Page 5 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The scent of rosewater clung to the drawing room like an overbearing guest—heavy, cloying, far too sweet for Abigail Darlington’s mood, but her mother felt it necessary to impress guests.

She sat by the tall window in the corner of the room, a volume of The Decline of the Roman Empire spread open across her lap, though she had not turned a page in fifteen minutes. Her fingers pressed into the leather spine; her knuckles faintly white. She tried to read, tried to absorb the cool logic of imperial succession and crumbling order, but her mind refused to settle.

The room was too still. Too expectant.

The sun cast pale rays of light across the polished floorboards, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the stillness. Outside, a few early bees hummed against the glass, sluggish in the cool morning air, seeking some escape. The early bustle of a morning in London had already begun—distant hoofbeats on cobblestones, the muffled call of a chimney sweep, the sharp bark of a dog echoing down the row.

It might have been peaceful, had it not been for the dull thrum of dread threading steadily beneath Abigail’s skin.

Another morning. Another social obligation. Another suitor. Another charm offensive disguised as courtship.

The phrase drifted through her thoughts unbidden, dry and uncharitable.

She sighed inwardly, her breath warming the edge of the book in her hands. The page before her detailed the consolidation of power under Augustus, but her eyes drifted past the text, unseeing. The names of emperors and exiles blurred together. It was hard to focus on anything when the weight of inevitable tedium hung so oppressively over the day.

She glanced toward the mantel clock. A quarter past ten. The hour when society’s more determined bachelors began making their calls under the guise of casual civility.

She closed her eyes briefly. The Season felt like a never-ending siege. The parade of suitors—each more pompous than the last—blurred into one another. Names, titles, lands, fortunes.

All of their conversations followed the exact same formula. A few inquiries after her health, an observation on the weather, and then a lengthy discourse on their own achievements. She could recite the pattern with her eyes closed and still have enough energy left over to embroider a cushion.

Sometimes, she imagined a life outside it all. A quiet one, far removed from drawing rooms and ballrooms. Perhaps she might be like her Great Aunt Eloise, who lived in a small cottage near the coast and kept a garden of herbs and books. She corresponded with philosophers, not colonels, and wore shawls that didn’t match and didn’t care.

It sounded glorious.

Abigail turned a page, pretending to read.

She knew other girls her age who had already married—settled, as society so pleasantly phrased it. One had married a man twice her age for a manor house and a title; another had fallen in love with a poet who spent more time at his club than at their home. Each of them wore the same strained smile when asked about their happiness, like women who had trained their mouths to lie before their eyes could betray them.

A faint creak from the floorboards drew her attention. Her mother, Lady Harriet Darlington, stood near the hearth, adjusting a vase of freshly cut roses for what must have been the third time. Her dress was a pale lavender silk, tasteful and carefully tailored. Her eyes flitted to the window every few seconds, and her lips were pressed into a contented curve.

Abigail did not need to ask why.

Harriet possessed a talent for arranging herself with impeccable finesse during her morning visits—so much so that any visitor fortunate enough to gain admission might be tempted to believe he beheld her at her most captivating and genteel advantage.

Abigail turned back to her book, determined to enjoy what few minutes of quiet she might yet claim.

Then came the sound she dreaded most.

A carriage.

The low thunder grew louder outside. The clatter of iron wheels over uneven stones sent a chill up Abigail’s spine. The rhythmic stamp of hooves drew to a halt before the townhouse as she heard the familiar whip-crack flick of reins.

Abigail did not need to rise or peek behind the curtain to know precisely who had arrived.

Lord Edward Colton.

The very air seemed to change. She felt it tighten, like the moment before a summer storm breaks—not dramatic, not loud, but oppressive and pressing. The same sensation she’d felt at Lady Jane’s ball when he had crossed the floor toward her with all the certainty of a man who believed the outcome already decided.

She stilled.

A heartbeat later, the sound of the bell echoed faintly from downstairs. The butler’s footsteps echoed down the hall. She could imagine the calm formality of his face, the way he would intone the announcement with perfect detachment. He had done it often enough.

Lady Harriet’s face lit with satisfaction, her hands fluttering once to smooth an already perfect sleeve.

“Do sit properly, Abigail,” she said without turning. “Lord Colton is quite punctual. A most encouraging sign.”

Abigail bit the inside of her cheek and straightened in her chair, tucking the book aside with a definitive snap. Her fingers brushed the linen of her skirt, smoothing invisible creases as she stood. Her spine aligned with ingrained decorum, but her stomach turned.

The butler appeared in the doorway, his face unreadable, his tone composed.

“Lord Edward Colton, my lady.”

“Please show him in at once,” Harriet said, her smile already fixed in place.

Abigail took a slow breath and turned toward the door. Her expression composed itself out of habit. Chin high. Smile present but not warm. Eyes just wide enough to seem attentive.

The door opened wider, and Lord Edward Colton entered with all the theatricality of a general returning triumphant.

Tall, broad, and clad in a green velvet coat that clung too tightly to his wide shoulders, he filled the room not just with his size, but with the self-satisfaction that radiated from every inch of him. His boots were polished to a mirrored shine, his gleaming cravat tied in an ostentatious knot. His dark eyes swept the room, assessing, claiming. He acted as though the house belonged to him already.

“Lady Harriet,” he boomed, stepping forward with a bow that was just shy of excessive. “You are as lovely as ever. Absolutely exquisite if I may be so bold. The roses do not compare.”

Harriet’s laugh was all flutter and warmth. “Lord Edward, how gallant. You flatter me.”

Then he turned toward Abigail and the true performance began.

Abigail braced herself.

Edward shifted toward her, the smile deepening as he bowed. “Miss Darlington,” he said, stepping forward with exaggerated intent. “A vision of elegance, as always.”

She extended her hand out of duty, although she felt unbridled disdain. It would be impolite not to, but it awakened the familiar sense of revulsion she’d tried so hard to mask at the ball.

His hand closed over hers, warm and damp and lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl. The contact sent a jolt of unease through her spine. His thumb traced the edge of her glove in a gesture meant to be intimate, and Abigail had to resist the urge to recoil.

He bowed low, letting his eyes linger on her face in a way that felt more invasive than admiring.

“My morning has already been made.”

When she tried to withdraw, he delayed—just a fraction too long. Enough to assert ownership without a word spoken.

“You honour us with your visit, Lord Colton,” she said, her voice even, neutral. She had perfected that tone over the years—a melody of politeness that conveyed nothing she did not intend.

Edward’s gaze roamed her face, lingering where it should not. “And you are radiant this morning, Miss Darlington. The light suits you.”

She resisted the urge to take a step back.

The three of them seated themselves. Edward, uninvited but unabashed, took the chair closest to hers.

The scent of his cologne—strong, woody, and cloyingly sweet—wrapped around her like smoke. She forced herself not to lean away.

Harriet smiled at their guest. “May I offer you tea?”

“Tea would be splendid,” he said. “With just a touch of honey, if it’s not too much trouble.” He smiled at Abigail again, as though the mere fact of her presence was a reward he was owed.

The maid arrived with the tea service, and Abigail busied herself with pouring, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at him.

The clink of porcelain and the slow swirl of honey in the cup were comforting, methodical.

Edward waited just long enough for Abigail to stir before launching into a monologue about his new investment in a shipping company based in Bristol—dull talk of tariffs and trade routes, all delivered with the booming enthusiasm of a man who assumed his every word held the room in rapture.

He spoke of his latest acquisition of a prize hound, the virtues of his tailor, and how tiresome it had been to sit through the Duchess of Grantham’s musical evening.

“The duchess insisted on performing a sonata herself—naturally, I offered to accompany her on the pianoforte. Not because I play, of course, but because I feared the instrument might refuse her a second round.”

He laughed at his own joke.

Abigail smiled faintly and said nothing.

The clock near the corner marked each passing moment with the low echo of inevitability.

Lady Harriet beamed, inserting helpful comments every few sentences. “Of course, Abigail plays beautifully, though she is terribly modest about it… Indeed, and her embroidery has been praised even by Lady Frome…”

Abigail folded her hands in her lap, pressing her thumbnail against the inside of her palm.

“You must come riding with me soon,” Edward said. “I have a new mare. Gentle as a lamb. You’ll love her.”

“I prefer walking,” Abigail replied.

He blinked, then laughed indulgently. “A lady with such elegance should never settle for walking.”

“Abigail finds pleasure in simplicity,” Harriet said, smoothing over the awkwardness with a smile. “It’s one of her finest qualities.”

“Ah indeed,” Edward said. “But surely there’s no harm in embracing more elaborate experiences.”

Abigail listened with strained civility, nodding at intervals, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Her thoughts, meanwhile, wandered.

To the book she’d been reading. To the birds outside. To the many, many ways in which her life could be different if only she were allowed to direct it herself.

Edward’s voice droned on.

He spoke of his horses—newly imported, fine lineage. Of his acquaintance with a minor duke who had recently asked his advice on which tailor to employ. Of his belief that women ought not to trouble themselves with politics or opinion, “for surely there is enough to worry about in the choosing of gowns and supper menus.”

Abigail’s grip tightened ever so slightly on the handle of her teacup, her finger tracing swirls around the rim in an effort to stave off the boredom of time wasted during this utterly mundane one-way conversation. It brought a small comfort. The tiniest sense of control.

A fly buzzed against the windowpane behind her, its frantic wings beating a panicked rhythm as its small body slammed over and over into the glass.

Trapped.

She could sympathize, could feel herself in that small, desperate rhythm.

“Miss Darlington,” he said abruptly, leaning forward, “you strike me as a lady of excellent taste. Tell me, what is your favourite flower?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon, Lord Colton?”

“Your favourite flower,” he repeated, smiling indulgently, as though humoring a child. “For I would have them ordered to be brought to you, daily if need be. I should like to know what pleases you.”

Abigail hesitated. Her mind offered one answer, her tongue another.

“Lilies,” she said, and saw something flicker in his eyes.

“Excellent. Lilies. Very pure.” His smile widened. “Fitting.”

There was something in the way he said it. A note too reverent. Too commanding.

Abigail felt her stomach twist.

“I shall have bouquets delivered until you tire of them,” he said, his voice dipped low.

Harriet beamed. “Isn’t that generous, Abigail? Such attentiveness.”

Abigail lowered her gaze to her lap. “Very kind, but it would be an unnecessary extravagance, Lord Colton” she murmured.

“Nonsense, my lady. You are most deserving,” he retorted, but something about his tone made her skin crawl yet again with a desperate unease. Every unwanted gift felt like a step closer to him issuing demands of his own that she did not wish to fulfill.

Harriet carried on effusively, chattering about Abigail’s skill at watercolor and her lovely singing voice. Edward absorbed it all with the smug satisfaction of a man convinced of his success.

But Abigail’s mind was elsewhere.

She felt as if she had been weighted down. She was so tired of the charade of it all. The careful masks. The expectations. The unspoken assumptions that her silence meant consent, her composure meant compliance.

She had spent years mastering the art of smiling while her soul screamed.

When Edward finally stood to leave, Abigail rose with him, offering the briefest curtsy. His bow was deep again, his lips brushing her knuckles.

“I hope to return again in the not too distant future, if I might trespass on your gracious hospitality once more,” he said softly, just for her. “I also hope to speak with your father when he returns home from his travels next week.”

Her heart froze for just a moment.

My mother has already told him when he will be back?

He meant it as a promise.

A threat.

And it was both. A declaration of intent. Suddenly, Abigail was no longer a fly banging against the window pane in confusion but one completely trapped under Edward’s glass. There was no escaping the reality of her situation, and she couldn’t bear to spend another second with that vile excuse for a man, let alone a lifetime.

He turned, bowing, before he offered a final parting word to Harriet, and left the room.

Silence fell like a curtain in his absence.

“Well,” Harriet said, clapping her hands together softly. “Wasn’t that promising?”

Abigail said nothing. She fell into the nearest chair and stared at the door in a horror-induced paralysis. Her hands, still clasped, slowly uncurled. She felt the ghost of Edward’s touch on her fingers and brushed it away against her skirts.

Across the room, Lady Harriet hummed to herself rearranging cushions as if the matter were already settled.

“I hope to speak with your father when he returns home…”

Lord Colton’s words rang in her ears. In less than a week, she could find herself in a much worse situation.

Abigail turned back to the window and caught a glimpse of Edward as he stepped into his waiting carriage. He turned to give her one last glance that seemed too possessive and certain before the door shut and the wheels turned.

The sparrows had gone. She watched the empty sky.

Trapped, she thought, and not even in a cage of iron. Silk and smiles; bouquets of lilies and lies.