Modesty is not your forte, Lord Colton,Abigail thought but didn’t say. It seemed the ton had got something right during their idle gossip after all. This was a lord who clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and believed in his own self-importance a little too much.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding in a negative way. She had been taught to behave like a lady, but she was not weak. She did not want him to think she was rude, but neither was she willing to court the first person who spoke with self-conviction. Lack of modesty was not a quality she found desirable, even if it was justified. In this case, it most certainly was not.
Her feet followed the steps flawlessly, muscle memory guiding her while her mind floated somewhere above, disconnected and quietly panicking. How long was a waltz? Three minutes? Five? Surely not more. She could endure five minutes. Anyone could get through five minutes.
Edward spoke without pause. He was clearly opposed to silence, companionable or otherwise. Abigail suspected the former was not one with which he was very familiar.
“Of course, I have no need to rush into matrimony. A man of my position may afford to be discerning. But I must confess, Miss Abigail, I find myself quite taken by your—how does one put it—your refinement.”
She managed a polite murmur. “You are too kind, my lord.”
“Not at all,” he said with a smile that exposed too many teeth. “You carry yourself with such composure. It is a rare quality these days. Elegance. Sophistication. Grace. A kind of timelessly discerning and demure appeal that so many young ladies of the ton seem to lack.”
Composure was all she had and it was the only thing keeping her upright. He was insufferable.
That sheen of sweat on his upper lip had started to bead and she noticed how it tracked its way towards his lower lip like a raindrop on a window pane. Abigail told herself to look away, but her eye was drawn to it in a kind of disgusted, morbid fascination.
Edward’s voice dropped slightly, as though sharing a confidence. “You see, I have found most young ladies to be utterly tiresome. So many empty heads beneath powdered curls. But you… you are different. Beauty and an intellect that surpasses most. Just don’t let it go too much to your head, Miss Darlington,” he smirked. “We don’t want you acting above your station. Esteemed gentlemen such as myself don’t appreciate that.”
Heavens, does he even hear himself?
Abigail could feel the eyes of the room upon them as they turned. Every spin swept them past watchful chaperones and eager mothers pushing for the best possible matches.
Somewhere out there in the sea of colorful gowns and expensive satin and lace, her mother was surely standing tall with pride, imagining her daughter almost three quarters of the way to a proposal. Though it was impossible for her to believe, there would be other mamas of the ton who envied the attention Lord Colton was bestowing on someone else’s daughter.
They were most welcome to him,Abigail thought, wishing someone would intervene. Alas, she would have no such luck.
Meanwhile, Abigail’s skin crawled.
She wanted to be as far away as possible from this horrible man, but her feelings held no weight in such a situation. Propriety demanded she behave respectfully, no matter how condescending or patronizing the words that came from this ‘gentleman’s’ mouth. She had to maintain a polite, dignified, ladylike persona at all times. Young debutantes were to be admired, and should speak only when invited to. It was not their place to express an opinion unless it was the one society deemed appropriate.
She couldn’t help but be aware of the proximity of this odious man. Lord Edward’s hand on her waist was respectful in placement but not in pressure. It lingered long enough to feel possessive.
His fingers, encased in pristine gloves, seemed to radiate entitlement and an uncomfortable heat. Every word out of his mouth cemented her impression of a man who believed himself a prize to be won—and believed her already ensnared.
He launched into a tale about a recent expansion to his estate—something to do with imported marble and Italian architects—and Abigail found herself nodding at all the appropriate intervals without registering a single meaningful detail.
His words held no meaning; a monotonous drone akin to the sound of the irritating buzz of an insect. Her mind wandered instead to the towering marble statues in Lady Jane Fairchild’s gardens, to the cold indifference etched into the faces of gods and warriors.
She would have given anything to be standing in that garden, breathing the cool night air, rather than being imprisoned in this seemingly endless waltz.
“…and I told the tradesman quite firmly, I would not accept anything less than perfection,” Lord Edward was saying. “Quality craftsmanship and experience, Miss Abigail. It is a principle I hold to in all things. There is no room in my life for less than perfection.”
I suspect you will find yourself wanting if that is what you seek, Lord Colton.
Abigail pressed her lips together to maintain her smile. She was aware, acutely, of every muscle in her face. Of the burn behind her eyes. The stifling lace at her throat. The oppressive beat of the music that had once seemed lovely but now felt like the ticking of a clock, marking each interminable second.
He pivoted, guiding her expertly into the next turn. “You are quiet, Miss Abigail. Tell me, what do you look for in a husband?”
The question brought her mind back to the reality of this situation. It was a question, but a part of her knew he had no intention of hearing her answer. She could have said a love of poetry, a fondness for long walks, an unshakable belief in kindness—and he would still believe she meant a country estate and a full set of ancestral silver.
“I look for…” she paused. What was the appropriate answer?Respectability? Security?“...meaningful conversation, companionship, and respect.”
Edward chuckled, clearly amused. “Ah, so many of the fairer sex would say the same nowadays. But in the end, women all desire the same comforts—a fine house, a few delightful children, and a man capable of managing them both.”
She stared at him. Not directly. Just past his ear. Imagining the marble gods in the garden again. Imagining that one of them might magically come to life, climb up to the roof, drop through the ballroom ceiling on a rope, and rescue her with all the drama and romance of a Greek epic.
The final notes of the waltz began their descent, mercifully signaling the end.
