He said nothing for a long while. The fire crackled and popped. The wind moved faintly against the windows whispering like a ghost of another season.
Finally, he looked back at the bookshelves, his eyes trailing the worn spines of childhood favorites and tomes inherited from generations past.
“I’mnotready,” he murmured at last, his voice barely above a hushed whisper.
“Then don’t be,” she said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “The world will wait for you, Arthur, as will Mother. She can’tforceyou to marry against your will, or expect you to feel the same way as Father did. But don’t close the door before it’s even opened.”
She stepped closer, and for a moment, the man who had once taught her to climb trees and mend a broken kite stood before her, older now, wearier, but still, in some part of his heart, the brother who had once shielded her from every storm.
“You’ve always looked after everyone else,” she said softly. “Let someone look after you, when you’re ready to let them.”
She reached up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, the gesture tender and without condition, then turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the long corridor beyond.
Arthur remained where he stood, his fingers grazing the edge of the mantelpiece, the faint imprint of her affection lingering like warmth from the fire. In the hush of the library, with only the scent of old paper and wood-smoke for company, he felt the walls he had so carefully constructed around his heart shift—imperceptibly, but undeniably.
And for the first time in many a long while, Arthur Beaumont regarded her words not with mere dismissiveness, but with genuine wonder—and pondered whether the future he had so long avoided might not be as unattainable as he had believed, but perhaps awaiting him patiently, just beyond the door he had never dared to open.
Chapter Seven
The carriage wheels groaned slightly as they turned into the sweeping drive of Lady Maria Lytton’s townhouse. Lanterns flickered in wrought-iron holders, casting a gentle, amber glow across the cobblestone courtyard. Beyond the elegant arched entrance, the soft murmur of conversation and the delicate strains of a harpsichord drifted out, blending into the spring night like a perfumed sigh.
Abigail Darlington sat poised and elegant on the velvet seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap with careful composure. The faint scent of lavender water clung to her silk pelisse, mingling with the subtler fragrance of blooming lilacs that wafted through the partially opened carriage window. Her eyes, though serene, scanned the scene with quiet thoughtfulness as liveried footmen stood ready beneath the marble portico, their silhouettes sharp against the golden spill of candlelight.
Across from her, Lady Harriet Darlington beamed at her daughter with eager pride, her fan fluttering in rhythm with her excitement. She was dressed in a gown of soft amethyst satin, a colour she claimed was flattering in all forms of candlelight, and her plume-topped turban bobbed slightly with every enthusiastic nod.
“Oh, Abigail, do sit up just a touch straighter—there, yes,” she instructed, her voice hushed but urgent, as if mere posture might determine the course of an entire evening’s prospects. “You know how dreadful Lady Maria’s eyesight is; if she cannot see you clearly, she will simply assume you are not here, and then what good is all this effort?”
Abigail smiled faintly, accustomed to such maternal fretting, and adjusted her posture by no more than a fraction. “Lady Maria is hardly likely to forget one of her own performing guests,” she replied mildly.
“Nonsense, dearest, you know full well the woman forgets her own birthday most years. No, no—your entrance must be striking. Tonight is not merely a musicale. It is anoccasion.”
Indeed, it was. Lady Maria Lytton’s musicales were among the more coveted invitations of the season—not only for the music, which was often of an admirable quality, but for the subtle orchestration of society that occurred within her drawing rooms. Matches were whispered into motion beneath the swell of a violin, feuds were soothed during sonatas, and reputations might rise or tumble between movements of Mozart.
Lady Harriet leaned forward slightly, lowering her fan as though preparing to divulge a matter of state. “I am told Lord Elverton shall be in attendance,” she said, her eyebrows rising with significant meaning.
Abigail’s brows lifted a fraction. “Indeed? I had not thought him fond of music.”
“He is not,” her mother replied with relish. “Which makes his appearance all the more intriguing. It suggests he is, perhaps, fond ofsomeonewho is.”
Abigail turned her gaze once more toward the glittering entrance, her expression unreadable in the flickering light. The thought of being the object of Lord Elverton’s pursuit neither thrilled nor appalled her—it was simply another possibility in an already complicated landscape.
She sighed inwardly, suppressing the familiar prickle of apprehension that accompanied such events. Appearances must be kept, performances made. There would be smiles, polite laughter, the obligatory admiration of someone’s Italian arias.
But beneath it all, a tension hummed—something unspoken and uncertain. Her thoughts, though she would not admit it aloud, were not entirely fixed upon Lord Elverton or the music that awaited them.
As the carriage drew to a halt and the footman stepped forward to open the door, Abigail lifted her chin. The night air greeted her with the soft scent of blossoms and candle smoke, the sounds of society drifting outward like a siren’s call. She reached for her mother’s hand and descended into the evening with grace.
Whatever else the night held, she would meet it on her own terms.
“Lady Maria is most pleased you agreed to perform tonight,” she said, as though Abigail had done so willingly of her own accord. “She told me just this afternoon that you were among the most accomplished young ladies of the Season—both in manner and musicianship.”
Abigail gave a slight nod, saying nothing. Her mind buzzed with unspoken protests. Her violin playing, though competent, had never brought her joy. The thought of performing in front of a room full of prying eyes and false smiles filled her with dread. But such sentiments were unacceptable, particularly tonight. Tonight was about appearances. And appearances, in her world, were everything.
The butler welcomed them with a bow as they ascended the steps. Inside, the air was thick with perfume and expectation. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead like frozen stars, casting their brilliance over silk gowns, polished boots, and elaborately coiffed heads. Laughter trilled through the corridors in carefully pitched tones, weaving between the notes of the harpsichord. The guests milled about like colorful birds, posturing and preening in preparation for the evening’s display.
Abigail stood beside her mother as they were greeted by the hostess.
“Dearest Harriet,” Lady Maria said, sweeping forward with a smile both warm and calculated. She kissed both of Harriet’s cheeks, then turned to Abigail. “And my brilliant little musician. I’ve told everyone about your performance tonight, my dear.”
