“Do sit properly, Abigail,” she said without turning. “Lord Colton is quite punctual. A most encouraging sign.”
Abigail bit the inside of her cheek and straightened in her chair, tucking the book aside with a definitive snap. Her fingers brushed the linen of her skirt, smoothing invisible creases as she stood. Her spine aligned with ingrained decorum, but her stomach turned.
The butler appeared in the doorway, his face unreadable, his tone composed.
“Lord Edward Colton, my lady.”
“Please show him in at once,” Harriet said, her smile already fixed in place.
Abigail took a slow breath and turned toward the door. Her expression composed itself out of habit. Chin high. Smile present but not warm. Eyes just wide enough to seem attentive.
The door opened wider, and Lord Edward Colton entered with all the theatricality of a general returning triumphant.
Tall, broad, and clad in a green velvet coat that clung too tightly to his wide shoulders, he filled the room not just with his size, but with the self-satisfaction that radiated from every inch of him. His boots were polished to a mirrored shine, his gleaming cravat tied in an ostentatious knot. His dark eyes swept the room, assessing, claiming. He acted as though the house belonged to him already.
“Lady Harriet,” he boomed, stepping forward with a bow that was just shy of excessive. “You are as lovely as ever. Absolutely exquisite if I may be so bold. The roses do not compare.”
Harriet’s laugh was all flutter and warmth. “Lord Edward, how gallant. You flatter me.”
Then he turned toward Abigail and the true performance began.
Abigail braced herself.
Edward shifted toward her, the smile deepening as he bowed. “Miss Darlington,” he said, stepping forward with exaggerated intent. “A vision of elegance, as always.”
She extended her hand out of duty, although she felt unbridled disdain. It would be impolite not to, but it awakened the familiar sense of revulsion she’d tried so hard to mask at the ball.
His hand closed over hers, warm and damp and lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl. The contact sent a jolt of unease through her spine. His thumb traced the edge of her glove in a gesture meant to be intimate, and Abigail had to resist the urge to recoil.
He bowed low, letting his eyes linger on her face in a way that felt more invasive than admiring.
“My morning has already been made.”
When she tried to withdraw, he delayed—just a fraction too long. Enough to assert ownership without a word spoken.
“You honour us with your visit, Lord Colton,” she said, her voice even, neutral. She had perfected that tone over the years—a melody of politeness that conveyed nothing she did not intend.
Edward’s gaze roamed her face, lingering where it should not. “And you are radiant this morning, Miss Darlington. The light suits you.”
She resisted the urge to take a step back.
The three of them seated themselves. Edward, uninvited but unabashed, took the chair closest to hers.
The scent of his cologne—strong, woody, and cloyingly sweet—wrapped around her like smoke. She forced herself not to lean away.
Harriet smiled at their guest. “May I offer you tea?”
“Tea would be splendid,” he said. “With just a touch of honey, if it’s not too much trouble.” He smiled at Abigail again, as though the mere fact of her presence was a reward he was owed.
The maid arrived with the tea service, and Abigail busied herself with pouring, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at him.
The clink of porcelain and the slow swirl of honey in the cup were comforting, methodical.
Edward waited just long enough for Abigail to stir before launching into a monologue about his new investment in a shipping company based in Bristol—dull talk of tariffs and trade routes, all delivered with the booming enthusiasm of a man who assumed his every word held the room in rapture.
He spoke of his latest acquisition of a prize hound, the virtues of his tailor, and how tiresome it had been to sit through the Duchess of Grantham’s musical evening.
“The duchess insisted on performing a sonata herself—naturally, I offered to accompany her on the pianoforte. Not because I play, of course, but because I feared the instrument might refuse her a second round.”
