She could feel it—that attention, like the sun warming her skin even when veiled behind clouds. It was not oppressive. Rather, it was steady. Thoughtful. And that, perhaps, was more disarming than all the flowery flattery in the world.
The strength of his gaze startled her. It wasn’t romantic—nothing as clumsy as that—but there was something in the way he studied her now, as though seeing her afresh. His dark blue eyes, so often detached and distant, held a quiet alertness that made her pulse skip. As if he were memorizing her expression. Calculating some unseen equation in his head.
Their eyes held for just a second too long.
Abigail looked away, pretending to study the blur of houses passing by the window. The city had begun to thin now, Hyde Park’s familiar trees and open lawns appearing ahead.
She busied herself with conversation. “And you, Eliza? What do you read when you’re not tormenting your brother with novels?”
“Poetry,” she said, though her tone was playful. “But don’t tell Arthur. He’ll say it rots the mind.”
“I said no such thing,” Arthur muttered.
“You implied it.”
Arthur sighed, looking out the opposite window. “I merely stated that Byron is a self-indulgent narcissist.”
Eliza leaned toward Abigail. “Which, of course, is why I adore him.”
Abigail grinned. “I find a little self-indulgence now and then quite restorative.”
Arthur gave her a sidelong look. “You do.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement threaded with irony and something else—a flicker of interest, of curiosity.
For a moment, Abigail saw the trap opening beneath her feet. She had meant this entire arrangement as a shield. A deflection. But now, seated in this carriage, laughter still lingering on her lips, she felt her footing shift. Not dangerously. Not yet. But noticeably.
She had not expected to enjoy herself.
Worse, she had not expected to enjoy spending time withhim.
And from the way Arthur kept stealing glances at her—those brief, flickering looks when he thought she wasn’t watching—he hadn’t expected to enjoy their time together either.
The ride through Hyde Park passed more quickly than she had anticipated in a blur of leaf-dappled light and blooming flowers. As the carriage rounded a curve near the Serpentine, a trio of riders cantered past, all glossy coats and clipped bonnets, while a pair of older ladies walking arm in arm paused to stare at the carriage, their heads tilted with unmistakable speculation. Abigail caught the glance exchanged between them—curiosity, interest, a shared whisper. Arthur raised his hand in dutiful greeting, but they seemed far more interested in gossip.
The game is afoot! Let the performance begin.
Though she would never admit it to herself or anyone else, it was almost thrilling to play this new role. Yet, seated here, across from the man who was now her partner in pretense, and beside the woman who had already, against all expectations, become something startlingly close to a friend, Abigail found herself uncertain of where the play ended and the truth began.
And that—more than Edward, more than her mother, more than society—was what unsettled her most.
Chapter Eleven
The morning sunlight filtered through a gauzy veil of cloud with a cool, persistent grace, casting Hyde Park in a palette of soft silvers and muted golds. There was a certain clarity to the air that seemed particular to the season—neither wholly brisk nor yet warm, but carrying the promise of gentler days just beyond the horizon.
The trees, newly awakened from winter’s slumber, wore the fresh green of early spring like a whisper rather than a declaration, their budding leaves rustling in a breeze that danced along the serpentine paths and flirted with the ribbons on bonnets and the edges of silk pelisses.
Birdsong threaded delicately through the air, competing with the distant clatter of wheels and hooves beyond the gates, and the occasional exclamation of a child released from the confines of a drawing room. A pair of gentlemen passed on horseback, their figures striking against the pale light, while a nursemaid hurried after her charge, who had taken an enthusiastic liking to a passing squirrel.
London, ever watchful, loomed beyond the wrought-iron boundaries—its impressive facades and quiet wealth visible through the bare branches, as though the city itself were keeping a courteous distance, permitting its fashionable elite this fleeting illusion of bucolic charm. Yet even here, amidst the clipped hedges and manicured gravel walks, the pulse of society beat steadily beneath polished boots and murmured pleasantries, its rhythm as carefully composed as any ballroom quadrille.
The Beaumont carriage pulled to a smooth stop along the designated promenade, its glossy black panels gleaming like lacquered obsidian. The crest, modest yet unmistakable, caught the light with a muted gleam, drawing the eye of a passing lady whose gaze lingered just long enough to confirm the occupants within.
Arthur stepped down from the carriage first, offering his hand to Abigail as she descended. She took it without hesitation, her gloved fingers warm against his palm, her movements as fluid and composed as ever. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her eyes flicked briefly to the crowd before returning to his face, a shared understanding passing between them. This was for show. But the stakes were no less real.
Eliza alighted next, her usual brightness already engaged, scanning the tree-lined avenue until her smile widened in recognition.
Around them, the park moved on, as it always did. A pair of matrons whispered behind lace parasols. A dog barked from the lap of an elderly baronet. A group of young men—too extravagantly dressed to be entirely respectable—cast curious glances in their direction, already calculating the likelihood of a scandal worthy of supper conversation.
