Chapter Eighteen
Abigail stepped into the glittering grandeur of Gillian Beaumont’s ballroom, her heart fluttering anxiously beneath the silk bodice of her gown. Though she had attended her fair share of soirées this Season, the moment her foot crossed the threshold into the marble-floored expanse of Beaumont Manor, she felt it—the subtle but unmistakable shift in the air, the elevation of expectation. This was not just another ball. This was a stage carefully curated by the indomitable Lady Gillian.
Above, twin crystal chandeliers sparkled with relentless elegance, suspended like galaxies of frozen starlight. Each candle flame flickered with golden intensity, casting soft glows across the vaulted ceilings painted with delicate frescoes of mythological scenes. The ceiling had been recently restored, the colors still fresh, and their mythic gaze seemed to watch the guests below with amused detachment.
The walls were paneled in soft ivory and gilded at the corners, their sweeping height draped with silken damask in a muted shade of sage green that somehow whispered of wealth without ever needing to speak it aloud. On either side, tall windows framed with embroidered brocade curtains let in the faint light of the moon, though the candlelight inside far outshone it. Musicians were stationed upon a raised dais at the far end of the room, their instruments tuned to perfection, the strains of a delicate minuet already drifting into the air like scented smoke.
The scent of orange blossom and beeswax polish mingled subtly with the fainter trace of rosewater and fine perfume. Footmen in immaculate livery glided between guests like shadows, bearing silver trays of sparkling wine and slender flutes filled with pale punch that glowed softly in the light. Everything was orchestrated to perfection.
And Gillian Beaumont’s presence was everywhere, even when she could not be seen.
Though Abigail could not yet spot her hostess amid the swirl of brightly clad guests, the tone of the evening had been unmistakably set. Each movement, every spoken word, seemed to obey the silent dictates of a woman known for her elegance, her exacting standards, and her formidable will. This was her court, and she its undisputed queen.
Abigail felt it in her bones.
She had chosen her gown carefully—pale blue silk, simple in silhouette, with delicate embroidery of silver thread curling like vines along the hem and sleeves—but the moment she stepped inside, she wondered if it had been too understated. Not for fashion’s sake, but for the moment. Would Lady Gillian see her as a fitting guest? Or as an interloper—an outsider who dared to step onto Beaumont territory under the pretext of courtship?
Beside her, Harriet Darlington surveyed the room with practiced efficiency, the silk fan in her gloved hand fluttering rapidly as if already calculating how best to navigate the sea of influential acquaintances.
“Lady Harrow is over there,” she whispered sharply. “And Lord Bexley’s wife—do you see? That monstrosity in lilac silk? You mustn’t let her see you looking anxious, Abigail. Straighten your shoulders. You’re here with purpose.”
Abigail obeyed, more from habit than conviction. Her eyes flicked around the room—past jewel-toned gowns, embroidered waistcoats, and the occasional gleam of a medal pinned to a lapel—searching for Arthur. Not yet.
Charles Wescott, ever calm and perceptive, stepped beside her and offered his arm. “Breathe,” he murmured. “You look perfect. Better than perfect. Now let’s find our hostess before your mother attempts to parade you directly into the path of Lord Edward Colton.”
Abigail allowed herself a breathless smile as she took his arm. Together, they moved further into the room, careful to avoid one of the looming potted palms that framed the entrance like sentinels.
A quartet of young ladies paused as she passed—whispers following like ripples in water. Abigail caught the edge of her name, and though their faces remained pleasant, their eyes flickered with appraisal. It was not malice. It was curiosity. Speculation. A girl like Abigail Darlington—clever, composed, rumored to be courting Arthur Beaumont—would always draw interest, especially within the walls of his mother’s house.
The music swelled. A group of dancers turned elegantly across the floor. The ladies’ gowns fanned and shimmered as they moved, and the men’s heels clicked in time with the strings. Laughter sparkled in the air like champagne, yet a quiet tension threaded beneath it all, as though every guest were aware that they were being observed, assessed—perhaps by Gillian herself.
It was only then that Abigail spotted her.
Lady Gillian Beaumont stood near the hearth, her posture immaculate, her dark gown embellished with jet beads that glinted like black diamonds. Her chin was slightly raised, her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest she had the measure of every person in the room and found most of them wanting.
Her hair, arranged in a style elegant without ostentation, was crowned with a comb of polished silver that gleamed beneath the chandelier’s glow. She was speaking to another matron, but her gaze—piercing and perceptive—drifted past Abigail even as her lips continued to move.
Abigail stiffened.
There was no overt hostility in Lady Gillian’s expression—merely scrutiny. Evaluation. As though she were calculating precisely how these guests fitted within the greater narrative of the Beaumont legacy.
Abigail could feel the unspoken question in the air.
She pressed her free hand against the smooth fabric of her gown and drew herself up to her full height. She would not shrink from the moment. Not here. Not now.
This was Arthur’s world—and perhaps, if she could navigate it with grace, it might one day be hers too.
Arthur stood near his mother, and his sister, Eliza. Abigail’s breath caught involuntarily as she met Arthur’s gaze, his deep blue eyes holding hers just long enough to send a pleasant warmth cascading through her chest.
His formal greeting was polite and cordial, yet his voice carried an unmistakable sincerity that stirred within Abigail a tentative hope that perhaps their charade might indeed have begun to transform into something more real.
“Miss Darlington,” Arthur murmured, bowing gracefully, his tone softening slightly. “You are looking especially lovely this evening.”
A delicate blush warmed Abigail’s cheeks, and she smiled shyly as she curtsied before him. “Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.”
Harriet, her eyes sharp with subtle calculation, greeted Arthur with carefully measured politeness, clearly displeased that her daughter had chosen to attend to focus her attentions on a mere Viscount rather than on the arm of Edward Colton. Charles, however, extended his hand warmly to Arthur, his genuine affection evident.
“You have quite outdone yourself, Lady Beaumont,” Harriet said, shifting her attention to Gillian, her voice pitched just loud enough to ensure Abigail overheard her quiet disdain. “The ballroom looks absolutely delightful.”
