Her mother’s insistence felt different today, more urgent and threatening. Abigail realised with a jolt of panic that Harriet was no longer merely hoping for the match—she was intent on securing it, regardless of Abigail’s objections.
It terrified her deeply, for she knew society would invariably support her mother’s choice.
She could protest, resist, even rebel, but ultimately, if Edward Colton decided upon her, her consent would likely become irrelevant. Society favored men like Edward—titled, wealthy, influential—and Abigail felt an icy dread settle in her heart at the thought of a future as his wife.
Would it make any difference if I were to tell her that I find the man physically repellent? That he makes my skin crawl? That I do not think his pursuit of me is for any of the right reasons? That I believe I will feel thoroughly wretched about the union for the rest of my days?
In this moment of despair, where she willed herself not to cry, her thoughts drifted to Arthur. His gentle attentiveness, his intellectual companionship, his quiet respect for her mind—so starkly contrasted with Edward’s selfish entitlement—shone clearly in her memory, bringing a sudden ache of longing.
Arthur’s mere presence had become a source of genuine happiness. With him, she felt valued as an individual, free to express her intellect, her wit, and her true self without hesitation. She felt safe, and heard. Edward, by comparison, seemed coercive and threatening, a perpetual reminder of how readily her own desires might be smothered by the oppressive hand of societal ambition.
Harriet’s voice drew Abigail back sharply. “You must be receptive tomorrow morning. Edward intends to call, and he will not appreciate indifference, Abigail. Neither will I.”
Abigail swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Yes, Mama.”
“Good,” Harriet concluded, evidently satisfied for now. “I will see you at dinner.”
She swept out of the drawing room, leaving Abigail standing alone, her heart heavy with dread. She stared blankly at the empty chair her mother had vacated, feeling utterly isolated. The threat was becoming real, tangible, and unavoidable. And it was getting closer with every unwanted visit.
***
The following morning arrived swiftly, bringing with it bright sunshine and a sense of grim inevitability. The golden sunshine offered Abigail little comfort, as each passing minute brought Edward Colton’s imminent arrival closer.
Seated before the ornate dressing table, Abigail’s reflection showed a carefully composed mask that belied the anxiety within her, but her hands trembled—the only obvious sign that all was not well. Behind her, Lydia quietly arranged her hair, the maid’s gentle, practiced movements offering a subtle reassurance.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning, miss,” Lydia observed gently, her eyes meeting Abigail’s reflection with quiet understanding. “Is something troubling you?”
Abigail sighed softly, her gaze dropping briefly before returning to meet Lydia’s compassionate eyes. “Lord Colton is expected to visit shortly,” she admitted quietly, a trace of bitterness coloring her voice. “Mother is relentless in her insistence on his suit, and I cannot abide the man.” Her voice wavered on the last word, betraying her fear.
Lydia paused momentarily, her fingers lightly touching Abigail’s shoulder in comfort. “I can see how much his presence troubles you, miss. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but he seems most undeserving of someone as kind and clever as yourself.”
Abigail managed a faint smile, gratitude warming her voice. “Thank you, Lydia. It is not merely his arrogance or self-importance that repels me, but rather…” she hesitated, then pressed forward honestly, “it’s the way he regards me—as though I’m merely another object to acquire. He cares nothing for who I am, nor for what I desire. To him, I would merely be a young lady on his arm to be carted around at social events for appearances. He has no interest whatsoever in a love match, or even a consensual one. It would be a marriage of… inconvenience…for me.”
Lydia’s expression softened sympathetically as she resumed arranging Abigail’s hair. “Perhaps you might speak plainly with your mother, miss. Surely she would understand?”
Abigail shook her head slowly. “My mother understands only ambition. But I cannot—I will not—marry Lord Colton. I refuse to live a life in which I am valued only as a means to someone else’s ends.”
Lydia smiled gently, determination in her voice. “Whatever happens, Miss Abigail, I promise you won’t face it alone.”
Abigail met her maid’s gaze, drawing strength from her steadfast loyalty. “Thank you, Lydia. Your support means more than you will ever know.” Her maid’s kindness, while very welcome, was weakening her carefully crafted composure and resolve. The tears which she had fought so hard now threatened to flow.
Before she could wallow in self-pity she heard the familiar sound of carriage wheels outside, and took in a long, measured breath.
Her heart sank when she heard Edward’s voice downstairs, his commanding tone unmistakable even from her room.
He treats this place like he owns it. He believes he owns everything and everyone he sets his sights on.
Steeling herself, Abigail squeezed her maid’s hand in gratitude and descended the stairs, painting on a ladylike smile and bracing herself to endure yet another opportunity for Edward to talk about his own self-importance.
Edward awaited her in the drawing room, standing beside Harriet with the ease of a man certain of his welcome. His smile was assured and calculated, and—as usual—his gaze swept possessively over Abigail as she entered.
“Miss Abigail,” Edward greeted smoothly, presenting her with a lavish bouquet of richly scented roses. An artfully arranged fresh-cut bouquet of crimson reds and ivory whites. “For you.”
She forced a polite smile, accepting the bouquet with restrained gratitude. It truly was stunning, but beautiful flowers do not make a happy union.
“Thank you, Lord Colton. They’re absolutely lovely.”
Harriet beamed approvingly, delighted by Edward’s overt display. “How thoughtful, Edward. Abigail adores roses, do you not?”
