Arthur managed a polite nod at what he hoped was an appropriate interval. She prattled on, undeterred by his silence, her voice rising and falling like a poorly tuned harpsichord. He had no true stake in the tale—nor, if he were honest, in the company.
His attention drifted. It was not intentional. He had long since mastered the art of appearing engaged while thinking of something—or someone—entirely different.
His gaze sought Abigail again, almost instinctively, as if drawn by some internal compass he could neither explain nor silence. She stood near her mother now, composed and gracious as ever, but her presence was unmistakably altered in his eyes since the performance.
The memory of her music still echoed faintly in his ears, and for a moment, he looked at her not as society saw her, but as she had allowed herself to be seen on that dais—brilliant, unscripted, and unknowingly disarming.
“Do forgive me, Lady Fenchurch,” Arthur began, reaching desperately for an excuse that never came. “I really must be… elsewhere.”
And with that, he turned swiftly on his heel, ignoring the look of faint alarm that crossed her face as another young lady with an unfortunate overbite attempted to draw his attention without success.
He moved toward the side of the room with practiced grace, dodging familiar faces, and brushing off small talk with diplomatic nods. His patience—as always a thin veneer when it came to matchmaking—had worn itself down to threads. The more he was paraded, the more he was polished and presented like a well-bred stallion at Tattersalls, the more a low thrum of resistance coiled in his chest.
He needed air.
He needed silence.
He needed five consecutive minutes without being asked what qualities he admired in a future Viscountess. At that precise moment, he didn’t wish to see another female for the rest of the evening.
Navigating the edge of the ballroom, Arthur moved with deliberate ease, pausing once or twice to acknowledge acquaintances, but never lingering. The sheer press of conversation around him—idle, strategic, rehearsed—was like a physical weight.
He stepped through the tall French doors leading onto the terrace, exhaling slowly as he emerged into the cool night. His escape to the terrace felt like a prison break. The moment the French doors closed behind him and the cooler night air brushed his skin, he exhaled—deeply, audibly, like a man surfacing after being submerged too long.
The air out here was crisp and damp, scented with lilac and early roses from the garden below. The soft glow of lanterns hung along the balustrade, casting golden pools of light against the stone. The murmurs of the party faded into a muted hum behind him.
Arthur took a deep, cleansing breath, relieved to be rid of small talk, dull conversations, and the effort of pretending to care.
And that’s when he saw her—Abigail Darlington, standing by a column, half-shrouded by shadow.
Her posture was still, her back straight, her hands clasped loosely before her. She hadn’t noticed him yet. There was a stillness to her that struck him—not the false composure of the ballroom, but something more stripped bare. It was, he thought, the first time he’d seen her simply exist, unobserved. He revised his previous opinion about not wanting to seeallladies for the rest of the evening.
Not wanting to startle her, he cleared his throat softly.
She turned, her shoulders tightening briefly—then easing as her gaze met his.
“Lord Beaumont,” she said, her voice quiet but even.
“I beg your pardon,” he replied, approaching with measured steps. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I had hoped for a moment of air myself.”
Her lips curved slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “There seems to be a shortage of it indoors. I can absent myself if you’d prefer some space.”
He stopped beside her, noting the bored-looking footman at the doors to the ballroom—feeling relieved that he wouldn’t accidentally find himself caught up in a scandal for being outside with a young lady—but still keeping a respectful distance.
He didn’t want to appear too close to Miss Darlington, but neither did he want any conversation overheard and relayed to the wrong ears. He lowered his volume accordingly.
“Not at all. I’m surprised there aren’t more of us out here. It is becoming rather claustrophobic in there.”
The garden beyond the balustrade was lush and still, moonlight gleaming on the dewy leaves. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“I have no doubt you have heard this countless times this evening, Miss Darlington, but I must commend you on an absolutely stunning performance tonight.” Arthur said plainly. “I am not easily moved by events such as these, and classical music rarely moves me, but that was quite extraordinary.”
The comment sounded hollow, even to his own ears, although he meant every word.
Then, after a pause, Abigail spoke quietly, only for the benefit of Arthur’s ears. “I do not enjoy performing.”
Arthur glanced at her in profile. “No?”
She shook her head. “It is expected, and so I do it. But I find no pleasure in displaying myself for others’ approval.”
