Abigail offered the expected curtsy. “You are too kind, Lady Maria.”
Maria’s eyes gleamed. “Nonsense. I’ve always said music reveals the soul, and yours, I suspect, is far more vivid than you let on.”
Abigail managed a polite smile, though her stomach gave a familiar twist. She hated the subtle implications—the veiled pressure to perform not only with her instrument, but with her whole self, to display something charming and desirable for the benefit of the gathering.
“Come,” Maria said, motioning them toward the drawing room. “Everyone is eager to hear you. The room is nearly full.”
As they stepped into the ballroom, Abigail’s gaze swept the space out of habit. The large room was warmed by the press of bodies and lit to a soft golden hue. Chairs had been arranged in neat rows, with a small dais near the front where a harp and pianoforte awaited.
She recognized nearly every face. For some reason, that sparked a heightened sense of nervousness that playing in front of a crowd of strangers did not. She had no fear regarding her ability as a violinist, but any situation in which you were paraded in front of the ton was an opportunity for hushed whispers of jealousy, or scandalous rumors born out of thin air.
There were the usual ladies with fixed smiles and fluttering fans, and the gentlemen with well-oiled hair and polished shoes, watching with idle interest or feigned detachment. And near the centre of the room, flanked by her usual orbit of admirers, sat Lady Gillian Beaumont, her posture impeccable, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
Abigail barely had time to register her presence before she saw her son.
Arthur Beaumont.
He stood near the back of the room, just within the sweep of candlelight, slightly apart from the knot of guests gathered near the refreshment table and the lacquered pianoforte. Though his posture was perfectly correct—shoulders squared, chin level—there was a deliberate ease in the way he carried himself, as though he could disengage from the evening at any moment and vanish into the shadows without apology or fanfare.
He wore a coat of deep navy superfine, cut to perfection across his broad shoulders, the high collar standing in subtle defiance of fashion’s more flamboyant excesses.
A silver-grey waistcoat, embroidered with a discreet vine motif, lent just enough elegance to hint at his rank, while his cravat—impossibly neat, and tied in a simple but impeccable style—betrayed the care of a man who knew precisely how to appear as though he didnotcare at all.
His dark hair had been brushed neatly back from his brow, not a strand out of place, though a single curl had already begun to loosen above his temple, softening the severity of his countenance. His face, composed and inscrutable, betrayed nothing of his thoughts, though his eyes—sharp, discerning, a shade somewhere between storm and smoke—missed very little.
They moved slowly over the assembled guests, not with the idle interest of a man in search of entertainment, but with the quiet alertness of one who would prefer to observe from a distance, safe behind the armor of detachment.
At his side stood Eliza, resplendent in a gown of sea-green silk, engaged in low conversation with a friend but glancing often toward the door, as though awaiting someone she had not yet seen.
Their mother, as always, sat upright with a presence that demanded both respect and proximity to power.
Arthur’s gaze swept the room and landed—unmistakably—on Abigail.
Their eyes met.
It lasted no more than a few seconds, yet something shifted. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, and Abigail felt a strange flutter in her chest—a faint, unsteady pulse of something she couldn’t name.
From her place near the anteroom, her fingers tightened slightly around the folded program in her hand. It was absurd, really, the way her breath caught. He had done nothing—spoken no word, offered no look—yet there he stood, and the air around her seemed altered. The laughter of others faded into a more distant register, the clink of crystal dulled by the blood rushing faintly in her ears.
There was a stillness about him she could not name, something in the quiet command of his presence that unsettled the composure she had so carefully arranged. He did not smile. He did not scowl. But there was a gravity to him tonight—something deeper than his usual reserve—that set her pulse to quicken in spite of herself.
She dropped her gaze and allowed her mother to guide her toward their assigned seats.
They were placed near the front, of course. Lady Maria would ensure that her guests of interest were always on display.
Abigail found herself between Harriet and Lord Edward Colton, who had, unsurprisingly, materialized at their side the moment they entered. Edward offered her a slow smile, the kind that stretched across his face with polished ease, but did not reach his eyes.
“I am seated beside the evening’s star,” he said, taking his place with a self-satisfied air. “I feel quite honoured.”
Abigail said nothing, choosing instead to smooth a nonexistent crease from her gown. On her other side, next to her mother, Charles offered her a subtle smile of encouragement. She returned it with the faintest dip of her chin, grateful for his quiet solidarity.
The guests who had hung back began to take their seats. Among them was Arthur, who would have preferred to keep his distance, but succumbed underneath his mother’s withering stare.
He took his designated place in the row behind Abigail’s, and although she was painfully aware of his every movement for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she sensed his presence before turning to offer a small, ladylike smile.
The first performance began—a soprano whose vibrato was more enthusiastic than precise.
Abigail let her mind drift, counting the candle sconces along the wall, the number of pearls in Lady Ashcombe’s necklace, the number of times Lady Maria’s annoying little dog yapped as if singing along, the number of seconds Edward could remain quiet before leaning in and saying something that could quite easily have remained a thought that no one else wanted to hear.
