonnet casting a gentle shadow over her brow. Charles strolled at her side, relaxed and unhurried. His gait was casual, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting on the top of his walking stick, as if they truly were just two cousins enjoying the soft quiet of a spring morning without a care in the world.

But Abigail’s heart was not quiet.

She had asked for this walk under the guise of enjoying the weather, but in truth, she needed the kind of counsel she could trust. And there were very few people in her life she could trust as fully as Charles Wescott.

The sound of birdsong accompanied them for several paces before Charles spoke.

“I do not wish to press you, my dearest, but I know you rather well, and you’ve hardly strung two sentences together since we met,” he said mildly. “Should I be worried?”

She smiled faintly. “I was enjoying the peace.”

“Peace and silence are rarely the same thing,” he replied, casting her a sideways glance. “Something troubles you.”

She sighed. “Is it really so obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows you,” he replied gently. “And I have had years to become an expert. I also know how much you favour your sleep and a leisurely breakfast. Judging from the shadows under your eyes and the earliness of the hour, I doubt you have enjoyed either.”

“I hadn’t realised you had become a detective, dear Charles.” She smiled, but she herself recognized that there wasn’t much warmth in it. He had unwittingly struck the very point upon which all reasoning hinged.

They turned onto a narrower path, where the hedges grew taller and the foot traffic thinner. The trees stretched overhead, forming a soft arch of pale green above them. Abigail inhaled deeply and exhaled even more slowly.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began carefully, her voice low and even, “about this whole situation with Arthur.”

Charles’s expression remained neutral, but she sensed the slight lift of his brows.

“Our arrangement,” she clarified. “Our… charade.”

“Ah,” he said. “The famed ruse. You both play your parts so utterly convincingly. I imagine you have successfully fooled everyone, and the circulating rumours would certainly suggest as much.”

“I did,” she agreed. “At first. It was easy, really. He detests the Season as much as I do. We both needed reprieve. We both wanted space from the pressures of the ton, and our mothers. I think Arthur’s is almost as bad as mine.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

“But something’s changed.”

Charles slowed slightly, glancing at her again. “Changed… how?”

Abigail looked down at the hem of her walking gown swaying gently with each step. “Somewhere along the way, I—I stopped pretending.”

Charles said nothing.

“I still smile for the benefit of society. I still make calculated appearances. I still tell myself it’s ‘only a performance’.” She turned her gaze to the water glinting in the distance. “But when I’m with him—truly with him—I forget it’s not real. More than that, I don’t want it to be a lie. I have become incredibly fond of him, Charles. Perhaps… I am still fooling myself. I think it might even be more than fondness.”

Charles’s voice was quiet. “And does he know?”

“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed. “Sometimes I think he feels it too. Sometimes I catch a flicker of something in his eyes—when we speak about books or history or nothing at all—and I think… perhaps. And we have briefly alluded to the fact that it no longer feels like pretense. We have both acknowledged something more. But then he withdraws again. He keeps his distance. Like he’s afraid to let anything true take root.”

The floodgates had now opened, and she felt compelled to continue.

“I do not know when it changed,” she confessed, her voice breaking on the edge of a whisper. “I only know that it has. I find myself thinking of him when he is not near. I hear his voice when I read. I remember his touch when he guided me through a dance, and my hand still tingles hours later.”

Charles smiled, but gently. “That does not sound like pretence.”

“No,” she admitted. “It no longer feels like anything of the sort.”

“Arthur is not an easy man,” Charles murmured. “And he’s not without wounds. I saw his reaction when Sophia Carter returned. He certainly did his level best to hide his grief, but he needs to work through whatever… that is.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I see those wounds. Even when he tries to hide them. We have even talked about his past… briefly, but it feels unresolved.”

They stopped near a low stone bench beneath a tree, and Charles gestured for her to sit. She did so gratefully, folding her hands in her lap as he settled beside her.

“It’s different with him,” she admitted, more quietly now. “All my life, I’ve watched men approach me with forced smiles and tired compliments. They see my dowry. My father’s trade connections. My mother’s ambitions. But Arthur… he sees me . And what’s worse, he listens. He actually listens.”

“That sounds like a very good thing, Abigail,” Charles said gently.

Abigail gave a soft laugh. “It is. And that’s what frightens me.”

“You’ve always despised the painfully transparent courting ritual of the ton, Abigail. Could this be your chance to secure a match that has the potential of love? Perhaps Arthur is only hesitant because he fears being hurt again. It might not be any reflection on his true feelings for you.”

There was a long pause. The breeze rustled the leaves above them. Somewhere across the path, a pair of ducks quarreled noisily at the water’s edge.

“I did not expect this,” she said softly. “I never wanted to fall in love.”

“Because you also fear what comes with it,” Charles said, not unkindly. “The loss of control. The vulnerability.”

Abigail remained silent as she contemplated his suggestion.

“But vulnerability in a relationship is not a bad thing, Abigail. It opens the doors to each other’s souls. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is giving permission to the other person to stand up for you, and support you when you need it most.”

“I fear,” she said slowly, “that I’ve allowed myself to fall in love with someone who never intended to give his heart away. And I fear even more that I have no idea what to do now.”

Charles regarded her with thoughtful silence for a long moment.

“You know,” he said at last, “I suspected you might fall for him.”

Abigail blinked. “You did?”

He smiled. “You have always been drawn to sharp minds and sharper wit. And he has both in abundance. But more than that, you’ve always wanted someone who treated you as an equal. And Arthur… for all his emotional ineptitude, sees you as just that. We’ve all seen the way he looks at you. I’d be incredibly surprised if, deep down, he didn’t feel exactly the same way.”

She flushed, looking down at her hands. “The arrangement. It was meant to be temporary, emotionless. Strategic. But now I do not know what he feels—or even what I dare hope he might feel. He… kissed me.”

Charles tilted his head slightly. “Ah. A rather significant development, wouldn’t you say?”

“It wasn’t part of the performance,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t planned. We were on the terrace at Lady Gillian’s ball. And… it simply happened.”

Charles said nothing, allowing her to fill the silence.

“It felt… real. And terrifying. And right. And then the moment passed and he said very little. And now I feel as if I’ve been left standing alone in the midst of something neither of us anticipated and haven’t the faintest clue what to do about it.”

Charles leaned back on the bench and folded his arms loosely. “And what do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Part of me wants to believe he’s struggling with the same feelings. That he’s afraid. That he doesn’t know how to love after Sophia. But another part of me worries I’ve mistaken kindness for interest. Politeness for affection.”

Charles smiled faintly. “You are far too perceptive to make that mistake, cousin. And, I hate to state the obvious, but, as a general rule of thumb, you generally don’t kiss people and risk scandal out of politeness.”

“I wish I shared your certainty. He said kind things. But the next moment, he looked away. And today… nothing. No letter. No call.”

“The man has likely only just woken up… if he slept at all,” Charles said softly.

A few carriages passed along the outer lane, their wheels crunching over gravel. A breeze lifted the scent of fresh earth and lilac through the air.

Charles placed a comforting hand atop hers. “Abigail, you must understand that a man like Arthur—reserved, proud, burdened by expectation—he will not be quick to reveal his heart. Especially if he’s been hurt before. He speaks of Sophia Carter with the weight of one who carries deep-seated war wounds. And yet… he looks at you as if he is afraid of how deeply he already feels.”

The words struck something in her chest—something hopeful and terrifying all at once.

“And what am I to do with that?” she whispered. “Continue pretending? Continue performing while my heart yearns for something true? What if Edward Colton offers for me in the meantime? He keeps referring to me as his future wife.”

Charles gave a small shake of his head. “You cannot control what Arthur feels or what Edward will do. But you can control what you do. Speak honestly. Ask plainly. Risk something, if only to know, once and for all, where you stand.”

She looked at him, her cousin, her confidant, the one person who had always treated her more like a sister. “And if I lose him?”

Charles smiled kindly. “Then you will have lost a lie. But if you do not speak, you may lose the truth.”

Abigail exhaled slowly, nodding. “You’re right. As always.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the breeze stirring the hem of her gown and rustling the leaves above them. The path remained quiet. A few passersby walked in the distance, oblivious to the quiet epiphany that had taken place beneath the trees.

“I suppose I just needed to tell someone,” she said at last, “someone who wouldn’t mock me or immediately begin planning the wedding breakfast.”

Charles laughed. “You have my solemn vow. No breakfast. Not even a scone.”

She gave him a grateful look.

“Abigail,” he said gently, “whatever comes of this, know that what you’re feeling is not foolish. Nor is it something to be ashamed of. Love—real love—rarely comes when or how we expect. And it always carries risk.”

She nodded slowly.

“And if he proves foolish enough not to recognise what you’ve come to offer,” Charles added with a lift of his brow, “well, I shall be forced to challenge him to a duel.”

She laughed, though her eyes glistened.

“Do you think he’ll come around?” she asked.

Charles hesitated, then said, “I think he already has. I think he’s halfway to admitting it. But you’ll need to be patient. And brave.”

“I can be both,” she said, surprising herself with the strength in her voice.

“I know you can,” Charles said warmly. “You’re a Darlington after all.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That used to be a curse.”

“Mayhap now it’s a shield.”

They rose and resumed their walk, the path now curving back toward the edge of the park. Abigail already felt a little better, not because her heart had settled, but because it had found space to be heard. To be understood.

She didn’t know what Arthur felt. Not truly. But she knew what she felt—and now, at least, she was no longer hiding it from herself.

“I should return. My mother will wonder where I have gone,” Abigail said eventually. “Thank you, as ever, for your words of wisdom, Charles, and your time. I do appreciate it. I’m lucky to have you.”

Charles offered her his arm once more. “If she presses you about Edward, feign a migraine. Works for me every time.”

She laughed, the tension in her chest easing slightly.

As they walked back toward the edge of the park, Abigail felt lighter. The burden of her feelings hadn’t lessened, but she had shared them. Spoken them aloud. Given them shape. It was a significant weight off her shoulders.

The future still felt uncertain, but her path forward was clearer.

She would not run. She would not hide behind polite smiles or well-crafted performances.

If what she and Arthur shared had grown into something more than pretense, she would face it.

With eyes wide open.

And her heart unguarded.