Page 7 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The carriage wheels groaned slightly as they turned into the sweeping drive of Lady Maria Lytton’s townhouse. Lanterns flickered in wrought-iron holders, casting a gentle, amber glow across the cobblestone courtyard. Beyond the elegant arched entrance, the soft murmur of conversation and the delicate strains of a harpsichord drifted out, blending into the spring night like a perfumed sigh.

Abigail Darlington sat poised and elegant on the velvet seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap with careful composure. The faint scent of lavender water clung to her silk pelisse, mingling with the subtler fragrance of blooming lilacs that wafted through the partially opened carriage window. Her eyes, though serene, scanned the scene with quiet thoughtfulness as liveried footmen stood ready beneath the marble portico, their silhouettes sharp against the golden spill of candlelight.

Across from her, Lady Harriet Darlington beamed at her daughter with eager pride, her fan fluttering in rhythm with her excitement. She was dressed in a gown of soft amethyst satin, a colour she claimed was flattering in all forms of candlelight, and her plume-topped turban bobbed slightly with every enthusiastic nod.

“Oh, Abigail, do sit up just a touch straighter—there, yes,” she instructed, her voice hushed but urgent, as if mere posture might determine the course of an entire evening’s prospects. “You know how dreadful Lady Maria’s eyesight is; if she cannot see you clearly, she will simply assume you are not here, and then what good is all this effort?”

Abigail smiled faintly, accustomed to such maternal fretting, and adjusted her posture by no more than a fraction. “Lady Maria is hardly likely to forget one of her own performing guests,” she replied mildly.

“Nonsense, dearest, you know full well the woman forgets her own birthday most years. No, no—your entrance must be striking. Tonight is not merely a musicale. It is an occasion .”

Indeed, it was. Lady Maria Lytton’s musicales were among the more coveted invitations of the season—not only for the music, which was often of an admirable quality, but for the subtle orchestration of society that occurred within her drawing rooms. Matches were whispered into motion beneath the swell of a violin, feuds were soothed during sonatas, and reputations might rise or tumble between movements of Mozart.

Lady Harriet leaned forward slightly, lowering her fan as though preparing to divulge a matter of state. “I am told Lord Elverton shall be in attendance,” she said, her eyebrows rising with significant meaning.

Abigail’s brows lifted a fraction. “Indeed? I had not thought him fond of music.”

“He is not,” her mother replied with relish. “Which makes his appearance all the more intriguing. It suggests he is, perhaps, fond of someone who is.”

Abigail turned her gaze once more toward the glittering entrance, her expression unreadable in the flickering light. The thought of being the object of Lord Elverton’s pursuit neither thrilled nor appalled her—it was simply another possibility in an already complicated landscape.

She sighed inwardly, suppressing the familiar prickle of apprehension that accompanied such events. Appearances must be kept, performances made. There would be smiles, polite laughter, the obligatory admiration of someone’s Italian arias.

But beneath it all, a tension hummed—something unspoken and uncertain. Her thoughts, though she would not admit it aloud, were not entirely fixed upon Lord Elverton or the music that awaited them.

As the carriage drew to a halt and the footman stepped forward to open the door, Abigail lifted her chin. The night air greeted her with the soft scent of blossoms and candle smoke, the sounds of society drifting outward like a siren’s call. She reached for her mother’s hand and descended into the evening with grace.

Whatever else the night held, she would meet it on her own terms.

“Lady Maria is most pleased you agreed to perform tonight,” she said, as though Abigail had done so willingly of her own accord. “She told me just this afternoon that you were among the most accomplished young ladies of the Season—both in manner and musicianship.”

Abigail gave a slight nod, saying nothing. Her mind buzzed with unspoken protests. Her violin playing, though competent, had never brought her joy. The thought of performing in front of a room full of prying eyes and false smiles filled her with dread. But such sentiments were unacceptable, particularly tonight. Tonight was about appearances. And appearances, in her world, were everything.

The butler welcomed them with a bow as they ascended the steps. Inside, the air was thick with perfume and expectation. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead like frozen stars, casting their brilliance over silk gowns, polished boots, and elaborately coiffed heads. Laughter trilled through the corridors in carefully pitched tones, weaving between the notes of the harpsichord. The guests milled about like colorful birds, posturing and preening in preparation for the evening’s display.

Abigail stood beside her mother as they were greeted by the hostess.

“Dearest Harriet,” Lady Maria said, sweeping forward with a smile both warm and calculated. She kissed both of Harriet’s cheeks, then turned to Abigail. “And my brilliant little musician. I’ve told everyone about your performance tonight, my dear.”

Abigail offered the expected curtsy. “You are too kind, Lady Maria.”

Maria’s eyes gleamed. “Nonsense. I’ve always said music reveals the soul, and yours, I suspect, is far more vivid than you let on.”

Abigail managed a polite smile, though her stomach gave a familiar twist. She hated the subtle implications—the veiled pressure to perform not only with her instrument, but with her whole self, to display something charming and desirable for the benefit of the gathering.

“Come,” Maria said, motioning them toward the drawing room. “Everyone is eager to hear you. The room is nearly full.”

As they stepped into the ballroom, Abigail’s gaze swept the space out of habit. The large room was warmed by the press of bodies and lit to a soft golden hue. Chairs had been arranged in neat rows, with a small dais near the front where a harp and pianoforte awaited.

She recognized nearly every face. For some reason, that sparked a heightened sense of nervousness that playing in front of a crowd of strangers did not. She had no fear regarding her ability as a violinist, but any situation in which you were paraded in front of the ton was an opportunity for hushed whispers of jealousy, or scandalous rumors born out of thin air.

There were the usual ladies with fixed smiles and fluttering fans, and the gentlemen with well-oiled hair and polished shoes, watching with idle interest or feigned detachment. And near the centre of the room, flanked by her usual orbit of admirers, sat Lady Gillian Beaumont, her posture impeccable, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

Abigail barely had time to register her presence before she saw her son.

Arthur Beaumont.

He stood near the back of the room, just within the sweep of candlelight, slightly apart from the knot of guests gathered near the refreshment table and the lacquered pianoforte. Though his posture was perfectly correct—shoulders squared, chin level—there was a deliberate ease in the way he carried himself, as though he could disengage from the evening at any moment and vanish into the shadows without apology or fanfare.

He wore a coat of deep navy superfine, cut to perfection across his broad shoulders, the high collar standing in subtle defiance of fashion’s more flamboyant excesses.

A silver-grey waistcoat, embroidered with a discreet vine motif, lent just enough elegance to hint at his rank, while his cravat—impossibly neat, and tied in a simple but impeccable style—betrayed the care of a man who knew precisely how to appear as though he did not care at all.

His dark hair had been brushed neatly back from his brow, not a strand out of place, though a single curl had already begun to loosen above his temple, softening the severity of his countenance. His face, composed and inscrutable, betrayed nothing of his thoughts, though his eyes—sharp, discerning, a shade somewhere between storm and smoke—missed very little.

They moved slowly over the assembled guests, not with the idle interest of a man in search of entertainment, but with the quiet alertness of one who would prefer to observe from a distance, safe behind the armor of detachment.

At his side stood Eliza, resplendent in a gown of sea-green silk, engaged in low conversation with a friend but glancing often toward the door, as though awaiting someone she had not yet seen.

Their mother, as always, sat upright with a presence that demanded both respect and proximity to power.

Arthur’s gaze swept the room and landed—unmistakably—on Abigail.

Their eyes met.

It lasted no more than a few seconds, yet something shifted. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, and Abigail felt a strange flutter in her chest—a faint, unsteady pulse of something she couldn’t name.

From her place near the anteroom, her fingers tightened slightly around the folded program in her hand. It was absurd, really, the way her breath caught. He had done nothing—spoken no word, offered no look—yet there he stood, and the air around her seemed altered. The laughter of others faded into a more distant register, the clink of crystal dulled by the blood rushing faintly in her ears.

There was a stillness about him she could not name, something in the quiet command of his presence that unsettled the composure she had so carefully arranged. He did not smile. He did not scowl. But there was a gravity to him tonight—something deeper than his usual reserve—that set her pulse to quicken in spite of herself.

She dropped her gaze and allowed her mother to guide her toward their assigned seats.

They were placed near the front, of course. Lady Maria would ensure that her guests of interest were always on display.

Abigail found herself between Harriet and Lord Edward Colton, who had, unsurprisingly, materialized at their side the moment they entered. Edward offered her a slow smile, the kind that stretched across his face with polished ease, but did not reach his eyes.

“I am seated beside the evening’s star,” he said, taking his place with a self-satisfied air. “I feel quite honoured.”

Abigail said nothing, choosing instead to smooth a nonexistent crease from her gown. On her other side, next to her mother, Charles offered her a subtle smile of encouragement. She returned it with the faintest dip of her chin, grateful for his quiet solidarity.

The guests who had hung back began to take their seats. Among them was Arthur, who would have preferred to keep his distance, but succumbed underneath his mother’s withering stare.

He took his designated place in the row behind Abigail’s, and although she was painfully aware of his every movement for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she sensed his presence before turning to offer a small, ladylike smile.

The first performance began—a soprano whose vibrato was more enthusiastic than precise.

Abigail let her mind drift, counting the candle sconces along the wall, the number of pearls in Lady Ashcombe’s necklace, the number of times Lady Maria’s annoying little dog yapped as if singing along, the number of seconds Edward could remain quiet before leaning in and saying something that could quite easily have remained a thought that no one else wanted to hear.

“Such a lovely piece,” he whispered after the second movement, his breath too close to her ear. “But I imagine your playing will steal the show entirely.”

Abigail offered a murmured response she didn’t even hear herself say. The room blurred around her. Her pulse ticked in her wrist like a steady drumbeat.

The second performance was a string quartet—adequate, uninspired. The third, a young gentleman attempting a transcription far beyond his grasp.

And then Eliza was called.

She moved to the front of the room with poise, her gown was a simple one, her smile reserved but genuine. As her fingers touched the keys, Abigail saw the subtle transformation—the tightening of focus, the immersion into the music. Eliza did not perform to impress. She played because the music was hers.

The room hushed as the melody took form. Notes soared, bright and clear. Abigail glanced sideways and saw Charles transfixed. He leaned forward slightly, unaware of it, his brow softened, his usual quiet dignity replaced with open admiration.

Eliza’s gaze flicked up and met his gaze as she played.

Something passed between them—a glimmer, a breath, a note unspoken. It was subtle enough that no one else would have noticed, but Abigail had seen a similar expression on Charles’s face as he watched Eliza before.

Polite applause rippled through the room. Eliza rose, bowed modestly, and returned to her seat, her cheeks tinged with the flush of genuine emotion. Abigail caught the look she gave Charles and felt a pang of envy—not for the affection exchanged, but for the ease of it. The freedom.

Abigail’s name was called at last.

She stood slowly, smoothing the front of her gown with a practiced hand before making her way to the front of the room. The violin waited for her on its stand like a relic from some former life, its polished wood gleaming under the soft candlelight.

She cleared her throat gently and lifted it with careful composure, the motion one she had repeated dozens of times throughout her life, though it never felt any more natural. She felt the weight of dozens of eyes pressed upon her as she took her place on the dais. A hush fell over the audience as she positioned herself at the centre of the room.

She didn’t require a musical score, such was her memory of a piece she had played thousands of times before. Gently, she raised the bow and began to play.

The opening notes rang out with precision, each one falling into place exactly as it should. Abigail’s technique was unassailable—her fingers moved with crisp confidence along the strings, and the bow glided smoothly across the instrument, drawing forth the expected phrases with flawless timing.

But, in her mind, there was no warmth to the sound, no softness at the edges, no suggestion of pleasure. The music was beautiful in the same way a marble statue is beautiful—elegant, refined, and utterly cold. She played like a marionette—each note executed with careful grace, yet devoid of joy. Every movement was a concession. Every phrase a surrender. Her bow hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from a desperate, strangled frustration.

This was not her music. It never had been. She did not belong on this stage, beneath these lights, before this audience of appraisers and schemers. She belonged in silence. In thought. In freedom.

She knew how it must appear. From the outside, she would seem serene, graceful, accomplished. Her mother would be glowing with pride, Edward would be mentally adding her musical abilities to the growing list of reasons he believed she should become his wife, and Lady Maria would feel vindicated in having invited her to perform at all.

But within her, a familiar tension coiled tighter with every section she completed. The violin, once a childhood curiosity, had long since become a symbol of expectation. Of display. Of duty. It was never about expression—it had always been about performance, in every sense of the word.

As the final notes of her piece faded into the silence, she lowered the instrument and gave a polite curtsy. The audience offered the expected applause, well-mannered and appreciative, the sort that had more to do with social obligation than any genuine appreciation of artistry. Abigail made her way back to her seat with steady steps, her expression composed, though her thoughts were already retreating somewhere far from the candlelight, corsets and courtship.

***

Arthur had not intended to remain long. In fact, he had not intended to attend at all, but his mother’s lecture and disappointed demeanor had left him with little option if he wanted to have any semblance of a harmonious home life.

He had no intention of courting any of the fawning debutantes in this room no matter how good their prospects or how overbearing their mothers might be. He had attended solely for the purpose of duty. He would do the bare minimum to play his part, make polite pleasantries, and then leave. If time permitted, and the musical performances did not take up the whole of the evening as he feared they might, he might even treat himself to a drink at White’s, so this didn’t feel like an entirely wasted evening.

The very notion of attending a musicale—of crowding into a drawing room to endure overwrought Italian arias and overly ambitious pianoforte solos—had struck him as intolerable. Yet here he stood, planted among silken gowns and murmured nothings, watching the gleam of candlelight catch in a hundred pairs of polished eyes, and wondering, for the third time in ten minutes, why he had not simply remained at his club.

Aside from his mother’s ever-present demands, he knew the answer, of course. He always knew, though he would not admit it aloud—not even fully to Eliza, who suspected everything, knew more than he no doubt thought she did, and said too much.

It was her .

She stepped forward now, poised beneath the glare of the chandelier, the violin cradled beneath her chin like something sacred. Abigail Darlington. Her gaze remained steady, composed, fixed somewhere in the middle distance as she dipped her head briefly to acknowledge the light applause that greeted her appearance and stepped into the light, her skin glowing, her eyes bright.

He had never thought of her as particularly striking, not in the conventional way. Her gowns were never the boldest, her speech never the loudest. But there was a refinement in her bearing, a calm intelligence in her eyes and a dark sense of humor about societal woes that refused to yield to frivolity.

And now, as she raised the bow, he found himself unexpectedly arrested—not by her beauty, but by the certainty that she was about to reveal something of herself that words could not touch. An intriguing secret that was about to be shared with him, with all of them.

The first note rang out—clear, luminous, like a thread of silver unspooling in the air—and Arthur felt his spine straighten without thought. She was absolutely captivating, and he was immediately enchanted in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

Was he softening in his old age? Arthur had never been even remotely interested in any of these musical events before, because they weren’t something which held a shred of interest for him. Even the accomplished performers seemed somewhat bored to be there.

But this was different. The room fell still. Conversations died on the lips of matrons and debutantes alike. Even Lady Maria’s lapdog ceased its continuous yipping, silenced by something it could not understand.

She played as though the room had been emptied and she had been transported to another realm. Unlike some of the nervous performers he had seen at such events, Abigail showed no outward signs of discomfort. It was as if she had entirely forgotten any of them were there at all.

There was no affectation in her performance. No preening, no performative glance at the gentlemen seated nearest the dais. Her expression was not impassive, but quietly intent—as if the music passed through her rather than from her, and she was merely the instrument through which it chose to speak.

Arthur could not look away.

He had not expected to be so unbelievably moved. He had not expected anything , save perhaps a few minutes of polite boredom. But what rose from her violin was not simply sound—it was longing, it was memory, it was the ache of a question that had never been answered. Each note reached toward something unnamed at the peak of emotion, and in its reach, it stirred something dormant in him, something he had pressed flat with years of habit and distance.

Oh Heavens, compose yourself. You’ll be reciting poetry next.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, he saw her not as the woman he jested with careless remarks or studied from across ballrooms, but as someone unreachable . An untouchable being. Someone who did not need him, or anyone, to complete her. And yet, he could not help but wish he might be permitted to stand beside her in that still, unknowable place the music had created. To be that violin and feel her soft caresses.

He had seen beauty before. He had been charmed, tempted, even briefly in love. But this—this was different. This was the silent awe of witnessing something one could not possess. She was one with the instrument and creating a sound that he had never heard from a violin before. It was hauntingly melodic, sad and full of longing, but incredibly poignant and memorable in a way that he had not anticipated.

When the final note faded, he felt a keen sense of something almost akin to disappointment. The hush that followed felt as profound as a prayer. Then came the applause, rising swiftly, fervently—yet Arthur did not join them at once. He stood motionless, his hands at his sides, his heart unaccountably loud in his chest.

Only when Abigail lowered her bow and offered a small, graceful curtsey did he permit himself to breathe.

It was then that she looked up—only for a heartbeat—but it was enough. Her eyes met his.

And in that glance, he felt seen. Not by society, not by the room, but by her —as though she had known all along what he was thinking, that he had been watching, that something within him had shifted. It was not triumph in her gaze, nor invitation. It was something quieter. Recognition, perhaps.

He looked away first.

Not because he was disinterested. But because the feeling was too much. Too sudden. Too dangerous.

***

Abigail returned to her seat, her cheeks flushed with the weight of the eyes on her, and the rapturous applause.

“I told you she was a wonderful performer,” Lady Maria asserted to the lady next to her and pointing to her little dog who had ceased its barking and finally curled up and gone to sleep.

Edward leaned toward Abigail almost immediately, his voice pitched low enough to seem intimate but loud enough to be heard by those nearby. “Exquisite,” he murmured, the word delivered with a touch of self-satisfaction, as though he were personally responsible for her performance.

Abigail gave a small, measured nod but did not meet his eye. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and turned her gaze toward the far end of the room, pretending to focus on the next performer preparing to take the stage. The music, she thought absently, would be another polite display. Another exercise in social choreography. She doubted she would remember a note of it.

In the row just behind, Arthur Beaumont shifted slightly in his chair. She turned her head, just enough to glance back toward him.

Their eyes met once again that evening.

There was no obvious expression on his face—no smile, no smirk, no teasing glint of amusement. Yet his gaze held something steady and curious, something that made her feel, for the first time that night, as though someone in the room wasn’t simply watching her but actually seeing her.

There was no gesture, no dramatic pause or deepening of breath, just the quiet acknowledgment of a truth neither of them had voiced. They did not belong here. Not fully. Not comfortably.

He looked away a moment later, and the moment passed as quietly as it had come.

Abigail sat back in her seat, the violin resting once again at her side. Around her, the hum of conversation resumed and the next performance began. Her mother leaned in to offer a rare word of praise, and Edward began to speak again—something about how the violin revealed refinement in a lady. She heard none of it.

Instead, she looked toward the far end of the room and focused on the flicker of candlelight reflected in the window glass.

The evening would continue, just as it always did. But something in her had shifted, and though she couldn’t yet name it, she knew it had little to do with the violin.

And even less to do with Lord Edward Colton.

And in that small, silent exchange, Abigail felt—for the first time that evening—a flicker of breath. Of air.

Of something real.