And Arthur Beaumont—stoic, intelligent, emotionally impenetrable Arthur—was to be her unlikely accomplice.
She almost smiled.
“I suggest,” she said, “we begin with subtle appearances. A few conversations in public. Perhaps a promenade in Hyde Park, and a dance at Lady Renley’s ball next week.”
Arthur made a sound of agreement. “Nothing too overt. Enough to encourage speculation but avoid scandal.”
“Exactly.”
He glanced at her. “We’ll need a story. A believable point of connection.”
“We met at the Fairchild ball,” she offered. “You rescued me from the cart accident.”
“An act of heroism, indeed.”
She gave a soft laugh, and to her surprise, he smiled in return—brief but unmistakable.
“And,” he added, “we must have an exit strategy.”
Abigail blinked. “An exit strategy?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone firm. “We agree now, at the beginning, how this ends. To avoid complications later.”
She nodded slowly, his caution not unreasonable. “A summer romance, perhaps. Rumours of a mutual cooling of affections by the end of the Season. A dignified separation.”
“Precisely.”
There was a pause, both of them silently reviewing the terms of their agreement. It felt more like a business arrangement than anything romantic—which suited Abigail perfectly. She had no interest in opening her heart. Not anymore. This was about freedom. Not attachment.
Arthur turned to face her more fully, one hand extended between them. “Then it is arranged.”
She looked down at his hand, gloved, steady, and waiting.
With equal steadfastness, she placed her own in his.
Their fingers met and held—briefly, politely. But something passed between them. A flicker of awareness. A jolt of contact that neither of them had anticipated. Not attraction, necessarily. Not tenderness. But a sense of shared purpose, and understanding.
Abigail withdrew her hand first, quickly, masking the faint flutter in her chest.
Arthur cleared his throat softly. “Shall we?”
She glanced toward the ballroom. “Not yet,” she said. “Just… one more moment.”
The footman that was a little further away had left and being alone made Arthur nervous, thinking of the scandal if they were seen alone but he didn’t argue. He stood beside her in silence, allowing her this pause.
They remained beneath the shadowed arch of the terrace, the world of society humming just out of reach, their pact sealed not with affection, but with mutual need. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even friendship.
It was something else entirely.
But, whatever it was—they were in it together.
Chapter Nine
The morning dawned pale and sharp, the sort of uncertain spring day that had not yet made up its mind between warmth and chill. A fine mist clung to the chimneys and rooftops of Mayfair like a silken veil, the cobblestones below slick with dew, glinting faintly beneath the reluctant rays of a sun still cloaked in the silver gauze of early light.
From the high windows of Beaumont Manor, the view stretched across a quiet, cobbled street slowly rousing from slumber—servants emerging from shopkeepers’ doors, chimney smoke curling lazily into the sky, the soft clatter of hooves announcing the first stirrings of polite society.
Arthur Beaumont stood in the stillness of his study, the most masculine of sanctuaries, surrounded by the rich scent of leather-bound volumes and aged mahogany. The fire in the grate had been reduced to a soft glow, its purpose more for ambiance than heat, but the coals still cast a gentle flicker of warmth across the hearthrug. Above the mantel, an oil painting of his grandfather stared down with solemnity. An eternally stark reminder of past generations, his legacy, and the weight of duty—not that it was ever required.
