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

A pale spring sun rose over the rooftops of Covent Garden, casting a golden sheen across the tightly packed stalls and glinting off the glazed surfaces of overflowing flower carts. The air was filled with the scent of early blossoms and the more pungent notes of damp cobblestones, ripe cheese, and straw. It was a cacophony of scent and sound, the very heart of London in springtime—vivid, relentless, alive.

The scent of hyacinths, fresh earth, and citrus mingled in the crisp morning air, and the cries of vendors rang out in a chaotic clamor of noise that echoed through the cobbled alleys and overflowing flower stalls. Petals floated gently on the breeze, confetti scattered by unseen hands.

“Fresh-cut tulips! Beautiful tulips for you beautiful ladies!”

“Best rhubarb this side of the Thames!”

“Fresh herbs!”

“Get your bread and pastries here!”

The crush of people moved like an unpredictable tide between stalls laden with jars of honey, bolts of cotton, and heaps of glistening lemons.

Abigail Darlington edged through the market with measured steps, weaving through the press of elbows and chatter with all the delicacy of a lady trained for ballroom grace but tested here by wayward baskets and splashing puddles.

The crowded walkways overwhelmed her senses and she tried to stay close to her mother. However, Lady Harriet Darlington spared no one, advancing through the crowds like a general in command of a well-planned campaign, her voice rising above the din in a steady stream of matrimonial strategy.

Abigail had hoped for a modicum of respite after the ball, but for the entirety of the past two days, her mother hadn’t let up in giving her daughter opinions on every potential suitor from London to Scotland. Indeed, Abigail had begun to wonder if she was capable of talking about anything else. She had half a mind to marry the next person she bumped into, if only it would cease her mother’s relentless chatter on the subject.

“Lord Bexley is newly widowed and wealthy, dearest. His estate near Bath is quite renowned for its conservatories. Imagine you there, entertaining important guests, your children playing near the fountains. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Widowers of means and manners are rare treasures—and he has three children already! You would be mistress of an estate before the Season is out.”

Not even betrothed and she thinks I should be a mother of three in a matter of months? No, thank you!

Abigail’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Mama. Quite a vision. What a charming… handful.”

Harriet tutted. “Don’t be glib. You have a nurturing disposition; I’ve always said so.”

Abigail doubted her mother had ever said such a thing.

She longed to simply enjoy the spring day in silence, but there was a heavy weight in her gut; the battle between wanting to please and running as far away as humanly possible. Abigail trailed behind her mother, her smile carefully stitched in place like embroidery on a gown—a clown face painted on to hide her true feelings, decorative and meaningless.

“Do keep up, Abigail. It isn’t becoming of a lady to straggle behind,” Harriet continued, undeterred. “And then there’s Sir Graham Withers. A bit portly, yes, but he was rather dashing in his younger days, I assure you. His shipping interests are flourishing. His fortune comes from the tea trade, like your father. And such manners. He bowed to me twice at Lady Ellingford’s supper last week. Twice!”

Was rather dashing? Was? Are my options already so limited that I must marry someone whose best years have passed them by?

The market surged around them. A trio of fishwives argued over a chipped scale. A boy shouted something about punnets of gooseberries. A woman in a saffron apron hurled insults at a man who had stepped on her basket. A donkey brayed, startling a flock of pigeons into the sky.

Abigail ducked to avoid a wayward basket swinging on a butcher’s shoulder, but Harriet barely noticed. “You must learn to present a more inviting expression, Abigail. Smile with your eyes. Tilt your head when listening. Try not to appear so… serious. It is so very off-putting to gentlemen. You need to present yourself in such a way that you are appealing and approachable rather than standoffish and aloof.”

Abigail’s grip on her reticule tightened. The cacophony of voices, the pressing crowds, her mother’s endless commentary—it all blurred into a drumming pulse in her ears. She was growing hot in her gloves. Her bodice felt suddenly too tight.

“Captain Mowbray was asking after you at the Fairchild ball. A naval officer, Abigail. Fine breeding, a good pension, and a uniform . Think what a fine figure he would cut escorting you into dinner on his arm. Or, even better, as he walked with you back down the aisle as his new bride. Wouldn’t that paint a darling picture?”

Abigail’s smile thinned further. Her temples throbbed with the noise. It was hard to accept that—in her mother’s head—she’d potentially been married off to three suitors and was mother to three children, all within the last two minutes.

She stepped aside to allow a flower girl to pass and returned to her mother’s side, her patience fraying with each polite nod and murmured approval. Without warning, the thin thread holding the remainder of her tolerance snapped.

“I do not want to talk about Captain Mowbray. Or Lord Bexley. Or Sir Graham, Mother. Please can we not simply enjoy the day around us?”

Harriet’s brows lifted. “Well, then whom do you want to talk about? You give me nothing to work with, Abigail. I cannot secure a match with air and obstinacy.”

“Must we always discuss suitors, all of the time? Surely it ought not to be a full-time occupation?”

Lady Harriet rolled her eyes theatrically. “Once you have found yourself a suitable match, we can stop working so hard to find you one, dearest. Until then, you must be more amenable to… your options.

A gust of wind lifted a cascade of petals from a nearby cart, sending them swirling around their skirts. Children ran by chasing a dog, and the crowd thickened near a stall selling sweet buns.

All of it pressed in around her—sights, sounds, her mother’s ceaseless stream of words—until it felt as though the whole market were collapsing inward. She bit her lip to stifle the urge to scream in frustration.

Abigail’s eyes fell on a quieter corner of the market, a stall at the periphery shaded by a faded canvas awning. The lilies there stood pristine and untouched, their pale petals a brilliant contrast to the riot of colour surrounding them.

Abigail seized her moment to make her escape. A few minutes of respite would enable her to get her breathing back under control, and the inner turmoil she felt to subside.

“Mother, those lilies over there… are they not particularly exquisite? Forgive me, I must examine them more closely.”

Lady Harriet, momentarily distracted by a prize-winning display of orchids, waved her off. “Yes, yes, but don’t wander too far or dawdle back. We’ll meet by the fountain in fifteen minutes.”

Abigail didn’t wait to hear more. She slipped away with a grateful breath, weaving through the crowd until she reached the patch of calm by the lily stall. The noise diminished, softened by distance and the screening of lofty hedges delineating the periphery of the market.

The lilies were perfect. White and curved, their fragrance was delicate and sweet, heady on the nose like the sweet scent of the air after a thunderstorm. Abigail inhaled deeply.

She felt the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease as they finally dropped. It couldn’t be good for a person to feel this level of tension all the time. Indeed, Abigail had become so accustomed to the sensation that she only recognized it once it had gone.

For the first time all morning—or indeed the past few days—her thoughts quieted. She let herself imagine what it would be to live in solitude, perhaps in a cottage lined with wildflowers, where lilies bloomed in sunlit corners and no one expected anything from her.

For a moment, she considered the prospect of a life where decisions weren’t handed down like orders. A life lived not in drawing rooms and ballrooms but somewhere quieter. Where conversation meant understanding, not performance. Where love—if it existed—was not a transaction.

The thought barely had time to settle before a sudden crash shattered the peace.

A shout rang out—sharp and panicked—followed by the metallic screech of something heavy grinding against stone. The harmonious babble of market-goers fractured in an instant.

Abigail froze.

Her head whipped around, just in time to see a vendor’s cart lurching violently to one side. The wheel caught on a loosened cobble and pitched inward, the towering stack of crates it carried—laden with pots, bursting baskets of flowers, and fragrant herbs—balancing unsteadily. It swayed once, groaned as if in protest, then buckled.

Wood splintered. Earthenware smashed. The cascade began.

There was no time to scream. The crates fell in a deafening roar, a torrent of clay and color crashing straight towards her.

The crowd scattered, skirts swirling and boots slipping. A woman shrieked. Somewhere to her right, a child sobbed. The air filled with the acrid scent of wet soil and crushed mint. Abigail’s body screamed at her to move, but her limbs rebelled—rooted in place by shock. She tried to step back, but the hem of her gown caught against her ankle, tangling her footing.

The ground tilted. Her balance vanished.

She felt her heel twist sharply on the uneven cobblestones, her arms windmilling helplessly as she toppled backwards. Panic surged in her chest like cold water, her throat locked around a breath she couldn’t draw. The crates bore down, close enough now that she could see the detail in the painted labels, the glint of a broken handle, the sharp edge of a cracked pot.

“Miss! Hey, miss! Move—” someone shouted.

She had just enough time to realize it would hit her. She would fall—helpless, ridiculous—and then the weight would come down and—

She heard a large intake of breath and realized too late that it was her own.

Suddenly, large, strong hands caught her around her waist.

The world jerked sideways as she was yanked backward—away from the avalanche, and away from the danger.

With a sudden, almost surreal ease, her body was caught and steadied, pulled upright in a single smooth movement that turned her around and brought her up against something solid. Someone. Her breath came in ragged, disbelieving gasps as the last of the crates smashed against the stones where she had stood not three seconds earlier.

Shards skittered across the street, clinking like wind chimes as they rolled to a stop.

For a moment, she didn’t dare open her eyes.

Then she did—and found herself looking directly into the face of Arthur Beaumont.

What is he doing here?

He was so close she could see the subtle golden flecks in his dark blue eyes, the crease between his brows, the fine edge of tension along his jaw. His expression was unreadable—controlled, indeed, but not cold. There was something almost startled in his gaze, as though he himself had not expected to catch her, to be the one to save her from catastrophe.

Abigail’s hands were pressed flat against his chest. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath her gloves, and it struck her that he, too, had been shaken or at least fueled by adrenaline. His breath, though steady, was tight in his chest, as if drawn between clenched teeth.

The market moved around them as if at a distance—vendors rushing to assess the damage, customers resettling their baskets and belongings, voices rising in exclamation and disbelief. A man cursed softly at a runaway cabbage as he chased it down the street. Another helped to gather the shattered shards of the pots into a hessian sack.

But the world within Arthur’s arms was still. Quiet and peaceful.

He held her securely, his expression unreadable. “Are you injured?” he asked, his voice pitched low but taut with concern. His hands remained firm around her waist, anchoring her without clutching her too tightly.

Abigail shook her head, though her heart beat wildly. “No—I…um… thank you.”

Around them, the market resumed its noise. The vendor wailed over his broken pottery as he swept the debris from in between the cobbles. Someone else offered assistance to tidy away the mess. Life, as it always did, marched onward.

But Abigail remained still, her breath catching. Arthur Beaumont had caught her.

For a breathless, suspended moment, they were locked together.

Abigail’s breath hitched in her throat, her senses reeling from the shock of the near-accident and the startling proximity of Arthur Beaumont. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his hands on her waist—steady, certain, and utterly unlike the polished touch of a practiced suitor. His presence, solid and unyielding, banished the clamor of the market in an instant.

Her gaze lifted, slowly, drawn upward as if by gravity. She met his eyes—deep blue and intense, flecked with something unreadable. Surprise flared between them, and then something more. Something unspoken. A quiet recognition.

“Are you certain you’re okay, Miss Darlington?” Arthur repeated.

The bustling cries and footfalls around Covent Garden faded, muffling to a distant hum. In that suspended second, the world seemed to narrow until it was only them—his arms braced around her, her gloved hands lightly pressed against his chest, both held in a moment that defied expectation.

“Yes, I—thank you for your assistance. Truly.” She was struggling to find the words to express her gratitude, or indeed anything at all.

Only then did Arthur release her, slowly, as though unsure whether she might falter again. As his hands fell away, the cool air rushed in to fill the space between them, making her suddenly, acutely aware of just how warm his touch had been.

She straightened herself, smoothing her gown with trembling fingers. Her knees wobbled, but she managed to remain upright.

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, as though startled by the strength of the connection. He did not speak, nor did she. Words felt impossible, irrelevant. What could be said to explain the flicker of… whatever that something was… that had sparked in a heartbeat? It had felt like an electric shock, stunning them both into submission.

The spell broke as a cluster of nearby vendors and onlookers caught up with the commotion. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd like ripples across still water.

“Did you see—?”

“She nearly—”

“He caught her just in time—”

Bystanders stared, some wide-eyed, others whispering behind gloved hands. A woman clutched her chest in theatrical relief. Children pointed. The pottery vendor offered profuse apologies that Abigail barely heard. But the growing hum of attention fixed itself squarely upon the couple at the heart of the spectacle.

“She could’ve been crushed!”

“Lucky girl—Lord Beaumont caught her in the nick of time.”

“No ordinary rescue, that,” another whispered. “Quite the display—like something from a novel.”

Abigail felt her cheeks flame, not from fear but from the dozens of sets of eyes she could sense turning their way. And yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from Arthur.

Attempting to summon some composure, Abigail found her voice and thanked Arthur again.

“I am most grateful that you rescued me from becoming another fateful statistic to add to the many cautionary tales about inattentive ladies and pottery stalls. That was quite heroic, and the outcome could have been incredibly different without your assistance.”

A flicker of something passed across his face—amusement? Relief?

“It was hardly heroism,” he said, glancing briefly at the shattered remains of the vendor’s cart. “But I am grateful I was close enough to intervene. Just a case of being at the right place at the right time.”

Her lips parted, a witty retort forming—something to defuse the tension—but then came the sharp, familiar voice that cut through the crowd like a blade.

“Abigail!”

Lady Harriet Darlington, her bonnet askew and cheeks flushed from exertion, pushed through the growing cluster of onlookers, a half-crushed bouquet of orchids in one hand and her parasol in the other. Her sharp eyes took in the wreckage, the crowd, and—worst of all—her daughter standing far too close to Arthur Beaumont to be remotely proper, still visibly flustered and decidedly not accompanied by a chaperone.

The shock on her face was immediate, followed by something dangerously close to horror. Her mouth opened into a wide ‘O’, her eyes flicking between Abigail’s flushed cheeks and Arthur’s composed expression. She hastened forward, barely acknowledging the crushed pottery around their feet.

“What happened here?” she demanded. “Abigail, are you injured?”

Arthur took a careful step back, letting his hands fall to his sides, but not before ensuring Abigail was steady on her feet. She straightened slowly, her face flushed from more than just the near-disaster.

“No, Mama,” Abigail said, finding her voice again quickly. “It was a cart—the crates fell, and I was standing in the line of fire. Lord Beaumont… he prevented me from being struck. If not for him, I could have been badly hurt.”

Harriet turned her attention fully to Arthur now, offering a quick, practiced curtsy. “Lord Beaumont. I did not realise you were in the area.”

Arthur, ever the gentleman, bowed with impeccable decorum. “Lady Harriet. I had no idea you and Miss Darlington were in the market this morning. “I came to collect some seedlings for the conservatory at Beaumont Manor. I was fortunate to be nearby at the right moment.”

Harriet’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the crowd, now dispersing slowly, many casting glances back at them. Her mouth formed a tight line.

“Yes, how… fortunate,” Harriet said tightly, forcing a smile. She swept her gaze once more over Abigail’s disheveled appearance, her hair had come loose under her bonnet and her gloves were dusted with dirt. “You must allow us to express our gratitude. Such bravery and presence of mind. Most commendable indeed.” Lady Harriet said.

Arthur inclined his head, though the praise made him visibly uncomfortable. He looked once more to Abigail, his expression softening—an unreadable glance that lingered a moment longer than it should have.

“I am relieved to see that you are unscathed, Miss Darlington,” he said.

“Thanks to you, my lord.” Abigail replied, her voice quiet but steady.

“I should be on my way,” Arthur said, more to Harriet than to her. “The vendor has my order somewhere behind all that chaos. If I linger too long, he’ll attempt to triple the price out of guilt or wounded pride.”

The remark, delivered with dry charm, earned a smattering of quiet laughter from the nearest bystanders.

He hesitated as though considering further speech, then gave another brief bow. “Good day, Lady Harriet. Miss Darlington. Have a pleasant visit.”

And with that, he turned and strode away, disappearing into the throng with the same calm grace with which he had appeared.

Lady Harriet watched him go, then turned sharply to her daughter. “You must take greater care, Abigail. The market is no place to wander off unattended—this is precisely the kind of attention we wish to avoid.”

Abigail knew it would make no difference to remind her mother that she’d agreed that they would meet in fifteen minutes. It was obviously all her fault. Never Lady Darlington’s.

“He rescued me, Mother. This was hardly planned.”

“That man is far too practiced in politeness,” Harriet muttered. “And you were far too close to him for far too long.”

“Mama—I was shocked. It was a case of—”

“No, Abigail,” Harriet said firmly. “You know how people talk. What they make of such scenes. We are fortunate this did not end worse.”

Abigail nodded, but didn’t reply. Her gaze lingered in the direction where Arthur had vanished into the Covent Garden crowds. Her heart, which had finally begun to slow, skipped again with a strange, restless energy.

She felt a strange mixture of relief and embarrassment.

But she also felt something else entirely. Something warm, inviting, and inexplicably stirring.

Something entirely new.