Page 8 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The final chords of the last performance still lingered faintly in the air as the audience began to stir, the low rustle of silk and murmured conversation gradually replacing the measured stillness of polite attention.

As guests rose from their seats and filtered into smaller groups, the atmosphere shifted, becoming eager and expectant. The evening had resumed its more natural rhythm. Smiles were reapplied, champagne glasses refilled, alliances carefully tended in the flickering candlelight.

Arthur Beaumont remained seated a moment longer than the rest, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. He stared at the stage where Miss Abigail Darlington had performed with such poise and precision, though he suspected—no, he knew—it had cost her far more than it appeared.

His mother, Lady Gillian Beaumont, had already risen and was speaking animatedly to another matron nearby, her eyes scanning the crowd for suitable prospects. Arthur could see her calculating gaze sweep across the room like a general surveying a battlefield. He knew what was coming. She’d planned this evening with precision, and he would be expected to follow through. It had always been this way.

He stood slowly, smoothing the lapels of his coat as he prepared himself for the inevitable parade of introductions.

Within moments, Lady Gillian reappeared at his side with the well-practiced smile of a woman confident her offspring was about to be presented with the most dazzling of options. “Arthur,” she said with a slight tilt of her head, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Millicent Greystone. Her family owns the Greystone estate in Surrey—lovely countryside, you recall—and she is recently returned from a Season in Bath.”

Miss Greystone, a girl with honey-colored curls and an uncertain smile, curtsied prettily. She was perhaps nine and ten, maybe twenty at the most, with delicate features and wide, expectant eyes. Arthur bowed politely and began the conversation he had endured a dozen times already that Season.

—Indeed, the weather had been unusually fine.

—No, he hadn’t yet made plans for the summer.

—Yes, the musical program this evening had been quite enjoyable.

—Indeed, Miss Greystone played the harp. Her mother insisted it was an invaluable talent for any well-bred lady.

As she prattled on, he found his gaze wandering. He located Abigail again almost instinctively. She stood near her mother and Lord Edward Colton, the latter of whom was monopolizing the space between them with an unrelenting display of flattery and no concept of personal space.

Colton was leaning far too close, his expression more possessive than admiring, and Arthur saw the way Abigail subtly leaned away from him, her smile thinned to its most practiced form.

He was speaking with great animation—gesturing far too grandly, smiling too broadly, and leaning far too close. His posture, Arthur noted with narrowed eyes, was not the idle slouch of a gentleman in light conversation, but the forward encroachment of a man used to taking liberties he believed would go unchallenged. There was something almost proprietary in the angle of his stance, in the way his gloved hand brushed the air near Abigail’s wrist, as though testing the boundaries of decorum and assuming they would yield.

Arthur’s jaw tensed.

Colton had always struck him as the sort of man who cultivated charm as a smokescreen for entitlement. Polished enough to gain entrance anywhere, but with little beneath the surface beyond self-interest and practiced pleasantries. He was the type who mistook persistence for appeal and assumed the absence of rejection was tantamount to consent.

And Abigail—Abigail, who had stood so fearlessly before a room full of people only an hour ago—was now offering him a smile so precisely measured it might have been drawn with a ruler. There was no warmth in it, only the semblance of civility.

Arthur saw the way she leaned slightly away from Colton, the subtle shift of her weight toward her mother. It was a retreat disguised as poise, the same technique Eliza had once employed at the height of her first Season, when cornered by a Viscount with breath that smelled of pickled walnuts.

Arthur’s fingers curled into a fist at his side.

He had no right to intervene. No claim, no promise. Abigail was not his to guard.

And yet, a dark, unwelcome heat rose in his chest. He knew jealousy when it came for lesser men—but he had never expected it to come for him . Not like this. Not over her.

He reminded himself that Colton had done nothing wrong—nothing anyone else would find objectionable, at least not aloud. His flattery was effusive, indeed, and his presence overbearing, but such behavior was well within the bounds of what society deemed acceptable courtship.

Any protest Arthur might make would be seen as possessiveness, or worse—rivalry. A rivalry he had no intention of declaring, even if it burned behind his ribcage with unwelcome intensity.

Still, his gaze remained fixed.

Not on Colton, but on her.

Abigail, who continued to endure the man’s attentions with all the grace of a diplomat weathering a tedious alliance. Abigail, whose dignity held under the strain of proximity she had clearly not invited.

Arthur saw it all.

And in seeing, he understood something uncomfortably clear. If he did not act—if he allowed others to crowd the space he had too long left vacant—then the loss would be his to bear, and his alone.

But still he stood rooted, silent, watching her from across the room.

Because courage, in matters of the heart, was altogether more demanding than the battlefield of conversation.

Arthur returned his attention to Miss Greystone, who had now launched into a comparison between Bath’s social whirl and that of London.

“You’ll forgive me,” he said with a faint smile and a measured bow, “it was delightful to speak with you, Miss Greystone, but I must pay my respects to Lady Maria before she is overwhelmed.”

Miss Greystone looked slightly disappointed but curtsied again, and Lady Gillian gave him a look that clearly conveyed this is not over.

He had made a clean escape. Or at least that’s what he thought.

Lady Gillian Beaumont was in her element.

Arthur had barely finished exchanging pleasantries with Miss Greystone before another young lady was ushered in his direction—this one introduced with the particular flourish his mother reserved for what she deemed an especially worthy candidate.

“Miss Honoria Denby,” Lady Gillian declared, “the daughter of Sir Thomas Denby, whom I’m sure you recall from last summer’s garden party at Chiswell Park.”

Arthur bowed politely as the girl curtsied. Miss Denby had an eager smile and an unfortunate habit of blinking rapidly whenever spoken to, as though preparing herself to be dazzled by whatever was said next. She wore a gown of pale mauve and carried a small embroidered reticule that she clutched with both hands like a lifeline.

“We were just discussing the botanical gardens,” she said, once the initial courtesies were exchanged. “Have you visited the new conservatory at Kew, Lord Beaumont? I daresay it is quite the marvel. The orchids alone—”

She faltered briefly, clearly uncertain whether orchids were a suitably refined topic.

“I’ve not had the pleasure,” Arthur said smoothly.

“Oh, you really must,” she went on, undeterred. “I found it terribly romantic, though of course I was with my aunt at the time. Not that she isn’t a dear, but she’s dreadfully inclined to speak of plant species as if they were acquaintances.”

Arthur smiled with just the right amount of amusement and said nothing.

Miss Denby prattled on for several more minutes, during which Arthur learned the names of no fewer than three orchid varieties and one regrettable detail about her cousin’s fainting episode in a hothouse. At the first available pause, he offered a gentle bow and extricated himself, only to be intercepted before he had taken two steps.

“Arthur, dearest,” Lady Gillian said, appearing at his elbow with uncanny speed, “you must speak with Miss Rosalind Perrin. Her mother and I were at school together. Her family has estates in Hampshire, and she speaks Italian quite fluently.”

“I see,” Arthur murmured, resigned.

Miss Perrin approached with a serene expression and a clear, polished accent that she wasted no time in demonstrating. Within moments she was quoting lines of Petrarch—first in Italian, then in English, then again in Italian—while Arthur stood motionless, his expression carefully neutral.

Her father, he learned, had been an amateur composer. Her mother excelled in watercolors. Her brother had once studied astronomy, but now bred horses instead.

He felt as though he were reviewing a recommendation.

“And I quite adore Voltaire,” Miss Perrin added. “Though I’m told some find him too... French.”

Arthur’s jaw twitched ever so slightly. “Indeed.”

When she finally stepped away, flushed with the triumph of having conversed at length with a Viscount, Arthur exhaled slowly, barely resisting the urge to run a hand down his face.

This was not conversation. It was audition.

Lady Gillian was waiting again, this time with an expression of steely purpose. “You are doing well,” she said in a low voice, as if they were at war and he had successfully captured a trench. “But do remember that appearances matter. Lingering too long with any one young lady—”

“…will only encourage speculation,” he finished for her. “Yes, Mother. I am well aware. I have read the script.”

He did not wait for her next recommendation, but he didn’t need to for he was suddenly stopped in his tracks by none other than Lady Agatha Fenchurch, whose mother practically shoved her into his arms.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Fenchurch,” Arthur said, knowing full well that he had no reason to apologize as he righted the young lady and stepped back to allow an appropriate amount of space between them once again.

“Oh, no,” Miss Fenchurch replied, pressing her hand to her chest in mock sincerity in a way that suggested she hadn’t employed this little trick countless times before. “It is me who has always been so clumsy.”

Before he had chance to escape, Lady Agatha Fenchurch launched into an unwanted and wholly uninvited tale in which she recounted, in excruciating detail, an unfortunate incident involving a flaming syllabub, a startled soprano, and a very affronted parrot.

Arthur managed a polite nod at what he hoped was an appropriate interval. She prattled on, undeterred by his silence, her voice rising and falling like a poorly tuned harpsichord. He had no true stake in the tale—nor, if he were honest, in the company.

His attention drifted. It was not intentional. He had long since mastered the art of appearing engaged while thinking of something—or someone—entirely different.

His gaze sought Abigail again, almost instinctively, as if drawn by some internal compass he could neither explain nor silence. She stood near her mother now, composed and gracious as ever, but her presence was unmistakably altered in his eyes since the performance.

The memory of her music still echoed faintly in his ears, and for a moment, he looked at her not as society saw her, but as she had allowed herself to be seen on that dais—brilliant, unscripted, and unknowingly disarming.

“Do forgive me, Lady Fenchurch,” Arthur began, reaching desperately for an excuse that never came. “I really must be… elsewhere.”

And with that, he turned swiftly on his heel, ignoring the look of faint alarm that crossed her face as another young lady with an unfortunate overbite attempted to draw his attention without success.

He moved toward the side of the room with practiced grace, dodging familiar faces, and brushing off small talk with diplomatic nods. His patience—as always a thin veneer when it came to matchmaking—had worn itself down to threads. The more he was paraded, the more he was polished and presented like a well-bred stallion at Tattersalls, the more a low thrum of resistance coiled in his chest.

He needed air.

He needed silence.

He needed five consecutive minutes without being asked what qualities he admired in a future Viscountess. At that precise moment, he didn’t wish to see another female for the rest of the evening.

Navigating the edge of the ballroom, Arthur moved with deliberate ease, pausing once or twice to acknowledge acquaintances, but never lingering. The sheer press of conversation around him—idle, strategic, rehearsed—was like a physical weight.

He stepped through the tall French doors leading onto the terrace, exhaling slowly as he emerged into the cool night. His escape to the terrace felt like a prison break. The moment the French doors closed behind him and the cooler night air brushed his skin, he exhaled—deeply, audibly, like a man surfacing after being submerged too long.

The air out here was crisp and damp, scented with lilac and early roses from the garden below. The soft glow of lanterns hung along the balustrade, casting golden pools of light against the stone. The murmurs of the party faded into a muted hum behind him.

Arthur took a deep, cleansing breath, relieved to be rid of small talk, dull conversations, and the effort of pretending to care.

And that’s when he saw her—Abigail Darlington, standing by a column, half-shrouded by shadow.

Her posture was still, her back straight, her hands clasped loosely before her. She hadn’t noticed him yet. There was a stillness to her that struck him—not the false composure of the ballroom, but something more stripped bare. It was, he thought, the first time he’d seen her simply exist, unobserved. He revised his previous opinion about not wanting to see all ladies for the rest of the evening.

Not wanting to startle her, he cleared his throat softly.

She turned, her shoulders tightening briefly—then easing as her gaze met his.

“Lord Beaumont,” she said, her voice quiet but even.

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, approaching with measured steps. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I had hoped for a moment of air myself.”

Her lips curved slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “There seems to be a shortage of it indoors. I can absent myself if you’d prefer some space.”

He stopped beside her, noting the bored-looking footman at the doors to the ballroom—feeling relieved that he wouldn’t accidentally find himself caught up in a scandal for being outside with a young lady—but still keeping a respectful distance.

He didn’t want to appear too close to Miss Darlington, but neither did he want any conversation overheard and relayed to the wrong ears. He lowered his volume accordingly.

“Not at all. I’m surprised there aren’t more of us out here. It is becoming rather claustrophobic in there.”

The garden beyond the balustrade was lush and still, moonlight gleaming on the dewy leaves. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“I have no doubt you have heard this countless times this evening, Miss Darlington, but I must commend you on an absolutely stunning performance tonight.” Arthur said plainly. “I am not easily moved by events such as these, and classical music rarely moves me, but that was quite extraordinary.”

The comment sounded hollow, even to his own ears, although he meant every word.

Then, after a pause, Abigail spoke quietly, only for the benefit of Arthur’s ears. “I do not enjoy performing.”

Arthur glanced at her in profile. “No?”

She shook her head. “It is expected, and so I do it. But I find no pleasure in displaying myself for others’ approval.”

He considered this. “That puts you in rather exclusive company.”

She turned to look at him directly now, her brows slightly raised in a question.

“I meant,” he said, “that most people here seem to thrive on precisely that kind of display. To admit one finds it tedious is almost heresy.”

“Then call me a heretic,” she replied, her tone light but laced with truth.

Arthur smiled faintly. “There is no judgment from me I assure you,” he offered. “It would seem we are of the same thinking. It’s nice to find a kindred spirit.”

A silence settled between them, companionable this time. Something in the way she held herself—upright, composed—spoke of quiet frustration, but without the usual dramatics and hysteria many young women of the ton seemed to employ. She did not seem particularly melancholic. Simply… exhausted.

“I suppose,” she said at last, “you’ve had your fill of the evening’s introductions? I think the mothers of the ton are taken aside at a certain age and taught how to live vicariously through their offspring’s lives… mainly by interfering. My mother seems to positively thrive on the ‘project’ of finding me a viable match.”

Abigail immediately realized that she had spoken out of turn, but for some reason, she felt as if she were on safe territory with Lord Beaumont—almost as if she could speak to him as freely as she did with Charles.

He huffed a soft breath of amusement. “My mother has introduced me to several charming young ladies, most with excellent teeth, and an encyclopedic knowledge of their own dowries. I’m afraid I made my escape before being cornered by a third mention of travelling to Bath, or asked to define my favourite orchid, or hearing one more ghastly made-up story for effect. Until tonight, I had no idea there were so many varieties of orchids. Nor, I must admit, did I care.”

Abigail laughed—an honest sound, brief but real—and he felt something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. Not desire, not admiration. Something quieter. Something akin to recognition. He liked her spirit, and appreciated her candor.

“They are all here for the same reason,” Abigail said, looking back toward the house. “To be chosen. To secure a future. Some of them even believe the men they’re being paraded in front of might offer them happiness.”

“And you?”

She paused. “Call me a miserable cynic, but I remain skeptical. I very much doubt happiness can be negotiated via a dance card. My mother would be mortified if she’d overheard that, but I believe it to be reasonably accurate. I used to enjoy the dancing, but even that has become tiresome this Season.”

Arthur nodded slowly in understanding, then asked, “What would you choose, if not this?”

Abigail’s eyes met his. “A reprieve. From the performance. From being angled and arranged to behave like this, to sit this way, and speak to others only when invited about specific topics which do not interest me in the slightest. I am tired of being a performer.”

The words struck deeper than he expected.

She studied him for a moment. “I think you understand that better than most. I just don’t understand the rush. Surely if we are we are going to be partnered off, it should happen naturally without so much falsity.”

He did not answer immediately. Then, softly, he said, “I have been on display since I was old enough to speak in full sentences. My mother believes it is my duty to be admired. Not for me, of course—but for what I represent. Contrary to popular belief, I am not remotely a fan of being the center of attention.”

Abigail’s gaze did not waver. “That does sound rather exhausting.”

“It is,” he admitted.

Another peaceful moment of quiet passed between them. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted sweetly on the air. The faint strains of a waltz were just beginning again inside. Abigail calculated how long she might have before someone came to claim her for the next dance. The evening was still young and her feet were already tired.

Then, suddenly, she suggested it, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “What if there were a different way?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I have an idea.”

He turned slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s entirely pragmatic,” she replied. “We are both suffering from unwanted attention—from suitors, from mothers, from society. I propose we give them what they want.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly.

“A courtship,” she clarified. “Only, not in the manner they expect. A false one.”

His expression did not change, but something sharpened in his eyes. And then he considered that she might be jesting and he began to laugh. When he looked up at her, she wasn’t smiling. “You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“For what purpose?”

She stepped a little closer, her voice lower now. “To be left alone. If the ton believes I am courting you, then I can but pray that Lord Colton will move on. Believe me, that cannot happen quickly enough. My mother will feel she has accomplished something, and hopefully lose some of her urgency. You, I imagine, will have fewer debutantes reciting poetry at you or boring you about the weather.”

Arthur said nothing for a long moment. Her suggestion was so audacious, so thoroughly unexpected—and yet, so curiously sound.

“You believe the deception would work?”

Abigail’s mouth quirked. “The ton is far more interested in appearances than truth. If we are seen together—at the park, at a dinner or two—society will take the hint. We needn’t be too dramatic about it. A subtle understanding is all that would be required. Once the seeds of suggestion are planted, mayhap we will be granted some reprieve from the utter madness of the Season.”

Arthur studied her for signs of madness or perhaps the early signs of intoxication. She stood steady, her eyes bright with determination. She wasn’t being flirtatious or manipulative. If anything, she seemed completely resigned to the fact that she had no other way out. The thought made him feel rather sad.

“I know it sounds quite mad. I assure you there would be no emotional entanglement expected,” she added. “No pretenses beyond what society demands. I won’t expect declarations, flowers, or gifts. We would just need to give each other a little of our time. Be present at social gatherings—as we would likely have to be in any case.”

He smiled, despite himself. “That is very reassuring.”

“Think of it as a ceasefire,” she said. “Between two reluctant players in a very foolish game. It would be simple,” she said. “Convincing enough to be effective, discreet enough not to invite scandal. A few appearances together. A carefully worded remark or two.”

Arthur studied her in the low light, his brow furrowed, the flicker of candlelight from the ballroom gilding her features in soft gold. She looked calm—controlled, even—but he had come to recognize the difference between composure and peace. There was a quiet urgency beneath her words. Not desperation, but resolve. She had been trying to find a way out of the deadlock, and this seemed like the only option.

Still, he hesitated.

He looked away for a moment, toward the garden.

He should refuse. The entire idea was mad. And yet…

He thought again of Miss Greystone’s affected giggle. Of his mother’s relentless press of expectations. Of the quiet, infuriating sense of being cornered.

A false courtship. A constructed narrative, one designed to deceive the very people who had spent their lives constructing facades of their own. It was clever. Practical. Entirely logical.

“I understand if it seems preposterous,” she said, misinterpreting his silence. “But I would rather attempt something preposterous than sit through another dinner beside Lord Edward Colton while he waxes lyrical about his bloodline and his prize horses.”

Arthur huffed a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.

“It’s not the idea I object to,” he said slowly.

She tilted her head. “Then what is it?”

He looked away for a moment, toward the balustrade and the garden beyond, its shadows softened by moonlight.

“I’m simply not in the habit of being proposed to on other people’s terraces,” he said dryly.

Abigail’s lips twitched. “Consider it a symptom of the Season.”

His gaze returned to her—level, unreadable.

“I’ll need to think about it,” he said at last.

She gave a slight nod, her expression a blank canvas. “Of course.”

He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. But Abigail didn’t flinch, didn’t press. She only nodded once, measured and calm, though something in her expression flickered—was it relief? Disappointment? Or merely acceptance that he would probably turn the offer down?

Neither of them moved. The air between them, fresh and lightly perfumed with jasmine, hummed with the unspoken weight of everything they could not say. Beyond the glass doors, laughter rose and fell in polished waves, the music inside shifting to another waltz, bright and lilting. It sounded impossibly far away.

Arthur’s gaze drifted to the shadows of the garden, the curling paths and clipped hedges lit softly by moonlight. “You know,” he said after a moment, “there was a time when I believed courtship could be something sincere. Not strategic. Not... manipulated.”

“And now?” she asked.

“I’ve been disabused of the notion.”

She looked away, her fingers toying with the edge of her shawl. “I’m not asking for sincerity, Lord Beaumont. Only for freedom.”

He turned toward her more fully then, studying the lines of her face—noticed the faint crease of tension near her brow, the way her lips pressed together just a little too tightly. She was composed, indeed. But beneath it all, she was tired. Of the charade. The scrutiny. The endless pretense.

So was he.

They stood in silence, not awkward, but tentative—balanced on the edge of a strange precipice.

Abigail didn’t fidget, and didn’t press him further. She simply allowed the silence to exist between them, and somehow, he appreciated her more for it. She had made her proposal with clarity and logic, but beneath the composure, he sensed something deeper. A quiet strength. A refusal to surrender to the machinery of expectation.

He hadn’t expected that from her. And now, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

***

The silence between them stretched—not heavy, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. The kind of silence that lingered when two minds were turning over the same question from opposite sides.

Abigail kept her gaze trained on the neat hedgerows beyond the terrace, their edges softened by moonlight. The garden below looked peaceful, undisturbed by the social storm humming inside the walls they’d left behind. Here, there were no questions, no expectations, no tightly managed smiles or watching eyes. Just the faint rustle of leaves and the quiet presence of the man standing beside her.

She could feel Arthur’s attention even without looking at him. A subtle shift of energy. He hadn’t moved since she’d spoken—not toward her, not away—but there was something alert in the way he stood. Listening. Thinking. Weighing his options.

She dared a glance sideways.

He was watching her, as she suspected, but not in the way other men did—not the way Lord Colton did, with entitlement and expectation, nor with the vague admiration of well-meaning suitors. Arthur’s gaze was sharper, more curious. His expression gave very little away, yet there was an intensity in his stillness that made her pulse tick just a little faster.

His eyes searched her face, not for vanity’s sake, but with consideration. As though he were studying a chessboard and she had just moved a knight somewhere unexpected.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice low and thoughtful, “I must confess, Miss Darlington… your proposal is not what I anticipated when I stepped out here this evening.”

Her lips twitched. “It would hardly be effective if it were.”

That earned a quiet snort of amusement from him, a mere breath, but genuine.

He turned slightly, one hand slipping into the pocket of his waistcoat as he looked back out over the gardens. “It’s bold,” he said. “Strategic. And… rather inspired.”

Abigail tilted her head. “But?”

Arthur’s mouth curved into a half-smile, though his eyes remained distant. “But it is also dangerously clever. And clever things, Miss Darlington, have a way of slipping beyond the bounds of their original design.”

She watched him carefully. “You’re concerned.”

“I’m… aware,” he replied, “of how easily performance can blur with reality. Even when intentions are perfectly managed.”

Something about his tone was guarded. Not cold, exactly—but deliberately restrained. She wondered what memories he was protecting. What unnamed ghosts had made him so cautious.

Still, he looked back at her then, and there was something in his expression—something like respect.

“I won’t deny the appeal,” he said. “The freedom, the convenience. The blessed relief from matchmaking matrons and unsolicited admiration. It’s tempting.”

Abigail kept her features neutral, though her heart gave a hopeful beat. “Tempting enough?”

He studied her for another moment, and then, with the faintest incline of his head, he said, “Yes.”

She blinked.

“Yes?”

“I accept,” he said, his voice measured, pragmatic. “On the condition that we are clear about its nature from the start. This is a practical arrangement. A social alliance. Nothing more.”

Her breath caught—not from disappointment, but from relief. “Naturally,” she said quickly. “I never intended anything else.”

He nodded once. “Very well.”

A strange sensation fluttered in her chest—something between triumph and disbelief. She had done it. Somehow, impossibly, she had taken control of her own circumstances, had found a way to protect herself from the suffocating attentions of Edward, from her mother’s endless maneuvering, from the whole exhausting charade.

And Arthur Beaumont—stoic, intelligent, emotionally impenetrable Arthur—was to be her unlikely accomplice.

She almost smiled.

“I suggest,” she said, “we begin with subtle appearances. A few conversations in public. Perhaps a promenade in Hyde Park, and a dance at Lady Renley’s ball next week.”

Arthur made a sound of agreement. “Nothing too overt. Enough to encourage speculation but avoid scandal.”

“Exactly.”

He glanced at her. “We’ll need a story. A believable point of connection.”

“We met at the Fairchild ball,” she offered. “You rescued me from the cart accident.”

“An act of heroism, indeed.”

She gave a soft laugh, and to her surprise, he smiled in return—brief but unmistakable.

“And,” he added, “we must have an exit strategy.”

Abigail blinked. “An exit strategy?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone firm. “We agree now, at the beginning, how this ends. To avoid complications later.”

She nodded slowly, his caution not unreasonable. “A summer romance, perhaps. Rumours of a mutual cooling of affections by the end of the Season. A dignified separation.”

“Precisely.”

There was a pause, both of them silently reviewing the terms of their agreement. It felt more like a business arrangement than anything romantic—which suited Abigail perfectly. She had no interest in opening her heart. Not anymore. This was about freedom. Not attachment.

Arthur turned to face her more fully, one hand extended between them. “Then it is arranged.”

She looked down at his hand, gloved, steady, and waiting.

With equal steadfastness, she placed her own in his.

Their fingers met and held—briefly, politely. But something passed between them. A flicker of awareness. A jolt of contact that neither of them had anticipated. Not attraction, necessarily. Not tenderness. But a sense of shared purpose, and understanding.

Abigail withdrew her hand first, quickly, masking the faint flutter in her chest.

Arthur cleared his throat softly. “Shall we?”

She glanced toward the ballroom. “Not yet,” she said. “Just… one more moment.”

The footman that was a little further away had left and being alone made Arthur nervous, thinking of the scandal if they were seen alone but he didn’t argue. He stood beside her in silence, allowing her this pause.

They remained beneath the shadowed arch of the terrace, the world of society humming just out of reach, their pact sealed not with affection, but with mutual need. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even friendship.

It was something else entirely.

But, whatever it was—they were in it together.