Page 21 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The library at Beaumont Manor had always been his sanctuary.

It was a place untouched by the shifting demands of the Season, by the persistent buzz of social ambition, by the endless parade of faces and facades. Within these four walls, the world narrowed to the scent of vellum and ink, the soft rustle of pages turned by candlelight, and the steadying weight of volumes that had long outlived kings and courtships alike.

Arthur stood by the tall mullioned windows, one hand braced against the frame, the other cradling a glass of brandy he had no real desire to drink. The gardens stretched before him—manicured, orderly, composed. Much like the life he had so meticulously crafted. A life of restraint. Of obligation. Of measured decisions made with the cold precision of logic.

And yet here he was, his gaze unfocused, his thoughts miles away. Or rather, narrowed to one point. One moment.

He did not see the clipped hedges or the frost-tipped petals of the crocuses beginning to brave the air. His thoughts were still lost in the pale blue silk of Abigail Darlington’s gown. In the curve of her cheek. The glint in her eye.

He exhaled, long and low, as if the very breath might purge the confusion tightening in his chest. But it didn’t.

Abigail.

He could still feel the ghost of her lips against his, the silken warmth of her mouth, the gentle tension in her fingers as they’d curled against his sleeve. It had not been a kiss of calculation. There had been no audience, no need for performance. No reason for pretense.

It had been real. And that—more than anything—unsettled him.

He had kissed her because he wanted to.

Not as part of their agreement. Not as a strategic maneuver. But because, in that fragile moment beneath the moonlight, with her gaze open and searching, he had felt something new. Something that had unmoored him from all he had come to accept about himself.

He’d spent much of the morning trying to reason through it. To contain what had happened that night. To return to the calm, clinical detachment with which he had first agreed to the courtship ruse. But his mind refused to be subdued. It returned again and again to the moment her eyes had searched his face in the moonlight. To the tremor in her voice when she’d confessed her weariness with the world’s expectations. And then to the kiss—unplanned, unperformed, and undeniably real.

She had kissed him back.

And now… now, he could not stop thinking of her. Of the quick wit behind her careful composure. Of the quiet fire she kept hidden beneath a veil of courtesy. Of the way she looked at the world—not with the simpering acquiescence of so many young ladies of the ton, but with curiosity, with hunger for understanding, for substance.

In short, his ship had become unmoored, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Arthur lifted the glass to his lips, then lowered it again. The brandy remained untouched.

“Arthur.”

He turned slightly, his expression shifting quickly into the familiar mask of cool detachment.

Eliza stood in the doorway, clad in pale pink, her auburn hair pinned with the gentle elegance that marked her style. She stepped into the room, her footfalls muffled by the thick rug.

“You’ve taken up haunting the library again,” she remarked, her tone gently teasing.

Arthur gave no reply.

Eliza stepped further into the room, her footsteps light but purposeful. “May I join you in your brooding or shall I come back later when you’re in a mood more suitable for conversation?”

He glanced at her then, faintly amused despite himself. “You may stay.”

“You didn’t attend breakfast,” she said softly. “Our darling mother was less than amused.”

Arthur turned back to the window. “Then I shall make my apologies later.”

Eliza crossed the room without comment, coming to rest by a chair but not yet sitting. She was quiet for a moment, watching him with that perceptive gaze he had never quite learned how to evade.

“Are you going to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you? You seem preoccupied.” A quiet moment passed before she added, more softly, “you’ve been distant since last night.”

Arthur returned his gaze to the window. “It was a crowded evening.”

“It wasn’t the crowd that unsettled you,” she said mildly.

He said nothing.

Arthur allowed a long pause before replying. “There is much on my mind.”

She arched a brow. “That much is plain. And I suspect very little of it has to do with estate accounts or fencing appointments.”

He did not respond.

“Is it Sophia?” she asked, her voice gentle but direct.

He flinched—only slightly, but enough for her to see. Eliza had always known where to look.

“No,” he said. “At least… not entirely.”

Eliza moved to the armchair nearest the fireplace and sank into it with a soft rustle of skirts. “Arthur,” she said quietly, “I know you far too well for you to attempt deception. Omitting information will not help you now either. Something has unsettled you, and I am quite determined to get to the bottom of it.”

Arthur exhaled slowly and stepped away from the window, moving toward the hearth though he did not sit. He stared into the empty grate for a long moment, as if searching for the right words in its soot-stained bricks.

“You kissed her, didn’t you?”

Arthur turned, startled despite himself. “What?”

Eliza raised a brow. “You forget that I’ve got eyes, and that you and Abigail disappeared onto a moonlit terrace without a chaperone while Edward Colton was practically frothing over her dance card.”

Arthur’s expression darkened at the name.

“I saw the way you looked at her when she danced with him,” Eliza added gently. “You were ready to murder someone. Possibly Edward. Possibly yourself.”

Arthur crossed the room and he stared at the window for a long moment before sighing. “Yes, I kissed her.”

“I rather thought so,” Eliza said, her tone deliberately light, though her eyes held nothing but understanding. “And?”

“And it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it did.”

“It wasn’t part of the performance,” Arthur added. “It wasn’t for show. It simply… happened.”

Eliza leaned back, her eyes kind. “And how do you feel about it?”

Arthur sat across from her, the glass untouched in his hand. “This entire arrangement was meant to be practical.”

“You never were one for emotional chaos,” she murmured.

His lips thinned. “It was convenient. Controlled. Predictable. We struck an agreement—an alliance of mutual convenience. She wished to avoid the suffocating attentions of Lord Colton and his ilk. I… had no desire to be hunted by every marriage-minded matron in London. We presented ourselves as a pair, not to deceive with cruelty, but to create space. Freedom.”

Eliza waited, sensing there was more.

Arthur shook his head. “I do not know how I feel about this. That is the problem. I cannot reconcile what was meant to be a charade with the way she makes me feel. When we are together, when we speak—truly speak—it feels real. Uncomplicated. Honest.”

“And yet,” Eliza said, “you are clearly struggling.”

He looked up then, his expression rawer than she had seen it in years. “Because I did not mean for it to become anything more. I cannot afford for it to become anything more.”

“Why?” she asked gently.

“Because I know what it is to lose oneself in the idea of love. I know what it is to believe in the promise of it, only to be made a fool.”

“Sophia?” Eliza said gently. “I know what she did to you. I know how badly it hurt.”

Arthur nodded, the name tasting bitter. “I gave her everything I thought I could offer. And she left—for a title. For security.”

Eliza reached across the space between them, setting her hand lightly atop his. “And now you fear that Abigail might do the same?”

He hesitated. “No. Abigail is nothing like Sophia. That is what terrifies me.”

Eliza’s smile was small. “You’re afraid because this time, it matters.”

He looked at her. “Yes.”

“Now, I find myself thinking about her when I ought to be attending to estate correspondence. I remember things she’s said in passing. I recall the way she looked at the scarab beetle artifact at the Egyptian Hall and the cleverness of her observations. I remember the scent of her hair when she stood too close. And the sound of her laugh.”

Eliza smiled faintly. “It sounds rather like more than a mild case of affection to me.”

She stood and crossed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. And I’ve seen the way you look at her. If there is anything false in it, then I am a terrible judge of character—which I assure you, I am not.”

He looked up at her. “But what if we’re simply… too different?”

“Different?” Eliza echoed. “You read the same books. You share the same cynicism for the marriage mart. You both detest the same shallow rituals of courtship and yet pretend to play along for the sake of survival. Different, my dear brother, is the only thing you are not.”

Arthur was silent.

“She makes you better,” Eliza said. “And you make her feel seen. I suspect she hasn’t known much of that in her life.”

Arthur leaned back, running a hand through his hair with a grimace. He looked at her, his eyes shadowed. “I don’t trust myself with this.”

There was a long silence between them. The clock on the mantel ticked softly. A bird called outside the window.

“Arthur,” Eliza said at last, “you may continue pretending this is only temporary. That this is still a performance. But your heart knows the truth. And so, I think, does hers.”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What if I’m wrong? What if I misread her?”

“Then you will have risked something for the sake of honesty. But if you remain silent…” She gave a delicate shrug. “You may lose her to someone who is not afraid to speak plainly.”

Arthur’s thoughts turned unbidden to Edward—the possessive stare, the calculated charm. The man would not hesitate. He would manipulate, flatter, pursue with single-minded ruthlessness.

And Abigail, caught in the web of society’s expectations, might have no choice but to relent.

The thought made his chest ache.

“I do not know how to be vulnerable,” Arthur murmured. “Not anymore.”

“Then mayhap,” Eliza said softly, “it is time you reminded yourself.”

Arthur looked down at their joined hands. He felt the weight of his uncertainty pressing against him like fog—thick, cloying, persistent.

But beneath that uncertainty was something else.

Hope.

It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.

“I’m afraid,” he said.

“I know,” Eliza replied. “Of course you are. And that’s all right. It only means this is real.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.

“What should I do?” he asked, quietly.

“Be honest with her,” Eliza said simply. “Tell her what you’ve told me. Stop pretending the charade is still about convenience when every glance, every conversation, says otherwise.”

Arthur stood; his brandy forgotten on the table. He crossed to the window once more, gazing out across the lawn.

“I want it to be real,” he said at last, his voice almost reverent. “And I’m beginning to think… it already is.”

Eliza crossed to stand beside him. “Then let her see the man I know you are. The one who still believes in honour, in truth. Even in love, if he allows himself.”

He turned to her, lips curving with a reluctant smile. “You’ve grown wise in your old age.”

“I shall take that as the highest compliment,” she said, laughing.

They stood in companionable silence for a while, brother and sister, the weight of confession softened by understanding.

Outside, the garden stirred in the wind. And somewhere beyond the hedges and horse-drawn carriages, a future waited to be shaped—not by strategy, but by sincerity.

And maybe, just maybe, by love.

Perhaps it was time to stop hiding behind logic and detachment.

Mayhap it was time to be honest—with himself, with Abigail, with what he truly wanted.

And hopefully… it wasn’t too late.