Arthur gave a quiet snort, and Abigail found herself laughing before she could help it. “Abigail will do just fine,” she said, her amusement real and unfeigned.
Eliza leaned back with satisfaction. “There. I knew we could be friends. I’ve always admired women who can see through society’s nonsense without collapsing into misery. You have that look about you.”
Abigail arched a brow, amused. “What sort of look is that?”
“The sort that says, ‘I have better things to do than be decorative for my mother’s friends.”
That earned a genuine smile from Abigail. “Well, it’s not far from the truth.”
Eliza beamed, clearly pleased. “I knew it. “There. We are now properly acquainted, and the charade may proceed unimpeded.”
Arthur spoke at last, his tone as dry as the winter wind. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Of course, I am,” Eliza replied breezily. “It’s not every day one gets to be part of a deception involving reputations, bouquets, and artful glances. Besides, Abigail and I shall get on splendidly. I can already tell.”
Abigail’s brow arched. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because you have the expression of a woman who would rather endure anything than be subjected to another ball full of preening suitors.”
“I see you’ve read me well,” Abigail murmured.
Arthur looked between them, exhaling softly. “Heaven helps me. I’ve allied myself with a pair of conspirators.”
Eliza beamed. “Only the cleverest sort, of course,” she replied without missing a beat. “You wouldn’t expect anything less from two intelligent women forced to spend their youth trapped in a social theatre, would you?”
Arthur merely raised an eyebrow in reply, but Abigail caught the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth. It was a fleeting shift, like sunlight slipping through a window. Gone before it was truly seen.
Abigail’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. His expression had returned to its usual inscrutable neutrality, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking beneath that careful composure.
Eliza turned her attention back to Abigail. “Tell me—do you read novels?”
The question, so unexpected and delightfully ordinary, brought an instant spark to Abigail’s eyes. “Incessantly. Though not always the kind approved of by my mother.”
“Perfect,” Eliza said with glee. “I’ve just finishedPride and Prejudice. Have you read it?”
“Twice.”
“Eliza,” Arthur interjected, sounding faintly pained, “must you subject Miss Darlington to your relentless Austen tirades?”
Abigail tilted her head. “Oh no, I welcome it. There are few joys greater than watching a man squirm at the mention of women having opinions.”
Eliza dissolved into delighted laughter. Arthur said nothing but inclined his head in quiet surrender, the corners of his lips twitching in spite of himself.
And just like that, the stiffness in Abigail’s shoulders eased.
The conversation flowed easily after that. They spoke of theatre, of London’s best bookstores, and the latest scandals at Almack’s—though Eliza reported those with a tone so laden with irony that Abigail couldn’t help but laugh. They also spoke of social disasters so excruciating they had no choice but to be funny in retrospect.
Eliza regaled them with an account of a musicale where she had been forced to endure an hour-long conversation about a gentleman’s recent foxhunt, while Abigail contributed the tale of a cousin who had proposed marriage with a speech stolen directly from a gothic novel.
“You’re jesting,” Eliza gasped.
“Alas, I am not,” Abigail replied. “He began with, ‘My soul is yours, though my fortune lies in disrepair.’”
Arthur closed his eyes briefly. “And people wonder why we’re disillusioned.”
He chuckled softly—an actual chuckle—and Abigail, catching the sound, felt the strange flutter return. It wasn’t affection, exactly. Not yet. But it was… pleasant. Familiar. Like sharing a secret no one else in the room knew.
The ease between them, so unforced, caught Abigail off guard. It had been so long since she had felt truly at ease in the company of near-strangers—especially near-strangers of rank and title. And yet here she sat, exchanging dry quips and literary preferences with Lord Beaumont’s sister, while the man himself watched her with a gaze that had grown more intent with each passing mile.
