Page 24 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The ballroom had never felt so suffocating.

The music had ceased, the melody dying on a final discordant note, and in its place a heavy silence descended—broken only by the low murmur of astonishment that rippled through the assembled guests like the tremble of porcelain teacups on a rattled tray. Faces turned, expressions shifting between curiosity and gleeful outrage, and in the centre of it all stood Arthur—motionless, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

He could not move.

Could not speak.

He saw her retreat—Abigail—head lowered, shoulders tight with humiliation, her gown a trailing whisper of pale green silk vanishing through the French doors. The crowd shifted to accommodate her passage, and still, Arthur stood. He saw the look in her eyes before she turned away—the devastation, the betrayal, the unbearable hurt—and something within him fractured.

You have failed her.

Failed to protect her from Edward’s cruelty. Failed to speak the truth when it mattered. Failed to see the moment for what it was until it had already passed him by. The weight of guilt pressed down on him, hot and sharp, cleaving through the remains of the emotional armor he had so carefully cultivated over the years.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you please—the music will resume. Let us not allow one unfortunate disruption to mar an otherwise delightful evening,” Lady Worthington declared, clapping her hands together as if in instruction.

Moments later, the musicians obeyed. The strains of a familiar quadrille wafted through the doors as though summoned from another world. Light and lilting, it floated into the air like a denial of reality.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. The melody was refined, pleasant, utterly inappropriate. It danced mockingly around the edges of his fury, a glittering reminder of how swiftly the ton returned to its comforts, to its waltzes and refreshments, to its rituals of social pageantry. As though none of this mattered. As though she did not matter.

As though she could be humiliated, cast down like a character in a Greek tragedy—and the orchestra would simply pick up the next measure without pause.

“You must go to her,” came Eliza’s voice at his side, soft yet urgent.

Arthur turned, barely able to meet his sister’s eyes. She looked up at him, her expression firm, her gaze brimming with something fierce and unyielding.

“Eliza…” he began, but his voice sounded wrong. Hushed. Hollow.

She did not allow him to protest. “No. You don’t get to think about scandal right now. You don’t get to worry about the gossips and the whispers. You’ve let her walk away once. Don’t let her believe she is alone in this.”

“She’s not,” he said quietly.

“Then show her,” Eliza urged. “She needs to hear it from you. Not in some carefully constructed confession next week over tea. Now. Tonight. Before the hurt hardens into something worse.”

He hesitated, his heart thundering, the noise of the room rising around them once more. Edward, somewhere nearby, basked in the chaos he had wrought. Arthur could feel the weight of the ton’s attention as surely as if it were a noose around his neck. But none of that mattered. Not now. Eliza was right. He should have followed her straight outside.

He turned and strode for the terrace.

The air outside was blessedly cool. The scent of roses mingled with the faint salt of London’s evening breeze, and for a moment he could breathe again.

And then he saw her.

She was crumpled at the foot of the balustrade, her gown spilled around her like fallen sea-foam, one hand clutching her ankle, the other trembling against the stone. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and her face was turned away, but the fragile curve of her posture struck something deep in Arthur’s chest.

He dropped to his knees beside her without hesitation.

“Abigail,” he said, her name catching in his throat. “Are you hurt?”

She turned toward him, and the sight of her tear-streaked face, so vulnerable and full of pain, nearly undid him.

“My ankle,” she whispered, wincing as she shifted slightly. “I… I tripped.”

His hand reached instinctively to support her, gently guiding her into a sitting position. She grimaced as her weight shifted, and he swallowed hard, torn between fear for her physical pain and the knowledge that he was, in no small part, responsible for the emotional agony that had no doubt caused the fall.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, the words tumbling forth. “Abigail, I never meant—Heavens, I never wanted any of this.”

She looked at him then, really looked, and in her gaze he saw not anger, but something worse—betrayal, confusion, and heartbreak.

“This was never supposed to happen,” he continued, his voice raw. “The charade—it was a foolish idea, born of weariness and rebellion. But then…”

He paused, struggling to find the words.

“Then I began to know you. Not just the facade you show the world, but you . The woman who reads for pleasure, who sees through flattery, who dances with grace even though she hates the waltz. I started to look forward to our conversations, to the way you challenge me without ever intending to. And somewhere along the way… I forgot we were pretending.”

She drew in a shaky breath, her eyes locked on his.

“I fell in love with you,” he said simply. “And I did nothing to deserve it. I should have told you before. I should have stood beside you tonight, not behind.”

Behind them, the French doors creaked open.

Arthur didn’t turn. He didn’t care who had come to watch. His entire world had narrowed to the woman before him, her expression trembling on the edge between hope and despair.

“I know I have no right to ask anything of you now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I needed you to know the truth. Even if you never forgive me, even if we cannot repair what’s been broken, I had to say it. I love you.”

Abigail’s lips parted, as though to speak, but no sound came.

Arthur’s hand hovered near hers—not quite touching, not daring to—waiting, breath held in suspension.

And behind him, the murmurs began.

Abigail’s gaze did not shift. Her eyes, wide and luminous even in the dimming light, held him fast. At first, they bore all the weary ache of a woman too long bruised by the careless whims of others—a young lady laid bare before the merciless judgment of society. But slowly, so slowly that he dared not speak for fear of interrupting it, he saw the storm within her begin to ease.

The sharp edge of betrayal in her expression softened into something more fragile, more uncertain. Her brow furrowed, not in dismay now, but in contemplation, as though she were attempting to place some distant memory in context, or reconcile a fact long misjudged. Then, at last, the tremble in her lower lip stilled. Her breathing slowed. The tears, though still fresh upon her cheeks, ceased their descent.

And then—he saw it. The faintest upward pull at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, not yet, but the beginning of one, fragile and miraculous.

“You truly meant it?” she asked, her voice a thread of sound, frayed but gathering strength. “All of it?”

“I did,” Arthur said, his voice hushed, every syllable reverent. “Every word.”

She gave a small, shaking breath, as though she were exhaling weeks—perhaps months—of pent-up doubt and fear. Then, with more steadiness, she went on.

“I thought… I thought I could manage it. Keep the charade intact. Keep my heart from becoming entangled.” Her eyes dropped briefly to their hands—still joined, fingers curled around each other as if by instinct. “But I failed. Somewhere along the way, between pretending and pretence, something real crept in. And once you kissed me…”

Her voice faltered, the memory overtaking her.

Arthur leaned closer, one hand rising almost without thought to cup her cheek. Her skin, despite the night’s chill, was warm beneath his palm, and her breath caught audibly as his thumb brushed gently across her cheekbone.

“Once you kissed me,” she continued, this time with conviction, “I could no longer pretend.”

The look she gave him then was unlike any she had bestowed upon him before—not wary, not guarded, but open, unshielded, filled with something achingly tender. There was no trace of artifice in it. No hint of polite reserve or practiced grace. She was, in that moment, wholly herself.

“And you forgive me?” Arthur asked softly, “For my cowardice? For my silence?”

“I understand your reasons,” she said. “All too well. I, too, was afraid. I, too, hid behind the safety of pretence. We thought ourselves clever, didn’t we? Building walls of artifice to protect ourselves from feeling too deeply. But love,” she whispered, “has a way of slipping through the smallest cracks.”

He could not speak, not yet. Something swelled within him—too vast for words.

“I love you, Arthur Beaumont,” she said at last, with sudden, crystalline clarity. “I love you. I have for some time now, though I tried to deny it, to convince myself it was nothing more than admiration or fondness born of circumstance. But it was always more.”

The confession struck him like a bell tolling at midnight—sacred, solemn, irreversible. He felt it reverberate through every guarded recess of his being, banishing the long-held belief that he was immune to such attachments, that love was a folly he had long outgrown.

His lips parted to respond—but the moment was pierced, most rudely, by a voice shrill with horror and disbelief.

“Abigail!”

Lady Harriet’s figure burst into view, emerging from the French doors like a storm blowing in from the sea. Her bonnet was askew, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of exertion and outrage, her gloved hand trembling as it lifted a fan in front of her chest as though it were a shield.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Arthur rose slowly, positioning himself slightly in front of Abigail without conscious thought. He could feel the tremble in her fingers where they still touched his coat.

“Lady Harriet,” he said, his tone even but laced with steel, “I can assure you, your daughter is unharmed—at least, no more than society’s cruelty has permitted.”

“Unharmed?” Lady Harriet cried, as though the word itself were an insult. “She is sprawled like a tragic heroine at the feet of the Viscount of Westbrook, in full view of half the ton. You have compromised her in the most public manner imaginable!”

“I intend to marry her,” Arthur said, without hesitation.

That gave the woman pause. Her mouth opened, but nothing emerged save a strangled sound of shock. She whirled to her daughter.

“Is this what you’ve done? Ruined yourself for a man who refused to even announce a betrothal before dragging your name through the mud?”

Abigail lifted her chin.

“No, Mama. I fell in love with him.”

Lady Harriet’s expression twisted, poised to unleash a fresh volley of maternal indignation—but another voice, cooler, more composed, interrupted the scene.

“Enough, Harriet,” came the clipped but commanding voice of Lady Gillian Beaumont.

She stepped forward, flanked by a sea of hushed onlookers. Unlike Harriet’s frenzied entrance, Gillian moved with unhurried poise, her chin high, her eyes assessing the tableau before her with the cold discernment of a general surveying a battlefield.

“Lady Harriet,” she said again, her voice unwavering, “if I might suggest… now is not the moment for reprimand. What has occurred is already done. What remains is how we respond to it.”

“And what, pray, do you suggest I do?” Harriet snapped. “Applaud? Congratulate them on a viable match and a job well done?”

“No,” Gillian said, and to Arthur’s astonishment, her gaze softened. “But perhaps it would serve us better all to recall that scandals, much like fires, burn brightest in the absence of composure. This is not the moment to panic. It is the moment to act with purpose.”

Arthur stepped aside so that both mothers had a full view of Abigail. She remained seated, though she had straightened her back with dignified grace. Despite the tears, despite the injury, she did not appear as a figure of pity—but of quiet, resolute strength.

“And you,” Gillian continued, turning to Arthur at last, “are quite certain?”

“I am,” he said, more certain of this than anything in his life. “It is no longer a matter of duty. I love her.”

Something unreadable flickered in Gillian’s eyes—then, slowly, she nodded.

“Then you shall have my full support.”

A fresh wave of whispers rustled through the watching crowd. But the tone had changed. It was no longer pure gossip, or gleeful condemnation. There was something else there now—admiration, perhaps, or at least reluctant respect.

Lady Harriet, still trembling, drew herself up.

“Then it seems,” she said in a brittle voice, “the matter is settled.”

Arthur turned to Abigail once more, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear.

“I know this has been… unbearable. But if you are still willing—if you can bear it—I will make this right.”

Abigail looked up at him, the tears drying on her cheeks, her hand reaching for his without hesitation.

“You already have,” she said softly.

Their fingers wove together, warm and certain.

Just beyond the periphery of his immediate focus, Arthur became dimly aware of motion among the onlookers—two familiar figures who had remained curiously silent during the most dramatic heights of the confrontation now edged into view.

Lady Sophia Carter stood like a marble statue—elegant, polished, perfectly composed—but the mask of social decorum could not entirely conceal the narrowing of her eyes or the way her gloved fingers tightened ever so slightly around the delicate fan she held.

Her husband, the ever-diplomatic Lord Carter, remained dutifully at her side, his expression unreadable save for a faint furrow of confusion. But it was Sophia who commanded Arthur’s attention. The faintest hint of color had risen along the crest of her cheekbones—more anger than embarrassment—and her gaze flitted rapidly between Abigail and himself, her mouth tightening into a line so fine it might have vanished altogether.

Arthur held her stare only a moment, just long enough for his message to register. The past had no hold over him now.

Sophia looked away first.

Then came the other figure, elbowing his way through the crowd with the graceless urgency of a man whose scheme had unraveled before it could reach fruition.

Edward.

His complexion, usually ruddy with smug self-assurance, now bore a sallow hue. His eyes darted like those of a cornered fox, the smug grin long gone, replaced by a sneer so brittle it cracked under the weight of his own mortification. He had no more speeches left to give. No further pronouncements. His audience had turned—against him, or worse, away from him altogether.

And yet, Arthur noted with a flicker of cold satisfaction, Edward lingered. Not to offer remorse or retreat in silence, but to glare.

If Arthur had once feared what the man might do, he no longer did. He understood Edward now for what he was: petty, manipulative, and—most damning of all—powerless in the presence of something genuine. The man had tried to ruin a reputation and found himself diminished by it.

“Beaumont,” Edward said at last, his voice low and bitter as he passed by, “a curious choice, don’t you think?”

Arthur raised a brow.

“Not to one with discernment.”

And with that, Edward turned and stalked into the crowd, swallowed at last by the very society he had sought—and failed—to manipulate.

It was only then that another familiar voice broke the moment, warm and breathless with indignation.

“Abigail!”

Charles Wescott arrived at last, his hand still tugging at one glove, his brows drawn in concern.

“I only just heard—what happened?” Charles asked, his gaze scanning the scene.

Harriet, for once, was too stunned to respond.

Arthur stepped forward. “A great deal,” he said simply, “and all of it real.”

Charles turned to Abigail, and his expression softened. “Are you well?”

“I am now,” she said, her voice steady, a far cry from the trembling it had carried moments earlier.

Charles’s eyes flicked from her injured ankle to Arthur’s hand in hers. Then, slowly, he smiled—an expression of quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “I must say… it is about time.”

Even Arthur could not suppress the low laugh that escaped him.

The moment, as intense and overwhelming as it had been, now settled into something more solid. The storm had passed—or at least moved further off—and what remained was not ruin, but possibility.

They rose, slowly, Arthur offering the full strength of his arm to steady Abigail, her ankle still weak beneath her. He did not rush her. They moved together, slowly, facing the crowd that parted to let them pass, their shoulders aligned, their hands joined. Though many eyes still followed them, no longer did Arthur feel weighed down by the scrutiny.

In the music’s soft strains, in the hushed murmurs now tinged with reluctant approval, he heard the slow shifting of the tide.

They had begun as conspirators. They had become partners. And now, they were something altogether different—altogether real.

They walked forward not as Viscount and heiress, not as props in a performance—but as Arthur and Abigail.

And from that moment onward, they would walk forward together.