Page 23 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The waltz commenced with the delicate sweep of bows across strings, the melody swelling like a tide across Lady Worthington’s crowded drawing room. Candlelight shimmered upon silk and satin, casting soft glows on powdered shoulders and polished shoes. The air was thick with anticipation—the gentle flutter of fans, the subtle pivoting of heads as young ladies arranged themselves in readiness, and gentlemen took their cues with polite eagerness.

Across the room, she stood—Abigail Darlington, pale green silk clinging softly to her frame, her eyes like burnished hazel beneath the candlelight. She was speaking with her cousin, Charles, her fan held lightly at her side. But there was a tension in her posture, the faintest trace of apprehension etched into the careful curve of her smile. She, too, felt it—the heaviness of expectation, the unspoken truths teetering on the precipice of being spoken aloud.

Arthur scarcely remembered his steps as he crossed the room, weaving between other couples preparing to take the floor. He bowed low before her, the movement instinctive, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Miss Darlington,” he said quietly, the formality tempered by something deeper, more uncertain. “Might I have the honour of this waltz?”

Her eyes met his. For the briefest moment, something flickered there—wary, hopeful, questioning. And then she dipped her chin, her voice soft. “Of course, Lord Beaumont.”

He extended his hand. She placed hers in it, her touch warm and feather-light. Together, they moved to the centre of the room, where the space had begun to clear. As the melody swelled, Arthur drew her into hold, his gloved hand settling gently at her waist, his other clasping hers. Her free hand rested on his shoulder, trembling faintly against the wool of his evening coat.

They began to move.

At first, they danced as strangers might—technically perfect, rhythmically poised, and yet not entirely connected. Arthur’s thoughts were unsteady, his mind a flurry of unspoken words. He had rehearsed this moment in countless iterations, crafted declarations that now felt wholly inadequate.

But it was she who spoke first.

“You seem... distracted, my lord.”

He glanced down. “Do I?”

“Only somewhat.” Her lips curved faintly. “I wonder what occupies your thoughts this evening.”

“You,” he said before he could stop himself.

She faltered, ever so slightly. Their steps did not break, but her eyes widened.

“I meant,” he amended, “this arrangement we’ve entered into. I find myself questioning it. Or rather, questioning… my intentions within it.”

“I see,” she said slowly.

They turned in a graceful arc past a mirrored panel. Their reflection caught Arthur unawares—two figures twined together in an intimacy they had not earned but perhaps had begun to feel. Her profile was illuminated by candlelight, her lashes casting fine shadows along her cheek. He cleared his throat.

“I did not expect this to grow complicated,” he said. “And yet it has.”

“Complicated in what sense?”

“In every sense that matters.”

Their steps slowed as the music dipped into a more lyrical passage. Her breath caught slightly—he could feel it beneath his hand at her waist.

“I had thought to speak to you,” she murmured. “Tonight. Alone, if we could find a moment. There are… things I wish to say.”

“As do I.”

She looked up at him, and for a moment, there was nothing but the two of them—no guests, no music, no elaborate ruse. Only the gentle tension of possibility.

And then—

“Pardon the interruption.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade. Cold. Confident. Poised to wound.

Edward Colton had materialized with the precise timing of a man who understood the power of performance. His approach had been smooth, calculated, cloaked in the garb of charm, and executed with all the subtlety of a predator whose eyes never strayed far from his prize.

There was a sharpness to the angle of his jaw, a peculiar glint behind the smile he bestowed upon her—just enough to awaken something cold and instinctive in Arthur’s chest.

The surrounding dancers, sensing something amiss, instinctively slowed, drawing away to offer a wider berth.

Edward bowed. “Forgive me, Miss Darlington, Lord Beaumont. I loathe to interrupt a dance so... convincing. But I must beg a moment of your attention.”

“Now is hardly the time, Colton,” Arthur said stiffly. “We are engaged.”

Edward’s smile only deepened. “Indeed, that is precisely the subject I wished to address.”

Without waiting for consent, the earl turned with theatrical deliberation and raised his voice above the gentle murmur of the room loudly enough to draw attention from those nearby.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “Pray forgive my interruption, but I believe a certain revelation is owed to us all.”

The musicians faltered. One of the violinists set down his bow. The air grew dense with anticipation, the very breath of the room held hostage.

Arthur’s stomach dropped.

Edward turned slowly, sweeping the crowd with his gaze. “We have all, I suspect, been quite captivated by the romance that has bloomed this Season between Viscount Beaumont and Miss Darlington. A match that, to all outward appearances, seemed forged in mutual affection.”

His eyes glinted with triumph.

“But it is nothing of the sort.”

A murmur passed through the crowd.

“It is, in fact,” Edward went on, “an artful fiction. A clever arrangement. A facade designed not to foster love, but to repel it. A pact formed not in affection, but in self-interest. Their courtship is a ruse—no more real than the powdered wigs of our ancestors.”

Abigail stiffened in Arthur’s arms. Her hand, still resting in his, trembled violently.

“My dear Miss Darlington,” Edward said, “I must say, your performance this Season has been most… convincing.”

Edward pivoted slightly to include an even wider audience in his address. He was enjoying himself now, shouting loud enough for the whole room to hear. “As has yours, Lord Beaumont,” he continued, with the unmistakable cadence of a man performing for a crowd. “Indeed, it seems we have all been spectators in a most elaborate charade.”

Guests turned. Fans ceased fluttering. A hush descended, not with drama, but with dread.

Arthur felt a prickle of foreboding move across his skin.

“A pleasant masquerade to amuse themselves—and, I daresay, to rid themselves of inconvenient suitors. This entire affair—a clever ruse, a scheme, to gain the freedom of affection without its consequences. A mockery of courtship. A lie to court scandal.”

A chorus of gasps—sharp and immediate—cut through the room like the intake of breath before a storm.

Abigail’s eyes were wide, fixed on Edward, and her lips parted, as if she might speak, though no words emerged. The silence stretched between them like a taut string.

“Edward,” Arthur said, his voice low and warning, “you will desist.” He turned quickly to Abigail, sensing that he would not get another opportunity. “I had intended,” Arthur said quietly, “to speak to you. Alone. Before this… this nonsense of his.”

But she could not meet his eyes.

The whispers had already begun. Scandal is never so alive as when whispered behind gloves and fans. A lady to the left pulled her daughter away with a hiss of distaste. Two gentlemen exchanged smug glances.

Arthur turned back toward Edward. “You are mistaken. Not to mention an absolute disgrace, Colton.”

“And you, my lord, are a liar.”

The crowd was now fully hushed. The music had ceased altogether.

“I had it on good authority,” Edward added, “that this charade was mutual. A private jest, perhaps. But not so private anymore.”

“Are you really so devoid of an imagination that this is your means of entertainment, Colton?” Arthur hissed. “You are a very poor excuse for a man… or even a human being.”

Edward only smiled with the zeal of righteousness, the smug curve of his lips resembling nothing so much as a man assured of victory. “Oh, come now, Beaumont. If you wished to end the charade privately, you ought to have taken better care to conceal it. One hears things. From footmen. From friends. The ton is not nearly so blind as you presume.”

Whispers became murmurs. The tide of speculation surged, crashing around them in waves of disbelief and curiosity. Why were they so easily swayed? So willing to accept the worst rather than listen to the truth?

What is the truth though? Really?

Arthur stood rooted, his expression unreadable, but inside, a slow, cold rage began to coil. Not at the exposure—for the truth was not entirely misrepresented—but at the callousness of its delivery. At the cruelty.

His hands itched to punch the smarmy, smug smile off Edward Colton’s repellent face. And yet, he would not lower himself to such uncouth behavior. Even through his anger, he could see that this pathetic excuse of a man didn’t warrant such efforts.

Instead, he turned to Abigail.

Her face had drained of colour. Her eyes, once so bright, were now clouded with something perilously close to horror.

“Abigail,” Arthur said gently, “please…”

He reached out to take her arm. But the ballroom was closing in around them. All at once, the stares of a hundred faces seemed to converge. Polite society, ever hungry for scandal, was feasting before their very eyes.

“I—” Arthur began, but the words caught in his throat.

It was too late.

The damage had been done. Whatever he said couldn’t undo the words that had just been uttered from the mouth of a man who was hoping to marry the very woman he had just humiliated so horribly.

What kind of a person would do such a thing?

That was when Abigail tore herself from Arthur’s hold.

Without a word, she turned and fled.

He reached for her, but she slipped beyond his grasp like smoke. Her skirts caught on the polished floor; the sound of her feet echoed as she reached the terrace doors and disappeared into the cool night air.

Arthur saw the desperation in her movement, the horror on her beautiful face, and the way she did not run, but bolted, as though the room had been deprived of oxygen and escape was her only means of survival.

He caught a glimpse of her vanishing through the doors—her back straight, her steps hurried, her dignity crumbling with each step.

***

She didn’t wait to see Arthur’s reaction.

She couldn’t.

Her only desire—urgent and all-consuming—was escape. Escape from the stares. Escape from the shame. Escape from the way the air itself seemed to curdle around her, thick with speculation and whispered delight at her public humiliation.

She barely registered the music faltering into silence behind her. The gasp of the crowd had shattered the fragile calm of the ballroom like porcelain on marble, and now every eye was upon her, every voice forming words she could not hear but could feel—like pinpricks to the skin.

She turned blindly, pushing through a crush of guests, her vision swimming. Her gloves brushed silks and satins, and someone’s fan caught briefly in her sleeve, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t dare.

Just keep running. Don’t stop. Don’t cry. Not here.

She kept her head down, chin trembling, lips pressed together in silent desperation.

Where was her mother? Where was Charles?

She didn’t look for them. She couldn’t bear to.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall—not yet, not where anyone could see. Not where her humiliation could be neatly tied with a bow and carried away for supper-table amusement. Not when she still had an ounce of dignity left to her name.

The French doors loomed ahead—her only salvation. Beyond them, the promise of darkness, of cool air, and of solitude. The terrace would be empty, wouldn’t it? Surely everyone was still inside, all eyes glued to the wreckage Edward had wrought.

Her hand fumbled for the door handle. She pushed it open, and the welcome rush of fresh night air kissed her cheeks.

Relief surged in her chest.

And then—

Her foot caught.

The heel of her slipper caught awkwardly on the threshold, twisting her step. Her ankle gave way beneath her with a sickening pull. She cried out—a sharp, startled sound torn from her throat—as she stumbled forward into the open air.

The ground rose to meet her far too quickly. Her shoulder struck first, jarring her, and then her hip, and finally her palms slapped the cold stone, scraping through her gloves. The sharp sting of pain shot through her leg as she crumpled to the terrace floor.

It was over in a breath.

Pain bloomed from her ankle, white-hot and immediate. She curled onto her side with a strangled sob, her skirts tangled beneath her, the night air suddenly bitter against her flushed skin.

And then—nothing.

Nothing but silence, and cold, and the cold, distant murmur of gossiping voices within the ballroom—rising now, louder, a tide of speculation swelling in her wake.

No one followed.

No footsteps echoed behind her.

Arthur hadn’t come.

The truth of it settled over her like frost. She bit her lip, hard, trying to force back the tears that threatened again, but it was no use.

She had failed.

Not only when it came to their deception. Not merely at playing the game society had thrust upon her since she was old enough to curtsy. No—she had failed herself. She had allowed hope to take root, to stretch upward toward the light, foolishly believing that perhaps, perhaps , the affection she had begun to feel for Arthur Beaumont might be something more than shared rebellion. That it might be real .

She’d told herself it was all a performance. She’d told herself the blush in her cheeks was for the audience.

But now? Now, lying sprawled and hurt beneath the stars, with the chill of the stone leeching through her silk gown and the sting of humiliation louder than the throbbing in her ankle and grazed palms—she knew.

It had never been pretend. Not for her.

And yet Arthur had not defended her. Not properly. Not quickly enough. His hesitation had been a knife. His silence, a second betrayal. And Edward’s gloating smirk still haunted her vision.

Surely he doesn’t want to remain in that ballroom after that performance? Why has he not followed me out? And why has no one else come? Am I that despised by the ton? Do they really believe Edward’s words?

She swallowed hard, dragging herself upright with a wince, propping her back against the balustrade. Her ankle throbbed with every movement, and she could feel it beginning to swell within her slipper. A dull ache spread along her leg, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

The terrace stretched out before her in quiet indifference. It didn’t care that she had been shunned in front of all society. Neither did the night sky, burning brightly with a thousand stars.

The world kept turning on its axis, but this would never be forgotten. It would follow her around until the traitorous ton found someone else to mock or gasp about. Until her scandal became less scandalous than someone else’s.

The gardens below were cloaked in shadow, the light from the ballroom throwing soft gold onto the stones, and casting long shadows from the balustrade’s columns.

Inside, the world was still spinning.

She could hear it.

The music had resumed. As if nothing had happened. As if she had never mattered at all.

A laugh—sharp and bitter—escaped her lips. The sound startled her. It didn’t belong in her throat. It wasn’t hers. She sounded like a mad woman.

She leaned her head back against the stone, pressing her hands to her face, trying to steady her breathing, to gather the shattered pieces of her composure.

The chill crept in.

A breeze stirred the ivy clinging to the terrace walls. Somewhere beyond the gardens, a carriage rumbled past in the street, oblivious to the small collapse that had occurred inside and out.

The pain in her ankle flared again as she shifted, and she let out another small, strangled sound—this time not just from the pain, but from the mental anguish of everything she had tried so hard to bear but could no longer contain.

She had come here tonight with only one plan in mind. She had hoped to understand exactly what was growing between Arthur and her. To gather the courage to confront it. Perhaps even to invite something more.

Instead, she had been publicly exposed, humiliated, and abandoned. And the worst of it—the worst —was that a part of her still wanted him to come. The humiliation was bad enough, but now she had been left to rot in her own shame. Not a single person felt it worth their while to question Edward’s claims or check on her.

She still hoped the French doors behind her would open.

She still longed to hear the sound of his voice calling her name.

But the door remained shut.

The night closed in on her. She couldn’t run away—couldn’t run or walk anywhere—and she was completely alone.