“Lord and Lady Colton. Edward and his dear mother. I told you this morning, did I not?”
“No, you didnot,” Abigail replied evenly, clasping her hands before her. “Judging from your demeanour, I assumed we were expecting royalty.”
“Oh. Well. No matter.” Lady Harriet continued, as if her words were of no consequence. “They’ll be thrilled to see you. Besides, you must have known this would be the natural next step. Lady Margaret is quite taken with you, and Edward… well. He has made his interest clear.”
“Yes. Indeed, he has. Though I had rather hoped you would recognise by now that the feeling wasn’t entirely mutual.”
“What did you say, dear? You really must stop mumbling. Enunciation is one of the first things expected of a marriageable young lady.” She waved her hand as if to say she had done her best, but Abigail was a lost cause.
Abigail gave her no response. What was the point?
A few moments later, the butler opened the door with all the subdued theatricality he could muster. “Lord Edward Colton and Lady Margaret Colton.”
Abigail rolled her eyes to the heavens, and then closed them for a moment as if willing herself to remain calm. She pictured herself sitting in a beautiful garden next to a lake that sparkled in the sunshine. She visualized the flowers, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the gentle sound of insects. It was a beautiful moment of respite; a glorious departure from the inevitable noise that was about to invade her peace.
Pray give me strength.
Edward entered first, all polished boots, gleaming cufflinks, and—as ever—a smile that tried too hard. He reminded Abigail of a shark. Had he always had so many teeth? His mother followed closely behind, elegant in a way that suggested wealth layered over icy calculation.
“Lady Harriet,” Edward beamed, striding forward and bowing deeply. “A delight, as always.”
“Lord Edward,” Harriet purred, accepting his hand with a transparent pleasure that made Abigail feel ill. “And Lady Margaret, howlovelyof you both to join us.”
Abigail offered a curtsy, as restrained as etiquette allowed.
Edward turned to her. “Miss Darlington. You are looking especially radiant this evening.” His gaze swept over her, lingering too long, too knowingly. His eyes dropped from her lips to the neckline of her dress. “You truly are a vision.”
“Thank you,” she murmured wishing the ground would open beneath her. She smiled with practiced politeness, even as her stomach turned.
Dinner was announced soon after, and Harriet directed the seating with precision. Edward, naturally, was placed at her right hand, across from Abigail, who took her place with a grace born of years of practice, folding her napkin into her lap. Lady Margaret sat further down.
Edward wasted no time in dominating the conversation. How that man loved to hold court—loved the sound of his own voice.
“I must tell you,” he began, “I have recently acquired a new gelding—Arabian stock, fine legs, coat like burnished gold. Quite a conversation piece in the stables.”
“Indeed,” Lady Margaret said. “His name is Ajax. Edward insists on classical names for all his horses.”
“How refined,” Harriet purred, her eyes shining with the kind of maternal glee that always made Abigail feel like a prize to be given away.
Abigail took a measured sip of her wine, not because she particularly wished to drink, but because it gave her an excuse not to speak. She had considered drinking several glasses to dim the memory of the evening, but it wouldn’t do for a lady to have a loose tongue. She was bound to voice her true opinions and that would never do. She would never hear the end of it.
The wine was decent—light and dry—but did nothing to ease the dull throb forming just above her eyes. A headache, slow and creeping, born not from the evening’s exertions but from the relentless barrage of empty conversation.
Edward’s voice rolled on. “Of course, there are challenges. Finding a suitable groom these days is a veritable ordeal. I had to dismiss the last one after he—get this—served my gelding tepid water.”
He laughed as if this were an extraordinary anecdote.
Abigail did not.
Harriet dutifully laughed along, her fan fluttering. “Oh, how dreadful!”
“Yes, quite unacceptable,” Lady Margaret agreed. “And of course, Edward handled the situation with such authority. He’s always had an instinct for management. Even as a boy, he insisted on overseeing the household accounts when his father was abroad.”
“A prodigy,” Harriet breathed. “So very rare in men of his age.”
Abigail resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she set her glass down with a little more force than she intended.
She thought of Arthur—quiet, considered Arthur—who had said less in an hour than Edward had in two minutes, and yet he had conveyed so much more thought, more insight, more genuine conversation.
