“Did you see—?”
“She nearly—”
“He caught her just in time—”
Bystanders stared, some wide-eyed, others whispering behind gloved hands. A woman clutched her chest in theatrical relief. Children pointed. The pottery vendor offered profuse apologies that Abigail barely heard. But the growing hum of attention fixed itself squarely upon the couple at the heart of the spectacle.
“She could’ve been crushed!”
“Lucky girl—Lord Beaumont caught her in the nick of time.”
“No ordinary rescue, that,” another whispered. “Quite the display—like something from a novel.”
Abigail felt her cheeks flame, not from fear but from the dozens of sets of eyes she could sense turning their way. And yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from Arthur.
Attempting to summon some composure, Abigail found her voice and thanked Arthur again.
“I am most grateful that you rescued me from becoming another fateful statistic to add to the many cautionary tales about inattentive ladies and pottery stalls. That was quite heroic, and the outcome could have been incredibly different without your assistance.”
A flicker of something passed across his face—amusement? Relief?
“It was hardly heroism,” he said, glancing briefly at the shattered remains of the vendor’s cart. “But I am grateful I was close enough to intervene. Just a case of being at the right place at the right time.”
Her lips parted, a witty retort forming—something to defuse the tension—but then came the sharp, familiar voice that cut through the crowd like a blade.
“Abigail!”
Lady Harriet Darlington, her bonnet askew and cheeks flushed from exertion, pushed through the growing cluster of onlookers, a half-crushed bouquet of orchids in one hand and her parasol in the other. Her sharp eyes took in the wreckage, the crowd, and—worst of all—her daughter standing far too close to Arthur Beaumont to be remotely proper, still visibly flustered and decidedly not accompanied by a chaperone.
The shock on her face was immediate, followed by something dangerously close to horror. Her mouth opened into a wide ‘O’, her eyes flicking between Abigail’s flushed cheeks and Arthur’s composed expression. She hastened forward, barely acknowledging the crushed pottery around their feet.
“What happened here?” she demanded. “Abigail, are you injured?”
Arthur took a careful step back, letting his hands fall to his sides, but not before ensuring Abigail was steady on her feet. She straightened slowly, her face flushed from more than just the near-disaster.
“No, Mama,” Abigail said, finding her voice again quickly. “It was a cart—the crates fell, and I was standing in the line of fire. Lord Beaumont… he prevented me from being struck. If not for him, I could have been badly hurt.”
Harriet turned her attention fully to Arthur now, offering a quick, practiced curtsy. “Lord Beaumont. I did not realiseyouwere in the area.”
Arthur, ever the gentleman, bowed with impeccable decorum. “Lady Harriet. I had no idea you and Miss Darlington were in the market this morning. “I came to collect some seedlings for the conservatory at Beaumont Manor. I was fortunate to be nearby at the right moment.”
Harriet’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the crowd, now dispersing slowly, many casting glances back at them. Her mouth formed a tight line.
“Yes, how… fortunate,” Harriet said tightly, forcing a smile. She swept her gaze once more over Abigail’s disheveled appearance, her hair had come loose under her bonnet and her gloves were dusted with dirt. “You must allow us to express our gratitude. Such bravery and presence of mind. Most commendable indeed.” Lady Harriet said.
Arthur inclined his head, though the praise made him visibly uncomfortable. He looked once more to Abigail, his expression softening—an unreadable glance that lingered a moment longer than it should have.
“I am relieved to see that you are unscathed, Miss Darlington,” he said.
“Thanks to you, my lord.” Abigail replied, her voice quiet but steady.
“I should be on my way,” Arthur said, more to Harriet than to her. “The vendor has my order somewhere behind all that chaos. If I linger too long, he’ll attempt to triple the price out of guilt or wounded pride.”
The remark, delivered with dry charm, earned a smattering of quiet laughter from the nearest bystanders.
He hesitated as though considering further speech, then gave another brief bow. “Good day, Lady Harriet. Miss Darlington. Have a pleasant visit.”
And with that, he turned and strode away, disappearing into the throng with the same calm grace with which he had appeared.
