Abigail inclined her head politely. “Of course, Mother. Thank you again, Lord Colton.”
Abigail adored all flowers, but she couldn’t help but note that this was another example of Edward’s lack of interest in her. Had he not asked about her favorite flowers last time he was here, and had she not told him that she favored lilies?
He’s doing it for appearance’s sake. He asks questions but doesn’t listen to my responses. This is all an elaborate, and painfully transparent performance. I can see straight through it.
Edward’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though dissatisfied with her carefully modulated politeness, yet he chose instead to turn toward Harriet. “Lady Darlington, I was hoping Miss Abigail might favour us with a performance today. Her talent knows no bounds and I would love to hear her play again.”
Why does he not ask me himself? I am in the same room!
Harriet immediately took the cue, her tone bright with enthusiasm. “Oh, to be sure, Abigail would be delighted. Go and bring your violin, dear.”
Abigail hesitated briefly, feeling a surge of rebellion at being commanded so openly, yet she knew resistance was futile, and would only prolong the agony. She returned moments later, her violin in hand, her chest tight with anxiety as Edward settled himself comfortably on the settee, watching her expectantly.
She began to play, her fingers moving automatically, flawlessly executing a piece she had practiced endlessly. At least playing prevented conversation.
As long as the violin was beneath her chin and the bow was in motion, she was spared Edward’s grating commentary, and her mother’s ponderous platitudes. It gave her a kind of invisible armor—one constructed not of steel but of sonatas and scales. And yet, she felt like a puppet on a string; a marionette being manipulated to do everyone else’s bidding.
There was no room for expression, no space for spontaneity; she might as well have been carved in wax, her hands guided by unseen strings. The irony was not lost on her that this performance was the epitome of art imitating life.
As she played, her thoughts drifted involuntarily to Arthur. She recalled their shared laughter, their passionate discussions, his genuine respect and kindness. It was a stark contrast to Edward’s calculated charm and possessive gaze.
As the music flowed, Abigail’s mind wandered further, imagining a future filled with Arthur’s quiet companionship—days spent reading together, conversing freely, enjoying a life built on mutual respect and genuine affection. Her heart ached with longing for the possibility she was only beginning to fully acknowledge.
But what if Arthur saw their arrangement purely as practical—a means to an end? What if her growing attachment was one-sided, an illusion fostered by her own foolish hopes?
The last notes faded softly, and Edward applauded generously, though his expression remained unchanged—calculating, assessing, ever watchful.
“A remarkable performance,” Edward pronounced grandly. “How fortunate I am to have such a talented and accomplished future countess.”
His confident proclamation startled Abigail, sending a chill through her. Harriet merely smiled indulgently, utterly blind to her daughter’s discomfort.
How can he be so brazen? He has not offered for me, and I have most certainly not accepted.
Abigail felt the nausea rise as Edward’s statement echoed ominously in her head. She glanced at him, sensing the steel beneath his polished exterior, the ruthless determination hidden beneath his charm. The reality hit her starkly. Her fate had been sealed by society, unless she could find a way out.
And suddenly, Abigail knew with stark certainty that she could never accept a life with Edward. Her heart yearned for Arthur—not merely as a convenient partner in deception, but as someone she truly desired to share her life with. The depth of her feelings frightened her as much as it thrilled her, yet it provided sudden clarity.
I must find a way out.
Whatever the cost, she would fight for her freedom. She would fight for Arthur, for herself, and for a future defined by authenticity and love. Why shouldn’t she have happiness? Didn’t she deserve to make any decisions for herself?
Her mother and Edward continued chatting amiably, unaware of Abigail’s quiet epiphany. But inwardly, Abigail felt her resolve solidify like iron.
No matter what society demanded, no matter the threats Edward posed, Abigail Darlington would not surrender her happiness without a fight.
Chapter Seventeen
Arthur Beaumont’s sleep was troubled, his body restless beneath silken sheets, his brow furrowed with unconscious distress. The room was dark, silent save for the muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, a sound barely perceptible but resonating like a distant, mocking heartbeat.
In his dream, the air was thick with the scent of roses, cloying and over-sweet, the petals almost bruised underfoot as if they had been trampled in haste. Arthur stood beneath the heavy moonlight of an all-too-familiar terrace—one he had known in another lifetime, when hope had still bloomed and his heart had not yet hardened to the world. The stone balustrade glistened as if wet with dew or tears, and the wind whispered secrets in a language he half-remembered.
Sophia stood before him.
Radiant. Beautiful. Terrible.
Her golden gown shimmered like molten coin, clinging to her like flame. Her hair, once so soft in his memories, now fell in deliberately molded curls, as sculpted and sharp as a crown of thorns. She smiled—and how lovely the smile had once been. But now it curled too wide, too knowing. Her teeth gleamed like pearl… or bone. Her lips were a grotesque sneer.
“You never were very good at seeing anything clearly,” she said, her voice as sweet as it was poisonous. “Did you honestly think I would wait forever?”
