Page 25 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)
One Year Later…
The gardens of Beaumont Manor basked in the golden hush of late spring, the gentle rustle of leaves blending with the low hum of bees drifting lazily through beds of lilac and blooming roses. The air was fragrant with wisteria and wild hyacinth, and the afternoon sunlight draped the grounds in a glow so gentle it seemed almost sacred.
Abigail stood near the terrace balustrade, her gloved hand resting lightly upon her husband’s arm. Her figure, clothed in a soft ivory lawn gown with delicate embroidery, bore the unmistakable bloom of approaching motherhood. The curve of her belly, rounded with the promise of new life, seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.
The sunlight caught in the warm tones of her chestnut hair, and a gentle breeze played with the hem of her gown. Her eyes, bright with serenity and anticipation, met Arthur’s, and in that quiet exchange was the testament of all they had endured and all they had become.
Arthur Beaumont, Viscount of Westbrook, stood at her side—no longer the guarded, solitary figure he had once been, but a man softened and strengthened by love. His gaze, once perpetually distant and unreadable, now held an ease, a warmth cultivated only in the soil of mutual understanding.
His arm, beneath Abigail’s hand, tensed slightly as he drew her closer in a gesture so natural it needed no announcement. The cool exterior that had once been his armor had long since fallen away, replaced with something altogether more human—hope, perhaps, or simply contentment.
Nearby, Charles and Eliza Wescott strolled hand-in-hand beneath the flowering pear trees, their laughter mingling with the birdsong. Eliza, radiant and spirited as ever, was also expecting their first child. There was a freshness to her countenance, a glow that matched the season. Charles, ever the gentle presence at Abigail’s side and now the devoted husband to Eliza, appeared equally transformed. Their fingers remained interlaced, as if they had no need to impress the world with the strength of their bond—it was simply there, understood, evident.
“I still cannot believe it,” Eliza murmured, pausing to regard Abigail and Arthur with an affectionate smile. “We began all of this as co-conspirators in a charade, and look at us now. Proper matrons of the ton, glowing with maternal virtue.”
Charles chuckled. “Somehow, I doubt either of you shall ever be wholly conventional.”
“And would we wish to be?” Eliza rejoined, arching a brow at her husband with playful defiance. “I daresay I would rather remain slightly scandalous than entirely dull.”
Harriet Darlington, resplendent in lavender muslin and lace, stood a little apart near the marble sundial, fanning herself slowly as she surveyed the scene with a slightly bemused expression. Though she had once despaired over Abigail’s obstinacy, had mourned the loss of an earl in favor of a mere Viscount, she had come to a quiet, if reluctant, acceptance.
Arthur Beaumont, for all his academic reserve and peculiar independence, was a devoted husband. More importantly, he was a man who truly loved her daughter. And that, Harriet had finally conceded—after much sighing, several correspondence letters to her sister, and the persuasive influence of her husband and nephew—was of far more value than a title.
Lord Silas Darlington, recently returned from an extended business venture in Ceylon, now stood with one arm gently looped around his wife’s waist, his eyes bright as they followed Abigail’s movements. His absence had not dimmed his place in his daughter’s heart. If anything, their bond had grown stronger on his return. He had made no protestations when told of Abigail’s union. Rather, he had welcomed Arthur with the quiet dignity of a man who measured worth not by name or title, but by how one treated those they loved.
“She looks well,” Silas murmured, watching his daughter as she tilted her face toward the sun. “Happy.”
“She is,” Harriet replied, her tone unusually hushed. “He has been… good for her.”
“And she for him,” Silas said with a smile, his gaze drifting toward the stoic figure of Arthur. “There is peace in his eyes. That is not a thing born of convenience.”
On the western lawn, shaded by an ivy-draped archway, Lady Gillian Beaumont stood with a parasol resting gently against one shoulder. Regal in manner and stature, she wore her grey silk gown like an empress might wear her robes. Yet there was a softness to her gaze as she regarded her son and daughter-in-law—a depth of emotion rarely revealed in the height of a London ballroom.
She had not always been so sanguine. Once, she had feared Abigail Darlington would bring only disruption and unwelcome notoriety to the Beaumont name.
But time and quiet observation had softened her disapproval. Abigail had proven herself—gracious in public, dignified in scandal, and unwavering in her love for Arthur. More than that, she had shown herself to be intelligent, steadfast, and perfectly suited to life as a Viscountess. Gillian had watched, not without surprise, as Abigail deftly navigated the demands of her new position with elegance and conviction.
Now, as she watched her son lean toward his wife with a quiet word and a tender smile, Gillian felt a quiet satisfaction settle within her. The Beaumont lineage was secure. But far more importantly, her son—her brilliant, stubborn, deeply sensitive son—was happy.
And that, she realized, was a far rarer triumph.
A little ways off, near the stone bench beneath the ancient oak, stood Sir James Fitzwilliam, his arms folded and his expression one of mild amusement.
He had been Arthur’s confidant throughout the entirety of the farce-turned-romance, offering wit when needed and silence when required. Now, observing the couple that had so convincingly deceived the ton only to fall so irrevocably into genuine affection, James allowed himself a quiet smile.
He had always believed Arthur capable of love, even when Arthur himself had argued otherwise. The world had offered his friend many reasons to remain distant, guarded, removed. But Abigail had undone what logic and persuasion could not. She had reached the heart of a man who had once believed his own to be unreachable.
***
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long golden shadows across the lawn, Arthur and Abigail wandered toward the reflecting pool, their steps slow and easy, their hands entwined. The laughter of family echoed behind them, but for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
She turned to him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “Did you ever imagine, when all this began, that it would end like this?”
He looked down at her, his gaze alight with quiet wonder. “Not even in my most indulgent dreams.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Here we are.”
She shifted slightly, adjusting to the weight she carried, and he placed a steadying hand against the small of her back.
“You make it all look effortless,” he whispered.
Her laugh was soft. “That is only because I am loved.”
He smiled, brushing his thumb over her hand. “Then you must never forget it.”
And as the first stars shimmered faintly in the darkening sky, Abigail leaned into her husband, her heart full, her future unwritten but bright. For all the scandal, all the uncertainty, and all the unexpected turns their journey had taken, they had found something real—something rare.
Not merely the happy ending they had never expected.
But the one they had come to deserve.
The End
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