He inclined his head. “Indeed.”
Gillian tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Curious. I confess myself... surprised. Especially considering the eligible young ladies you’ve ignored entirely who seem far more suitable. Lady Catherine Wilmot, for example. Or Miss Winthrop. Both quite well-situated, charming and fond of your company. They’re quite taken with you, too, I might add.”
Eliza sat very still.
Arthur’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment and he dabbed his mouth with a napkin before he replied. “Miss Darlington possesses intelligence, composure, and clarity of thought. I find her conversation refreshing and her company most agreeable.”
Gillian gave a cool, almost pitying smile. “‘Refreshing and agreeable’? Arthur, you owe it to the Beaumont name to make a match worthy of your station. One does not marry someone for being agreeable. You must think beyond polite conversation.” His mother said this lightly, though the sharp edge beneath her words was unmistakable. “Your match ought to reflect your title.”
Arthur maintained his external composure but, underneath the table, his nails scored half-moon crescents into the palms of his hands.
“She is intelligent,” he said calmly, “and far more sincere than most young ladies I have had the pleasure to meet.”
His mother’s lips thinned, and her eyes were cool and clear. “Miss Darlington is... pleasant to be sure, though she is unexceptional in pedigree. Her father is a newly ennobled baron and her mother, while tireless in ambition, is hardly a model of discretion.”
“Yet her father is titled. I see no need to enter into an alliance that offers nothing beyond a gilded pedigree,” he answered, his tone cool. “Miss Darlington’s family is respectable. Granted, her father’s title is newly made—but his business acumen and political career have earned him considerable regard.”
“That he is titled is hardly the point,” Gillian said, waving her hand as if brushing aside a fly. “He earned rather than inherited his title, at any rate.”
“Mama,” Eliza interjected gently, “surely we’ve never been a family to scorn merit.”
Gillian raised one perfectly arched brow. “Do not interrupt, Eliza. I did not say I scorned merit. But we must be realistic. You, of all people, should appreciate the importance of alliances.”
Arthur set down his fork, and exhaled sharply. “We are speaking of a woman’s worth as though it is determined solely by ledger and lineage.” His jaw clenched. “She is not a fool. And I assure you, if anyone is misinterpreting our acquaintance, it is not due to any encouragement on her part.”
Gillian was quiet for a moment, assessing him.
“You presume I speak from prejudice, Arthur, but I speak from experience. Do not mistake my realism for cruelty,” Gillian said, her voice soft but unyielding.
“We live in a world governed by expectation. Your name carries obligations, Arthur, and with those responsibilities come limitations. I understand Miss Darlington may provide you a measure of amusement. But surely you can see that she is not a viable match. The Season is not a game.”
“I never said it was.”
“Then do not behave as if it were.” She adjusted her bracelet, her tone casual—too casual.
Arthur stared at the silver candelabrum in the center of the table, its branches casting elegant shadows across the linen. It would be easier to say nothing. To let the conversation drift elsewhere.
But he had tired of simplicity.
“She is notamusement,” he said pointedly. “She is intelligent, well-read, and possesses more dignity and self-possession than most of the so-called ‘viable’ matches you have paraded before me.”
Gillian’s expression remained composed, but her eyes had cooled.
“Eliza,” Gillian said suddenly, “did you not say Miss Darlington refused Lord Colton’s offer of a dance at the last ball?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps she declined,” Eliza said carefully, “but so did half the room.”
Gillian’s mouth curved into a smile that held no mirth. “Even so. She treads a dangerous line, that girl. A young lady cannot afford to cultivate too much independence—not if she wishes to maintain her prospects.”
Arthur reached for his wine, his knuckles white around the stem of the glass. “Mayhap she has no interest in maintaining prospects that would see her married off like livestock.”
His mother’s voice softened. “My dear, this is not a personal affront. Please don’t take such offence. I simply wish to see you settled with a woman who understands our world. Our responsibilities. One who will not make herself a burden.”
Arthur took a sip of wine, savoring the burn. His mother continued.
“If you are so determined to champion Miss Abigail,” she said, “you may find the task more challenging than you expect. Word reaches me that Lady Sophia Carter has returned to London—with her husband.”
The name hit him like a gust of cold air.
