Thank goodness. The past five minutes has felt more like four days.
Abigail exhaled, just once, before smoothing her features again. She curtsied as the music ended, her shoulders aching from the effort of quelling her nausea.
“A delight as always, Miss Abigail,” Lord Edward said, releasing her hand with a flourish. “You give the Darlington name credit. Most agreeable company.”
“You are very kind, my lord,” she replied.
She turned before he could say anything more, offering a final nod before retreating into the crowd. Her pulse raced, her palms were damp from his clammy hands, despite the gloves, and she fought to keep her breathing measured.
Inside, she felt as though she had been submerged. The ballroom had closed around her like water, dragging her down to drown in its murky depths, and Lord Edward Colton had been the weight tied to her ankles.
Chapter Two
Lord Arthur Beaumont stood near the tall, arched window of Lady Jane Fairchild’s ballroom, his arms loosely folded across his chest, his demeanor unhurried and unobtrusive. He watched the room with the cool, analytical detachment of a man who had long since ceased to find any novelty in its pageantry. From his position, he saw everything—and none of it surprised him.
He had noticed the moment Lord Edward Colton had approached Abigail Darlington with the air of a man bestowing an honor rather than seeking a dance partner.
The stiff angle of Abigail’s shoulders, the half-second hesitation before she extended her hand—these subtleties were invisible to the casual observer, but not to Arthur. A flicker of dry amusement curled at the corner of his mouth as they moved into the waltz, Colton predictably launching into a soliloquy no doubt celebrating his own virtues.
“Another conquest?” came a familiar voice beside him.
Arthur didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. “Ah, sister. Come to pry or to chide?”
“A little of both,” Eliza Beaumont said, her tone light as she joined him. She followed his line of sight. “Edward seems rather taken with Miss Darlington. Her father, Baron Silas Darlington, is still abroad, I hear,” Eliza added thoughtfully. “But his absence hasn’t lessened the interest in his daughter one bit. It seems a profitable connection in the tea trade is just as alluring as ever.”
Arthur made a noncommittal sound. “Edward is rather taken with his own reflection, and Miss Darlington is simply the nearest polished surface.”
Eliza laughed softly. “You’re dreadful, Arthur. And absolutely accurate. I’ve never seen a more narcissistic man.”
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. Abigail Darlington was enduring the dance with admirable grace, though her eyes had the distant, glassy look of a woman mentally retreating into a far-off place to spare her sanity, and she looked as if she would rather be anywhere else.
“She’s quite lovely,” Eliza said thoughtfully. “Intelligent, too, from what I’ve heard. Don’t you think so?”
He finally turned to look at his sister. “You’re not matchmaking again, are you?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, arching a brow. “I’m only suggesting you stop scowling at everyone long enough to consider the possibility that not all women in the room are like the rest.”
Arthur’s expression shifted minutely. “You speak as if you believe I am blind.”
“Not blind,” Eliza said gently. “Just… understandably guarded.”
He didn’t respond.
She continued. “I know what happened with Lady Sophia Carter who wounded you. But that was years ago. Not everyone is so calculating. Some people are genuine. I promise.”
Arthur looked back at the dance floor. The waltz was drawing to a close. Abigail’s curtsy was executed perfectly, but Arthur saw the tightness in her fingers as she withdrew her hand from Colton’s. There was no affection in her expression—only relief, minimal and quickly veiled, quite invisible to the untrained eye. Arthur suspected that the dance had felt a lot longer to Abigail than it had to everyone else.
“Genuine or not,” he said, “this is all an act in which we are forced to take part. We are but actors on a stage—pieces on a board, and the game remains the same year after year after year.”
“Mayhap,” Eliza said, “but even in a game, there are those who long for truth. I think Miss Darlington might be one of them.”
“You got all of that from watching her dance with someone else?”
Eliza only smiled in response, but she had lodged the thought in his mind. Eventually, she braved a little more digging.
“You used to be more open. More hopeful. Do you remember that summer before you left for the continent? You used to draw, paint… laugh even.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “And look where that got me.”
