He considered this. “That puts you in rather exclusive company.”
She turned to look at him directly now, her brows slightly raised in a question.
“I meant,” he said, “that most people here seem to thrive on precisely that kind of display. To admit one finds it tedious is almost heresy.”
“Then call me a heretic,” she replied, her tone light but laced with truth.
Arthur smiled faintly. “There is no judgment from me I assure you,” he offered. “It would seem we are of the same thinking. It’s nice to find a kindred spirit.”
A silence settled between them, companionable this time. Something in the way she held herself—upright, composed—spoke of quiet frustration, but without the usual dramatics and hysteria many young women of the ton seemed to employ. She did not seem particularly melancholic. Simply… exhausted.
“I suppose,” she said at last, “you’ve had your fill of the evening’s introductions? I think the mothers of the ton are taken aside at a certain age and taught how to live vicariously through their offspring’s lives… mainly by interfering. My mother seems to positively thrive on the ‘project’ of finding me a viable match.”
Abigail immediately realized that she had spoken out of turn, but for some reason, she felt as if she were on safe territory with Lord Beaumont—almost as if she could speak to him as freely as she did with Charles.
He huffed a soft breath of amusement. “My mother has introduced me to several charming young ladies, most with excellent teeth, and an encyclopedic knowledge of their own dowries. I’m afraid I made my escape before being cornered by a third mention of travelling to Bath, or asked to define my favourite orchid, or hearing one more ghastly made-up story for effect. Until tonight, I had no idea there were so many varieties of orchids. Nor, I must admit, did I care.”
Abigail laughed—an honest sound, brief but real—and he felt something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. Not desire, not admiration. Something quieter. Something akin to recognition. He liked her spirit, and appreciated her candor.
“They are all here for the same reason,” Abigail said, looking back toward the house. “To be chosen. To secure a future. Some of them even believe the men they’re being paraded in front of might offer them happiness.”
“And you?”
She paused. “Call me a miserable cynic, but I remain skeptical. I very much doubt happiness can be negotiated via a dance card. My mother would be mortified if she’d overheard that, but I believe it to be reasonably accurate. I used to enjoy the dancing, but even that has become tiresome this Season.”
Arthur nodded slowly in understanding, then asked, “What would you choose, if not this?”
Abigail’s eyes met his. “A reprieve. From the performance. From being angled and arranged to behave like this, to sit this way, and speak to others only when invited about specific topics which do not interest me in the slightest. I am tired of being a performer.”
The words struck deeper than he expected.
She studied him for a moment. “I thinkyouunderstand that better than most. I just don’t understand the rush. Surely if we are we are going to be partnered off, it should happen naturally without so much falsity.”
He did not answer immediately. Then, softly, he said, “I have been on display since I was old enough to speak in full sentences. My mother believes it is my duty to be admired. Not for me, of course—but for what I represent. Contrary to popular belief, I am not remotely a fan of being the center of attention.”
Abigail’s gaze did not waver. “That does sound rather exhausting.”
“It is,” he admitted.
Another peaceful moment of quiet passed between them. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted sweetly on the air. The faint strains of a waltz were just beginning again inside. Abigail calculated how long she might have before someone came to claim her for the next dance. The evening was still young and her feet were already tired.
Then, suddenly, she suggested it, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “What if therewerea different way?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I have an idea.”
He turned slightly. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s entirely pragmatic,” she replied. “We are both suffering from unwanted attention—from suitors, from mothers, from society. I propose we give them what they want.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly.
“A courtship,” she clarified. “Only, not in the manner they expect. A false one.”
His expression did not change, but something sharpened in his eyes. And then he considered that she might be jesting and he began to laugh. When he looked up at her, she wasn’t smiling. “You’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
“For what purpose?”
She stepped a little closer, her voice lower now. “To be left alone. If the ton believes I am courting you, then I can but pray that Lord Colton will move on. Believe me, that cannot happen quickly enough. My mother will feel she has accomplished something, and hopefully lose some of her urgency. You, I imagine, will have fewer debutantes reciting poetry at you or boring you about the weather.”
