Page 22 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The carriages had begun to line the curb on Brook Street long before the Darlington carriage joined the slow-moving procession, its polished wood gleaming under the last blush of sunset.

Though Lady Worthington’s house was not a big townhouse, its intimate proportions had earned it a reputation for offering the best of the London Season’s smaller gatherings—a “squeeze,” as the ton fondly called it, where reputations were built, alliances formed, and, more dangerously, affections tested under close scrutiny.

Inside the swaying carriage, Abigail sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gloves pulled too snug over her fingers, her pulse fluttering in her throat with every jolt of the carriage. There was a quiet turmoil building in her chest.

The pale green silk of her gown rustled gently, the understated sheen catching in the fading light. The bodice was elegantly cut, modest by fashion’s standards, yet it clung just closely enough to remind her of how conscious she had become of Arthur Beaumont’s gaze. Or perhaps, more truthfully, how much she wished to feel it tonight.

Beside her, Lady Harriet chattered on, her tone effusive, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. “It will be a charming evening,” she pronounced, dabbing her already rosy lips with her handkerchief. “Lady Worthington’s soirées may not be the largest, but they are certainly the most select. Everyone of consequence will be there—everyone that matters, Abigail. Lord Edward has already confirmed his attendance.”

Abigail kept her eyes fixed on the window as she rolled them skywards privately, the familiar streets of Mayfair rolling past in a blur of warm light and trailing skirts. “How fortunate,” she murmured indifferently, her tone deliberately bland.

Charles, sitting opposite, caught her eye and offered a faint, wry smile. He had become her co-conspirator in a world of unwelcome suitors and maternal ambition, and he knew, perhaps better than anyone, just how much Abigail dreaded these performances.

“Do be kind,” he said lightly, one brow lifting as he leaned forward. “I’ve no doubt Lord Edward has already composed a monologue on the superiority of his tailor.”

Abigail bit back a laugh. “Or a paean to his own character, mayhap.”

Lady Harriet looked between them with a bemused frown. “Really, Charles. It is unbecoming to mock a man of such distinction. You may not appreciate the value of lineage and fortune, but I assure you, in matters of marriage, such things are essential.”

“Apologies, Lady Harriet. I simply believe our lovely Abigail deserves someone who recognises that her charm far outweighs his own. Lord Colton has often been described as the ‘ego’ of the ton, and it is not altogether inaccurate. Nor it is a term of affectionate endearment. Any distinction you may infer is secondary to his self-importance.”

Lady Harriet looked as if she’d accidentally swallowed a fly.

“Do you feel better now you have got that off your chest, Charles? Let’s not have any more little outbursts like that in public, this evening. Most unseemly.” She tutted and brushed imaginary dust off her gown. “You would do well to take a leaf out of Edward’s book about how to conduct yourself.”

Abigail gave Charles a grateful smile. There was little point in expressing her own opinion on the subject, but she was grateful for her cousin’s support nevertheless.

It was always the same script from her mother. Fortune, station, respectability, and decorum. Never once did her mother speak of affection. Of understanding. Of laughter, or kindness, or a shared sense of purpose. Of love. She had not mentioned Arthur Beaumont in days. Not once had she asked how Abigail truly felt about the Viscount. She didn’t care. Arthur didn’t get a look in because, in her mother’s eyes, he simply wasn’t worthy.

But perhaps that was for the best.

If Harriet suspected how tangled her daughter’s feelings had become, she would waste no time in ending the alliance. A fake courtship was tolerable—amusing, even—but love? Love was foolishness. Dangerous. Unpredictable.

The carriage slowed before the modest cream facade of Lady Worthington’s house. Lamps glowed golden in the windows. A footman opened the door with a bow.

Abigail descended with Charles’s assistance, the chill of the evening brushing against her bare shoulders like a whisper of warning. As they approached the entrance, the muffled sound of music and laughter drifted through the open door. She smoothed her gloves, forced a smile, and stepped inside.

Lady Worthington greeted them in the hallway, her presence as warm and welcoming as ever. Her gown was a deep plum satin that flattered her mature figure, and her silver hair was artfully arranged beneath a tasteful circlet of pearls. “My dear Miss Darlington!” she exclaimed, taking both of Abigail’s hands. “What a delight to see you again.”

“You are very kind, Lady Worthington,” Abigail said, returning her smile.

“And you look enchanting,” the older woman added with a knowing glance, her eyes sparkling. “Green suits you incredibly well. You are a vision, my dear.”

Harriet positively beamed at the compliment, already scanning the crowd that spilled from the drawing room.

Inside, the press of bodies was thick but genteel. The scent of orange blossoms, and expensive perfume hung in the air. A quartet played a delicate arrangement near the fireplace, their music weaving through the polite conversation and the rustle of fans. Abigail accepted a glass of punch from a passing footman and sipped automatically, her gaze flitting across the room.

Arthur was not yet present.

A fact that she both cursed and blessed.

As her mother steered her into a conversation with Lady Foxcroft and her three curiously sallow and vapid daughters, Abigail stood still, offering the occasional murmur of agreement. Her thoughts, however, were entirely elsewhere, drifting to Arthur’s hand on hers on the night of the musicale. The way his voice had lowered when they spoke in confidence. The look in his eyes when he had kissed her—not the carefully guarded gaze of a man performing a role, but something altogether more raw. More… real.

She should not think of it. Should not hope.

But the memory clung to her like the soft perfume behind her ears and his gentle kiss as his lips brushed her lips…

“Ah. The Beaumonts have arrived,” Charles murmured beside her.

Abigail’s pulse fluttered.

She turned—too quickly—and caught sight of them entering the room. Arthur was flanked by Eliza and their mother. His coat was dark blue, almost black, and his cravat was tied with the sort of effortless elegance that whispered of restraint rather than vanity. His eyes scanned the crowd.

And then they found her.

The moment lingered. Only for a second. But it was enough.

He looked at her not as a conspirator. Not as a fellow performer.

He looked at her like a man trying to find the words he had not yet dared to speak.

Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away, pretending to listen to Lady Foxcroft’s daughter recount the agonies of last week’s cotillion.

“Arthur seems distracted,” Eliza murmured to her mother as they made their way into the drawing room.

Beside her, Gillian hummed in disapproval. “Distracted is not the word I would use. He’s been distant. Distant and—frankly—overly invested in a young lady whose mother is entirely too pushy and whose connections are tenuous at best.”

Eliza raised a brow. “I thought you liked Abigail.”

“I thought I liked the idea of her,” Gillian replied tartly. “But I’ve begun to wonder if she’s not simply clever at playing the part of the modest intellectual. That type can be dangerous. Especially to a man like Arthur, who always believes himself above such things.”

Eliza said nothing. Her brother, she thought, needed no further scrutiny tonight. He was doing a perfectly fine job of unraveling all on his own.

James found Arthur near the window, watching Abigail speak with Eliza.

“You seem preoccupied,” he said mildly.

Arthur did not glance away. “Have I reason to be anything else?”

James folded his arms. “You’re going to tell her?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wish you luck.” He paused, his tone softening. “But be careful. The ton delights in nothing more than unmasking private truths and turning them into parlor sport.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “I have no interest in the opinions of the ton.”

“No,” James said. “But you do have an interest in her . And that’s what makes you vulnerable.”

The conversation was cut short as the crowd shifted, and Edward Colton appeared with the smooth inevitability of a twilight shadow. He bore a grin that bordered on a grimace and a flower plucked from a table arrangement. He crossed the room with confident steps and bowed before Abigail with over-exaggerated exuberance. Abigail focused on his rat-like pointed nose to avoid looking into those beady little eyes.

“My dear Miss Darlington. Might I claim a moment of your company?”

She had no choice. Not in public. Not with so many eyes watching.

“Of course,” she said, setting down her drink with slow, deliberate fingers. She would have given one of her limbs to have the ground swallow her whole at that moment.

Arthur watched as Edward led her to the corner of the ballroom. He did not seem to be talking about anything serious and Arthur supposed he just made that move in order to attract attention. Abigail though seemed quite concerned.

And Arthur felt his composure slip. Just a little.

Just enough to realise how very real this all had become.