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 Beaumonthad 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.
