Arthur said nothing for a long moment. Her suggestion was so audacious, so thoroughly unexpected—and yet, so curiously sound.
“You believe the deception would work?”
Abigail’s mouth quirked. “The ton is far more interested in appearances than truth. If we are seen together—at the park, at a dinner or two—society will take the hint. We needn’t be too dramatic about it. A subtle understanding is all that would be required. Once the seeds of suggestion are planted, mayhap we will be granted some reprieve from the utter madness of the Season.”
Arthur studied her for signs of madness or perhaps the early signs of intoxication. She stood steady, her eyes bright with determination. She wasn’t being flirtatious or manipulative. If anything, she seemed completely resigned to the fact that she had no other way out. The thought made him feel rather sad.
“I know it sounds quite mad. I assure you there would be no emotional entanglement expected,” she added. “No pretenses beyond what society demands. I won’t expect declarations, flowers, or gifts. We would just need to give each other a little of our time. Be present at social gatherings—as we would likely have to be in any case.”
He smiled, despite himself. “That is very reassuring.”
“Think of it as a ceasefire,” she said. “Between two reluctant players in a very foolish game. It would be simple,” she said. “Convincing enough to be effective, discreet enough not to invite scandal. A few appearances together. A carefully worded remark or two.”
Arthur studied her in the low light, his brow furrowed, the flicker of candlelight from the ballroom gilding her features in soft gold. She looked calm—controlled, even—but he had come to recognize the difference between composure and peace. There was a quiet urgency beneath her words. Not desperation, but resolve. She had been trying to find a way out of the deadlock, and this seemed like the only option.
Still, he hesitated.
He looked away for a moment, toward the garden.
He should refuse. The entire idea was mad. And yet…
He thought again of Miss Greystone’s affected giggle. Of his mother’s relentless press of expectations. Of the quiet, infuriating sense of being cornered.
A false courtship. A constructed narrative, one designed to deceive the very people who had spent their lives constructing facades of their own. It was clever. Practical. Entirely logical.
“I understand if it seems preposterous,” she said, misinterpreting his silence. “But I would rather attempt something preposterous than sit through another dinner beside Lord Edward Colton while he waxes lyrical about his bloodline and his prize horses.”
Arthur huffed a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.
“It’s not the idea I object to,” he said slowly.
She tilted her head. “Then what is it?”
He looked away for a moment, toward the balustrade and the garden beyond, its shadows softened by moonlight.
“I’m simply not in the habit of being proposed to on other people’s terraces,” he said dryly.
Abigail’s lips twitched. “Consider it a symptom of the Season.”
His gaze returned to her—level, unreadable.
“I’ll need to think about it,” he said at last.
She gave a slight nod, her expression a blank canvas. “Of course.”
He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. But Abigail didn’t flinch, didn’t press. She only nodded once, measured and calm, though something in her expression flickered—was it relief? Disappointment? Or merely acceptance that he would probably turn the offer down?
Neither of them moved. The air between them, fresh and lightly perfumed with jasmine, hummed with the unspoken weight of everything they could not say. Beyond the glass doors, laughter rose and fell in polished waves, the music inside shifting to another waltz, bright and lilting. It sounded impossibly far away.
Arthur’s gaze drifted to the shadows of the garden, the curling paths and clipped hedges lit softly by moonlight. “You know,” he said after a moment, “there was a time when I believed courtship could be something sincere. Not strategic. Not... manipulated.”
“And now?” she asked.
“I’ve been disabused of the notion.”
She looked away, her fingers toying with the edge of her shawl. “I’m not asking for sincerity, Lord Beaumont. Only for freedom.”
He turned toward her more fully then, studying the lines of her face—noticed the faint crease of tension near her brow, the way her lips pressed together just a little too tightly. She was composed, indeed. But beneath it all, she was tired. Of the charade. The scrutiny. The endless pretense.
