She turned to see Eleanor Tidemore, an old acquaintance from school, standing beside her. Eleanor was everything a young lady of the ton ought to be—bright-eyed, flushed with excitement, and practically shimmering with the giddy thrill of the evening.
“I had hoped to see you tonight,” Eleanor said, taking Abigail’s hand. “It is all so wonderful, is it not?”
Abigail forced a polite smile. “Indeed. It is absolutely stunning. You look very well, Eleanor.”
Eleanor did not seem to notice the lack of enthusiasm. “Lord Blackmore has asked me to dance,” she whispered, her cheeks coloring as if on demand. “I think he might be considering an offer.”
Abigail murmured something appropriate, but the conversation only solidified her sense of detachment. Eleanor was playing the game so eagerly, so willingly, as though it were an adventure rather than a tiresome performance. Would she, too, look back on this night with fondness? Would she speak of it as the moment she first knew she would be wed?
Abigail envied her ease, her ability to believe in the illusion. Surely she couldn’t be the only young woman who was so disillusioned with it all at such a young age.
As Eleanor flitted away, Abigail’s attention returned to her mother. Lady Harriet was in her element. She moved through the crowd with the precision of a general, subtly guiding conversations, introducing Abigail’s name in all the right circles.
Abigail was surprised that further introductions were warranted. She must have met the majority of these suitors at least twelve times each, and those she hadn’t met directly would no doubt have been subject to her mother’s trademark spiel telling themthey simply must meet herbecauseshe was a perfect match for them. Her mother had attempted to maneuver her into the path of three eligible suitors so far this evening, each one more tedious than the last.
The first, a Mr. Percival Bletchley, was the heir to a vast estate in Norfolk and had twice boasted, without irony, of his new mechanical cheese press. He discoursed on dairy yields and the temperaments of his cows with a veneration that might befit the noblest of epics, and seemed to regard a lady’s capacity for admiration of his agricultural efficiency as the pinnacle of courtship.
The second, Viscount Retton, while undeniably handsome in the way of a marble bust—handsome but entirely lifeless—spoke exclusively in quotations from poets he could barely pronounce. He had recited a rather dreadful passage from Ossian while they stood near the refreshment table, his gaze intense and unwavering, as though she might swoon at any moment from the sheer weight of his borrowed profundity. Abigail had smiled politely while plotting her escape and trying not to laugh.
The third, Mr. Giles Pomeroy, had a fondness for gaming that bordered on obsession. He had regaled her with detailed accounts of his latest triumphs at White’s, as though the precise order in which he played his cards in a game of faro might somehow impress upon her the depth of his character. When he had casually inquired whether she might consider herself a ‘lucky charm’ in a low murmur that was, no doubt, meant to be flirtatious, she had very nearly abandoned her ladylike decorum altogether.
Each encounter had left her with the growing conviction that she might gladly forsake all future introductions if only she might slip into the nearest library and lose herself among volumes more sincere than any of the men presently in attendance.
Abigail had learned long ago that she was but a piece on her mother’s carefully arranged chessboard. Harriet would make her move, ensure introductions were made, and then step back, watching to see how the game played out, being quick to berate her if Abigail did not play the game as she should.
No doubt she had already made mental notes on how best to proceed. How many conversations had she orchestrated tonight? How many potential matches had she lined up?
Abigail sighed, lifting a glass of wine from a passing tray. She had barely taken a sip before Harriet appeared at her side. “Put that down, dearest. You do not want to lower your inhibitions, or appear too forward.”
Abigail placed the glass back without comment.
Then the mood suddenly shifted, and Abigail felt the change before she saw him.
“Ah, here comes Lord Colton,” Harriet said, her voice lifting with satisfaction.
A chill rippled across Abigail’s skin, although she couldn’t pinpoint why. This gentleman’s reputation preceded him, and it wasn’t particularly positive.
Lord Edward Colton approached with his usual air of entitlement, his dark, glinting eyes filled with an unnamed unpleasantness. As he minced through the crowd, other guests subtly moved aside as if trying to evade an obnoxious odor. A group of young ladies lowered their voices, their laughter faltering as they turned away. Even a passing footman averted his gaze.
These were all subtle things, but Abigail noticed. Lord Colton appeared blissfully ignorant to others’ opinions of him. How nice it must be to be so willfully obtuse.
There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, which made Abigail feel nauseated, as did the way his long, spindly, gloved fingers twitched slightly at his side before stilling. From what little she had heard about him, this was a man used to getting what he wanted, and who did not take kindly to resistance.
And then, there was his voice.
“Miss Abigail,” he drawled, his voice somehow raspy and adenoidal at the same time, the syllables coiling around her name like a snake coiling around its prey. “How delightful to see you this evening, and your delightful mother, of course. Would you do me the magnificent honour of dancing with me?”
His tone was rich, with an almost oily thickness, as though he savored each word; the sound somewhat syrupy as if he were speaking through a mouth full of thick, clotted cream. It made her skin crawl, as though she had brushed against something moist and unclean.
His smile was insincere—too broad, too knowing, his slick, moistened lips catching the candlelight. His tongue slipped between his lips and reminded Abigail of a slug. He bowed, but there was something possessive and leery in the way his gaze roved over her as though, in his head, he had already claimed her.
Desperate to quell the roiling nausea in her stomach, her gaze flickered past Edward, toward the tall figure by the window. Lord Arthur Beaumont had not moved, but she knew he had seen her. His dark blue eyes rested on the scene before him, his expression unreadable.
She thought back to a dinner party months ago, where Arthur had made an offhand comment that had stayed with her. Someone had praised the efficiency of the marriage market, and he had said, in his dry way, “ah yes, efficiency—the very foundation of romance.”
She had barely known him then, but she had laughed at his sarcasm. She was not laughing now.
What must he make of this spectacle? Did he find it as wearying as she did? The thought was strangely comforting. Someone else who not only understood that all of this was an elaborate illusion, but also found the whole concept preposterous.
