Abigail Darlington.
He remembered the feel of her in his arms—unexpectedly slight, yet solid, her breath catching against his shoulder. Her eyes had met his with such unguarded clarity that it had left him momentarily speechless, suspended in a world that had narrowed to just the two of them, framed by shards of pots and stunned onlookers.
He had told himself it was nothing. A fluke. Circumstance. He had done what any gentleman would have done.
And yet…
“You’re still frowning,” James observed, leaning forward to top off his glass from a shared decanter. “You’ve that look about you. The one you wear when trying to convince yourself you feel absolutely nothing about something you very clearly do.”
Arthur exhaled slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Am I being ridiculous?” James’s tone was light, but his gaze sharpened. “The ton certainly doesn’t think so. I’ve heard no fewer than three versions of the tale already—each more dramatic than the last. In one, you wrestled a horse to save her. In another, you carried her bodily from the wreckage of the market.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Ludicrous.”
“Mayhap. By tomorrow, it might involve wrestling bears to the ground. But this is London. Reputation is built on far less than a near-embrace in Covent Garden.” James swirled his glass idly. “And you are a Viscount. She is a lady. A moment, witnessed by enough mouths, becomes a legacy before dusk falls.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “It was an accident.”
James nodded, unbothered. “And yet, appearances matter. Especially when the lady in question is Miss Abigail Darlington—already whispered about as ‘spirited’ and ‘unconventional’.”
Arthur scoffed, but James pressed on. “I am merely suggesting you consider the implications. You know how this city operates—idle tongues wag, reputations shatter. If you do not control the narrative, someone else will write it for you.”
Arthur’s fingers tightened around his glass.
He had spent years constructing a fortress of detachment around himself—walls built from logic, routine, and quiet disdain for society’s foolishness. But one slip, one unexpected moment of intimacy in the middle of a flower stall, and that fortress had cracked.
And yet, hadn’t the first fissures appeared long ago?
He thought suddenly of Sophia Carter.
Of her laughter—the way it used to float over his shoulder like something enchanted. Of the nights they had stood too close by candlelight, trading glances heavy with unsaid promises. And then, of the cold clarity that had come when, out of the blue, she accepted another man’s proposal—one with a greater title, a larger fortune.
He had been young. Foolish. He had believed in something deeper than arrangement.
And he had been proven wrong.
Since then, he had trusted no one.
“Have you spoken to her?” James asked gently.
Arthur shook his head. “There was nothing to say. I left as soon as decorum allowed.”
“Ah, yes,” James murmured, “decorum—the great shield of cowards and cynics.”
Arthur smirked, despite himself.
“Touché.”
They lapsed into silence for a time, the fire crackling nearby, casting golden light across the wood-paneled walls. Outside the windows, the afternoon was giving way to dusk.
Eventually, Arthur looked across at James. “What would you have me do? Announce a betrothal over an accident?”
James raised his eyebrows. “I would have you do what feels right. But if you’re asking strategically—yes, consider your next move carefully. If you wish to preserve your own reputation—and hers—you must be seen to act with honour.”
Arthur was silent for a long moment.
James studied him carefully. “Unless,” he added more quietly, “your hesitation has less to do with strategy and more to do with fear.”
