Chapter Twelve
The Beaumont carriage pulled away with smooth elegance, disappearing around the corner with a clatter of hooves on cobblestone and a flick of polished wheels. Abigail lingered for a moment in the entrance hall, her gloved hand resting lightly on the banister. Her mind was still half in Hyde Park—half in that sun-drenched tea shop, where conversation had felt like the unfolding of a page in a cherished book.
She took in a deep breath and exhaled, softly as she climbed the stairs and made her way to her chambers. Upon opening the door, she was startled to find Lydia in her room, organizing her dresses, and accessories ready for the next social occasion.
“Sorry, miss. I did not mean to frighten you. Shall I lay out your blue silk for this evening, miss?” came the familiar voice of Lydia, her maid, standing patiently nearby.
“No problem, Lydia. My thoughts were elsewhere. Yes, thank you,” Abigail replied, removing her bonnet and gloves. “And mayhap the pearl drop earrings.”
“Shall I run you a bath, miss?”
“Thank you, Lydia. That would be most kind of you.”
***
The sun was lowering as Abigail moved to the window and stood for a moment, staring out across the rooftops while Lydia busied herself with her evening gown.
The sky was soft with the last light of day. Below, a street vendor called out to passersby, the distant clatter of a carriage wheel echoed from the mews. And yet, despite the familiar London sounds, the air felt different now—taut, expectant, as though she had crossed some invisible threshold.
By the time she had changed into her evening gown, Abigail was almost—almost—able to convince herself that the outing to Hyde Park and the tea-shop had been nothing more than a successful act. Just another chapter in the charade to convince the ton of a blossoming courtship.
Except her skin still tingled faintly where Arthur’s fingertips had brushed her hand. And the words they’d exchanged over tea echoed with startling clarity in her mind.
Quite honestly, she had not expected to enjoy herself and she couldn’t help but be troubled by the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed an excursion so keenly.
Arthur Beaumont had, quite against her expectations, made her feel seen. He had listened without seeking to impress, spoken without needing to control the conversation. He had asked what she thought about Marcus Aurelius. AboutRome. And he hadlistenedto andunderstoodher answers.
She wasn’t used to that.
“Miss?” Lydia prompted gently. “Would you like help with your hair?”
“Yes, please,” Abigail said, and seated herself before the mirror.
As Lydia carefully pinned her hair into an elegant chignon, Abigail stared at her own reflection. The young woman who looked back at her was the same, and yet… quite changed. There was a brightness in her eyes she hadn’t noticed before. A flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with added colour or the sun.
A gentle knock on her bedchamber door interrupted her thoughts. A footman stood in the doorway, bowing.
“Your mother asks that you join her in the drawing room. She says… your guests will arrive shortly.”
Abigail frowned. “Guests?”
“Mr. Edward Colton and his mother.”
The footman left before Abigail could muster a suitable expression of dismay.Of course.Edward. She should have known the reprieve wouldn’t last.
Why did her mother insist on continuing this dreadful idea? Was a promenade out with Arthur not enough to convince her that there were more suitable options than that abhorrent man?
Any lingering warmth from the morning evaporated as the footman closed the door.
Surely the gossip-mongers had spread rumors about their tea-room visit by now! She had no doubt that rumors of their trip would have circulated all over London—and beyond—before she’d even returned home, so why did her mother not desist with this nonsense?
Abigail took several calming breaths, and descended the stairs with carefully schooled composure. The scent of roasted duck and buttered vegetables hung in the air—one of her favorite dishes—but the thought of an evening spent with Edward stifled her appetite.
When she entered the drawing room moments later, Harriet was already positioned near the fireplace, examining a cut crystal decanter with the air of a woman who expected guests of diplomatic significance.
“Ah, Abigail,” her mother said, barely looking up. “Do stand a little straighter, darling. They’ll be here any minute.”
“They?” she asked, knowing full well that her fate was sealed, but determined to make a point to her mother that she was less than impressed.
