Whatever this might be, it would require close observation.
Chapter Five
The scent of rosewater clung to the drawing room like an overbearing guest—heavy, cloying, far too sweet for Abigail Darlington’s mood, but her mother felt it necessary to impress guests.
She sat by the tall window in the corner of the room, a volume ofThe Decline of the Roman Empirespread open across her lap, though she had not turned a page in fifteen minutes. Her fingers pressed into the leather spine; her knuckles faintly white. She tried to read, tried to absorb the cool logic of imperial succession and crumbling order, but her mind refused to settle.
The room was too still. Too expectant.
The sun cast pale rays of light across the polished floorboards, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the stillness. Outside, a few early bees hummed against the glass, sluggish in the cool morning air, seeking some escape. The early bustle of a morning in London had already begun—distant hoofbeats on cobblestones, the muffled call of a chimney sweep, the sharp bark of a dog echoing down the row.
It might have been peaceful, had it not been for the dull thrum of dread threading steadily beneath Abigail’s skin.
Another morning. Another social obligation. Another suitor. Another charm offensive disguised as courtship.
The phrase drifted through her thoughts unbidden, dry and uncharitable.
She sighed inwardly, her breath warming the edge of the book in her hands. The page before her detailed the consolidation of power under Augustus, but her eyes drifted past the text, unseeing. The names of emperors and exiles blurred together. It was hard to focus on anything when the weight of inevitable tedium hung so oppressively over the day.
She glanced toward the mantel clock. A quarter past ten. The hour when society’s more determined bachelors began making their calls under the guise of casual civility.
She closed her eyes briefly. The Season felt like a never-ending siege. The parade of suitors—each more pompous than the last—blurred into one another. Names, titles, lands, fortunes.
All of their conversations followed the exact same formula. A few inquiries after her health, an observation on the weather, and then a lengthy discourse on their own achievements. She could recite the pattern with her eyes closed and still have enough energy left over to embroider a cushion.
Sometimes, she imagined a life outside it all. A quiet one, far removed from drawing rooms and ballrooms. Perhaps she might be like her Great Aunt Eloise, who lived in a small cottage near the coast and kept a garden of herbs and books. She corresponded with philosophers, not colonels, and wore shawls that didn’t match and didn’t care.
It sounded glorious.
Abigail turned a page, pretending to read.
She knew other girls her age who had already married—settled, as society so pleasantly phrased it. One had married a man twice her age for a manor house and a title; another had fallen in love with a poet who spent more time at his club than at their home. Each of them wore the same strained smile when asked about their happiness, like women who had trained their mouths to lie before their eyes could betray them.
A faint creak from the floorboards drew her attention. Her mother, Lady Harriet Darlington, stood near the hearth, adjusting a vase of freshly cut roses for what must have been the third time. Her dress was a pale lavender silk, tasteful and carefully tailored. Her eyes flitted to the window every few seconds, and her lips were pressed into a contented curve.
Abigail did not need to ask why.
Harriet possessed a talent for arranging herself with impeccable finesse during her morning visits—so much so that any visitor fortunate enough to gain admission might be tempted to believe he beheld her at her most captivating and genteel advantage.
Abigail turned back to her book, determined to enjoy what few minutes of quiet she might yet claim.
Then came the sound she dreaded most.
A carriage.
The low thunder grew louder outside. The clatter of iron wheels over uneven stones sent a chill up Abigail’s spine. The rhythmic stamp of hooves drew to a halt before the townhouse as she heard the familiar whip-crack flick of reins.
Abigail did not need to rise or peek behind the curtain to know precisely who had arrived.
Lord Edward Colton.
The very air seemed to change. She felt it tighten, like the moment before a summer storm breaks—not dramatic, not loud, but oppressive and pressing. The same sensation she’d felt at Lady Jane’s ball when he had crossed the floor toward her with all the certainty of a man who believed the outcome already decided.
She stilled.
A heartbeat later, the sound of the bell echoed faintly from downstairs. The butler’s footsteps echoed down the hall. She could imagine the calm formality of his face, the way he would intone the announcement with perfect detachment. He had done it often enough.
Lady Harriet’s face lit with satisfaction, her hands fluttering once to smooth an already perfect sleeve.
