Edward shifted slightly, and cleared his throat in a less-than-subtle means of drawing her attention back to him. His expectant smile had tightened, but his eyes held something colder, something almost greedy and controlling. Harriet, beside her, let out a soft but meaningful breath, the slightest nudge toward acquiescence. She nudged her daughter lightly with an elbow when she didn’t respond straightaway.
Abigail swallowed. There was no polite way out of this.
And so, she hesitated just long enough to let the moment stretch, the tension between expectation and reluctance hanging in the air as the music swelled around them.
The orchestra struck the first chord of a glittering waltz that swept through the room like a declaration. Conversation paused. Eyes turned toward the floor. Pairs formed with practiced ease—young ladies simpering behind fans, gentlemen offering gallant bows—and into that expectant hush, Lord Edward Colton extended his hand toward Abigail Darlington.
“Well, Miss Abigail…” he said, his voice silky and insistent. “Would you favour me?”
The weight of her mother’s gaze bore into her side before Abigail even turned. She didn’t have to look. She could feel Lady Harriet Darlington’s anticipatory stillness, her social instincts twitching with delighted triumph at the prospect of such a wealthy, titled suitor paying court to her daughter. It was the sort of match she had schemed for across the Seasons and countless introductions.
Every fiber of Abigail’s being resisted the idea of placing her gloved hand in Edward Colton’s. But to refuse him would be to create a scene. A ripple in the carefully constructed veneer of civility. A public insult that would rebound upon her mother tenfold. She could feel Lady Harriet’s eyes boring into her back.
Abigail summoned her most practiced smile.
“Of course, my lord,” she replied.
He took her hand at once, his clammy glove enclosing it in a grip that was slightly too firm. Abigail followed him, feeling as though she were a mouse stepping into a trap. Her feet moved of their own accord, sweeping into the elegant position expected of her. Her body obeyed but her heart rebelled.
As they moved onto the dance floor, Abigail schooled her expression into one of polite neutrality, determined to endure the next few minutes with at least the semblance of civility. Edward, of course, mistook her silence for admiration.
As the music swelled and they began to glide in time with the orchestra, Edward leaned in slightly. His breath smelled sour—a hint of stale brandy and self-satisfaction. Her stomach threatened to flip. She turned her head slightly and made a conscious effort to breathe through her mouth.
“I must say, Miss Darlington,” he began, his voice already puffed with pride, “you handle yourself quite admirably on the floor. Not, of course, that I expected anything less. Your mother told me you were trained in the Italian style—though I personally find the French method superior, wouldn’t you agree? Far more precise footwork.”
Abigail offered a delicate nod. “Indeed.”
He smiled smugly. “Quite so. I told my own dancing master the same, just before I dismissed him last autumn. He was too fond of flourishes. A man ought to dance like a gentleman, not a dandy at a village fête.”
They turned with the music, her gaze drifting over his shoulder in search of respite.
“Still, I suppose there’s a place for flair,” he added thoughtfully. “My hunting lodge, for example, is decorated with a rather elegant carpet I procured in Vienna. Not that I hunted in Vienna, mind you—ghastly cold—but one must keep up appearances.”
Abigail smiled tightly. She concentrated on her steps, praying for a swift conclusion to the set.
“Speaking of keeping up appearances,” Edward went on, “I’ve had the most dreadful time trying to find a valet with adequate starching standards. Do you know, my last one actuallycreasedmy cravat the wrong way round for a dinner at the Duke of Bellmore’s? Theindelicacyof it. I was forced to take it off halfway through the soup.”
Abigail blinked. “Halfway through?”
“Indeed! I made my apologies to the duke, of course. Told him I refused to offend his cook by appearing so… unbecomingly wrinkled. The man was quite impressed by my depth of feeling.”
“I’m sure he was.” Abigail offered weakly.
Edward looked immensely pleased. “I do think that’s what society lacks these days, Miss Darlington. Arefinement of sensibility. People forget that character is demonstrated in the starching of a cravat, in the polish of one’s boots. It’s all a matter of principle, really.”
Abigail had ceased truly hearing him. Her mind drifted—toward the terrace doors, toward fresh air, toward any place other than here. It was the only way to survive his relentless chatter.
“And I must tell you,” Edward continued, undeterred, “Lady Grantham’s musical evening last week—dreadful. They had a soprano who screeched like a cat. I said to her, quite loudly, ‘My lady, if the piano sobs any harder, I shall have to request a handkerchief!’ She laughed, of course. Couldn’t help it.”
Abigail stared straight ahead, her mouth fixed in a careful curve of amusement. “Charming,” she murmured.
“I thought so. You know, my dear, it is a rare pleasure to begin the evening with the most sought-after young lady in the room,” he said.
Abigail inclined her head without replying. Her smile held, but just barely, as brittle as spun glass.
“You flatter me, Lord Colton, though I very much doubt that is true,” Abigail said modestly.
“I daresay there will be no lack of offers for you before the night is through,” he continued, his eyes sweeping the room as though he were measuring his competition. He smiled like a fox that had found a well-stocked hen-house. “But none so eligible as mine, I assure you.”
