Page 9 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

The morning dawned pale and sharp, the sort of uncertain spring day that had not yet made up its mind between warmth and chill. A fine mist clung to the chimneys and rooftops of Mayfair like a silken veil, the cobblestones below slick with dew, glinting faintly beneath the reluctant rays of a sun still cloaked in the silver gauze of early light.

From the high windows of Beaumont Manor, the view stretched across a quiet, cobbled street slowly rousing from slumber—servants emerging from shopkeepers’ doors, chimney smoke curling lazily into the sky, the soft clatter of hooves announcing the first stirrings of polite society.

Arthur Beaumont stood in the stillness of his study, the most masculine of sanctuaries, surrounded by the rich scent of leather-bound volumes and aged mahogany. The fire in the grate had been reduced to a soft glow, its purpose more for ambiance than heat, but the coals still cast a gentle flicker of warmth across the hearthrug. Above the mantel, an oil painting of his grandfather stared down with solemnity. An eternally stark reminder of past generations, his legacy, and the weight of duty—not that it was ever required.

As always, he had dressed with care, though not with ceremony. His cravat had been tied precisely, his coat brushed and fastened with mechanical ease. His gloves—soft grey leather, stitched along the seams by his valet’s meticulous hand—rested in one palm as he gazed down at the courtyard below. There, the sleek, dark-green carriage bearing the Beaumont crest stood at attention, its lacquered surface reflecting the morning haze, its pair of bays snorting softly as they stamped their hooves in readiness. Everything was prepared.

And yet, he lingered.

The study, so often a place of logic and order, felt unusually still. His desk, neatly stacked with correspondence and ledgers, offered no distraction from the quiet tumult within. Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines a familiar chorus of history, philosophy, and politics—testaments to the education he had received and the man he was expected to be. And still, none of it provided the clarity he sought.

Today marked the beginning of something wholly unfamiliar.

Today marked the beginning of their theatrics. A fiction, yes—but not for the benefit of art or intellect. Rather, it was one that required the full force of social performance. A false courtship. A calculated deception—a carefully plotted alliance to hold at bay the relentlessly invasive scrutiny of the ton, the expectations of mothers and matrons.

A ploy to ease their mothers’ meddling and the predatory interest of young women coached into believing a title was more valuable than character. It was a lie. A charade. Although it wasn’t entirely disingenuous.

He liked Miss Abigail Darlington.

There was something in her manner that lingered in his thoughts far longer than he liked to admit. A peculiar blend of composure and candor, intelligence and reserve. She had surprised him that night on the terrace—not only with her proposal, audacious as it had been, but with the frankness in her voice, the almost painful honesty in her eyes. There had been no coquetry, no affectation. Just a shared weariness and a strange, tentative alliance forged not by affection, but by mutual empathy.

It should have been simple. Strategic. But Arthur, who prided himself on clarity, on maintaining control in every social interaction, found himself off-kilter in her company.

There was a spark in her conversation, a quickness of mind that made the usual pleasantries feel absurdly hollow. He had not anticipated that. Nor had he anticipated the peculiar flicker of warmth that rose in his chest when he remembered the press of her gloved hand against his, or the arch of her brow when she jested with her dry wit.

Although it would likely be a vast improvement on his mother’s oppressive matchmaking, and the endless string of debutantes desperate to make his acquaintance, it would be tiring in a different way. Indeed, Miss Darlington and he had a shared understanding, but he was under no illusion that keeping up the charade of a feigned courtship wouldn’t come with challenges and tedium of its own.

Arthur had agreed to it with every intention of maintaining firm control over the terms. He had meant every word of caution he’d offered on the terrace. And yet, as he straightened his cuffs with practiced care, he couldn’t deny the subtle thrum of anticipation that accompanied his movements.

Was it anticipation that he felt? Excitement that if they could pull off this ruse, they would be able to navigate this Season without further interruption from well-meaning but overbearing family members? There was something rather intriguing about the secrecy, and he couldn’t help but feel thrilled by such clandestine behaviors. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in his life for quite some time.

He told himself it was the novelty of the arrangement. Nothing more.

He turned from the window, the light catching faintly at his temples where the earliest threads of silver had begun to glint amongst the darker strands of his hair. He crossed the study and paused before the hearth, resting one hand lightly against the back of an armchair. The fire burnt softly.

It was the right decision. He was certain of it. The benefits were clear. Abigail would gain reprieve from the overbearing attentions of Colton and her mother’s matrimonial ambitions; he would gain sanctuary from his own parade of insipid debutantes and his mother’s unsubtle matchmaking efforts. There would be expectations to manage, certainly—glances to endure, appearances to maintain—but they would be on their own terms.

And yet, some part of him bristled at the ease with which this pretense could slide into something more dangerous.

Not because he mistrusted Abigail. On the contrary, her very frankness was what made the arrangement bearable. But the risk lay within himself—the disquieting possibility that pretending might begin to feel too comfortable. Too natural. That he might look forward to their public engagements for reasons not rooted in strategy, but in the pleasure of her company. And what then?

No, he had to remain vigilant. This was a masquerade, nothing more. They had agreed. No entanglements. No pretenses beyond what society required. A fiction, as deftly told as any novel, and one with a closing chapter already determined.

He drew in a slow breath, released it, and slid his gloves over his hands with a precise tug at each wrist.

It was time.

Arthur Beaumont reminded himself of one essential truth. He had chosen this. And he had never yet allowed emotion—of any kind—to derail a plan once set in motion.

“Is that your determined expression or your funeral face?” came Eliza’s voice from the doorway, lilting with amusement as she buttoned her coat.

Arthur glanced up, not surprised to see his sister already dressed and entirely too pleased with herself. She wore a soft green day dress and an impish smile, her eyes dancing with curiosity.

“Is there a difference?” he replied dryly.

She swept into the room and inspected him with a theatrical air. “Oh, it’s your reluctant suitor face. Very proper. You’ll terrify the entire Darlington household.”

“I’d prefer not to terrify anyone,” Arthur murmured.

“You’re not fooling me,” she said, linking her arm through his. “You agreed to this plan because you find her interesting.”

He gave her a look. “I agreed because it was a sensible solution to an absurd problem.”

“Mmm. And because Miss Darlington is, in your own words—how did you put it? ‘Not inclined to sentimental drivel.’”

“That remains one of her finer qualities,” Arthur replied as they descended the stairs. “Now then, shall we?”

At the foot of the stairs, a footman opened the front door, and the siblings stepped into the cool morning air.

The truth, of course, was more complicated. He did find Abigail interesting. Not in the way society expected—there was no infatuation, no romantic fluttering—but rather a reluctant admiration for her intelligence, her candor, her unwillingness to conform. She was, like him, a creature apart. And that made her a rare and curious presence in his world.

The carriage awaited.

Arthur helped Eliza inside first, then followed, seating himself opposite her as the door closed behind them. As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, he settled into the familiar rhythm of the journey—cobblestones beneath the wheels, the gentle sway of the carriage’s movement. He glanced once more at Eliza, who was watching him with barely concealed interest.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Arthur remarked.

“I can’t help it,” she replied with a grin. “You, embarking on a courtship—even a fabricated one—is more thrilling than any novel I’ve read this year.”

“It’s a performance, Eliza. Nothing more.”

“Precisely why it’s so entertaining. You and Miss Darlington engaging in such dalliance? Society would scarcely know how to comport itself.”

Arthur said nothing, but his expression must have betrayed something, because her jesting gaze softened.

“You like her,” she said more gently. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

He didn’t answer. Not because she was wrong, but because he wasn’t entirely sure what ‘like’ meant in this context. He respected Abigail. Admired her composure. Trusted her to keep her word. But affection? Emotion?

That was territory he’d long since walled off.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the passing scenery—the morning bustle of London life unfolding beyond the carriage windows. Flower girls arranging blooms on street corners, delivery carts clattering down narrow lanes, the rising chatter of market stalls being set up for the day.

They arrived at the Darlington townhouse shortly after ten.

The coachman pulled the horses to a smooth stop, and Arthur descended first, turning to offer his hand to Eliza. Together, they approached the front door, their steps measured and deliberate, the picture of composed civility.

As the door was opened by the Darlington butler, Arthur inclined his head slightly. “Lord Beaumont and Miss Eliza Beaumont, calling on Miss Darlington.”

The butler bowed and stepped aside. “This way, my lord.”

They were shown into the drawing room—a gracious space furnished in tasteful creams and rosewood, with a faint scent of violets lingering in the air. The fire burned low but steady, and morning light filtered through tall windows, catching on the polished surfaces of golden metal-framed mirrors and the edges of gilded picture frames.

Harriet Darlington rose as they entered, her expression polite, though tinged with something cooler than mere formality.

“Lord Beaumont,” she said with a smile that didn’t seem entirely genuine. “And Miss Beaumont. What a pleasant surprise.”

Arthur bowed. “Lady Darlington. Thank you for receiving us. Most kind of you.”

Abigail stood near the window, her back straight, her gown a pale lavender that caught the light with every movement. She turned at the sound of his voice, her expression composed, her eyes alert. There was no hesitation in her manner, no sign of uncertainty—only the quiet calculation of someone preparing to step onto a carefully marked stage.

“Lord Beaumont,” she said warmly. “Miss Beaumont. What a pleasure.”

The words were perfectly pitched. Her smile demure but not insipid. Arthur felt, absurdly, as though they were about to enact a scene from a play—one they had rehearsed only in theory, never in practice.

Lady Harriet gestured for them to sit. “May I offer you some tea, or perhaps chocolate? Cook has prepared fresh cakes as well.”

Arthur took the nearest armchair, Eliza perching beside him. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we won’t keep you long. I’ve called to invite Miss Darlington for a carriage ride through the park. I thought, given the fine weather, it might be agreeable.”

Lady Harriet’s brows lifted ever so slightly, the gesture small but telling. She had not expected this. Not from him . Neither did she appear overly thrilled about the idea.

“That sounds delightful. I should be glad of the air.” Abigail replied.

Arthur stood as she approached, offering his arm. She took it without hesitation, her touch light but confident.

Harriet’s gaze flicked between them, clearly attempting to decipher the precise nature of this development. Her voice, when she spoke again, was carefully neutral.

“I shall expect you home before luncheon, my dear.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Arthur inclined his head once more, then turned toward the door, Abigail on his arm, Eliza just behind. “I will deliver her back to you safely, Lady Harriet. I promise I won’t keep her for too long.”

They walked in silence through the hall, the footman opening the door ahead of them. Arthur felt the subtle shift in posture as Abigail squared her shoulders, and the brief inhale she took before stepping into the morning light.

He helped her into the carriage with the same ease as if he’d done so a hundred times before, though the feel of her gloved hand in his was still unfamiliar.

Once seated, the carriage began to roll forward.

Eliza, still smiling faintly, struck up a benign conversation about the trees beginning to bloom in Hyde Park, giving them cover as the vehicle pulled away from the Darlington residence.

Arthur let the rhythm of the wheels soothe his thoughts.

So far, their performance was flawless, but Eliza wasn’t the one who needed convincing.

Beneath the surface of every gesture, and every word, lay the awareness that this was only the beginning, and somehow, they had to keep it up.