And she wondered, as Edward launched into a tale about the breeding habits of his favorite mare, whether madness—or even death— might be preferable to marriage.
Edward’s every empty compliment was received like a prize. His self-congratulatory stories were met with nods and encouraging laughter. Her mother didn’t so much as glance at Abigail, not truly—and certainly not with any interest about how she felt.
Abigail turned her gaze to the tall windows, letting the sounds of the room blur together. How was it that only hours earlier, she had sat at another table with another man and felt that she could be so unapologetically herself?
Arthur had not tried to flatter her. He had not spoken over her, or to her as though she were some prize to be won. He had asked her aboutCicero. He had quotedMarcus Aureliuswithout smugness or showmanship. He hadlistened.
She could still hear his voice.
Assumptions are dangerous things.
What, then, what could she assume now?
That Edward wanted to marry her. That her mother wanted the same. That society would cheer the match and judge her ungrateful if she resisted.
But what about whatshewanted—had anyone ever asked?
By the time dessert was served, Abigail felt the weight of the entire day catching up with her—an aching contrast between two worlds. The first, shared with Eliza and Arthur, where conversation had meant connection and performance had blurred into something more. And now, this—a table laid with silver and crystal, where words were currency and affection merely a performance for gain.
She looked across at Edward. He smiled at her, possessive and certain. He continued to dominate the conversation, praising himself and gently mocking lesser men, while Harriet and Lady Margaret clucked approvingly like mother hens. Abigail watched them from across the table, the two mothers united in their shared ambition.
And all the while, her resolve crystallized.
This could not—would not—be her life.
She had seen something better. Not grander. Not richer. Buttruer.
She might not yet understand what Arthur Beaumont truly felt for her—if anything—but she knew what she felt in his company. Ease. Respect. Possibility.
When the butler came to clear the last of the dishes, Abigail offered a cool smile to Lady Margaret, a brief curtsy to Lord Edward, then excused herself with impeccable grace.
But, as she ascended the stairs at a measured pace, her stiff posture gradually softened with relief upon her successful escape, her thoughts remained solely fixed upon Lord Arthur.
Chapter Thirteen
The table at Beaumont Manor gleamed with all the grandeur expected of a noble household. Wax-polished mahogany reflected the flicker of candlelight, while crystal decanters glowed like amber beneath their silver stoppers. Porcelain dishes, each bearing the Beaumont crest in gold filigree, sat in precise alignment atop linen so pristine it might have been cut from freshly fallen snow.
All the pageantry of rank and tradition was in place, and yet Arthur sat at the head of it with a weariness that not even the finest claret could dull. The family dining room was its own theatre of war. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, and the table was dressed to impress no one but itself. Nothing about it felt welcoming.
Lady Gillian Beaumont sat next to Arthur on his right, her posture impeccable, her expression composed in that particular way that suggested watchfulness behind every sip of wine and every neatly folded napkin. Her presence commanded attention, not with warmth, but with precision. She presided over dinner with the calm authority of a seasoned general inspecting her troops.
Arthur was looking around, his expression one of bland civility, honed over years of social obligation. Across from him, Eliza, his younger sister, picked at her pheasant with uncharacteristic quiet, her fork moving listlessly through her salad, and her usual lively charm muted as if anticipating battle.
Arthur knew this meal was not about food.
He braced himself.
The evening thus far had been filled with inconsequential pleasantries—remarks on the unusually fine spring weather, praise for a recent charity concert, idle speculation about upcoming events in the Season. It was all a prelude. Arthur knew it. Gillian knew it. Eliza, perhaps more sensitive than either of them to her mother’s moods, certainly knew it. His mother never rushed. She prepared her ground first, waited for just the right moment, and then struck with lethal precision.
It came, as it always did, under the guise of civility.
“Arthur,” Lady Gillian said, dabbing delicately at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, “am I to understand that your attentions this Season have been directed almost exclusively toward Miss Darlington?”
Eliza paused, her fork suspended mid-air and shot her brother a quick glance, her eyes wide with silent sympathy. Arthur placed his wine glass back on the table with careful deliberation.
“You understand correctly. We’ve met a few times,” he replied evenly. “At various engagements.”
“Hyde Park yesterday, I believe. And before that, Lady Maria’s musicale.”
