As always, he had dressed with care, though not with ceremony. His cravat had been tied precisely, his coat brushed and fastened with mechanical ease. His gloves—soft grey leather, stitched along the seams by his valet’s meticulous hand—rested in one palm as he gazed down at the courtyard below. There, the sleek, dark-green carriage bearing the Beaumont crest stood at attention, its lacquered surface reflecting the morning haze, its pair of bays snorting softly as they stamped their hooves in readiness. Everything was prepared.
And yet, he lingered.
The study, so often a place of logic and order, felt unusually still. His desk, neatly stacked with correspondence and ledgers, offered no distraction from the quiet tumult within. Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines a familiar chorus of history, philosophy, and politics—testaments to the education he had received and the man he was expected to be. And still, none of it provided the clarity he sought.
Today marked the beginning of something wholly unfamiliar.
Today marked the beginning of their theatrics. A fiction, yes—but not for the benefit of art or intellect. Rather, it was one that required the full force of social performance. A false courtship. A calculated deception—a carefully plotted alliance to hold at bay the relentlessly invasive scrutiny of the ton, the expectations of mothers and matrons.
A ploy to ease their mothers’ meddling and the predatory interest of young women coached into believing a title was more valuable than character. It was a lie. A charade. Although it wasn’t entirely disingenuous.
He liked Miss Abigail Darlington.
There was something in her manner that lingered in his thoughts far longer than he liked to admit. A peculiar blend of composure and candor, intelligence and reserve. She had surprised him that night on the terrace—not only with her proposal, audacious as it had been, but with the frankness in her voice, the almost painful honesty in her eyes. There had been no coquetry, no affectation. Just a shared weariness and a strange, tentative alliance forged not by affection, but by mutual empathy.
It should have been simple. Strategic. But Arthur, who prided himself on clarity, on maintaining control in every social interaction, found himself off-kilter in her company.
There was a spark in her conversation, a quickness of mind that made the usual pleasantries feel absurdly hollow. He had not anticipated that. Nor had he anticipated the peculiar flicker of warmth that rose in his chest when he remembered the press of her gloved hand against his, or the arch of her brow when she jested with her dry wit.
Although it would likely be a vast improvement on his mother’s oppressive matchmaking, and the endless string of debutantes desperate to make his acquaintance, it would be tiring in a different way. Indeed, Miss Darlington and he had a shared understanding, but he was under no illusion that keeping up the charade of a feigned courtship wouldn’t come with challenges and tedium of its own.
Arthur had agreed to it with every intention of maintaining firm control over the terms. He had meant every word of caution he’d offered on the terrace. And yet, as he straightened his cuffs with practiced care, he couldn’t deny the subtle thrum of anticipation that accompanied his movements.
Was it anticipation that he felt? Excitement that if they could pull off this ruse, they would be able to navigate this Season without further interruption from well-meaning but overbearing family members? There was something rather intriguing about the secrecy, and he couldn’t help but feel thrilled by such clandestine behaviors. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in his life for quite some time.
He told himself it was the novelty of the arrangement. Nothing more.
He turned from the window, the light catching faintly at his temples where the earliest threads of silver had begun to glint amongst the darker strands of his hair. He crossed the study and paused before the hearth, resting one hand lightly against the back of an armchair. The fire burnt softly.
It was the right decision. He was certain of it. The benefits were clear. Abigail would gain reprieve from the overbearing attentions of Colton and her mother’s matrimonial ambitions; he would gain sanctuary from his own parade of insipid debutantes and his mother’s unsubtle matchmaking efforts. There would be expectations to manage, certainly—glances to endure, appearances to maintain—but they would be on their own terms.
And yet, some part of him bristled at the ease with which this pretense could slide into something more dangerous.
Not because he mistrusted Abigail. On the contrary, her very frankness was what made the arrangement bearable. But the risk lay within himself—the disquieting possibility that pretending might begin to feel too comfortable. Too natural. That he might look forward to their public engagements for reasons not rooted in strategy, but in the pleasure of her company. And what then?
No, he had to remain vigilant. This was a masquerade, nothing more. They had agreed. No entanglements. No pretenses beyond what society required. A fiction, as deftly told as any novel, and one with a closing chapter already determined.
He drew in a slow breath, released it, and slid his gloves over his hands with a precise tug at each wrist.
It was time.
Arthur Beaumont reminded himself of one essential truth. He had chosen this. And he had never yet allowed emotion—of any kind—to derail a plan once set in motion.
“Is that your determined expression or your funeral face?” came Eliza’s voice from the doorway, lilting with amusement as she buttoned her coat.
Arthur glanced up, not surprised to see his sister already dressed and entirely too pleased with herself. She wore a soft green day dress and an impish smile, her eyes dancing with curiosity.
“Is there a difference?” he replied dryly.
She swept into the room and inspected him with a theatrical air. “Oh, it’s your reluctant suitor face. Very proper. You’ll terrify the entire Darlington household.”
“I’d prefer not to terrify anyone,” Arthur murmured.
“You’re not fooling me,” she said, linking her arm through his. “You agreed to this plan because you find her interesting.”
He gave her a look. “I agreed because it was a sensible solution to an absurd problem.”
“Mmm. And because Miss Darlington is, in your own words—how did you put it? ‘Not inclined to sentimental drivel.’”
