Abigail felt a sudden pang of unease as Gillian’s eyes coolly appraised her from head to toe, her lips pursed in thinly veiled disapproval. Arthur caught his mother’s glance and tensed subtly, an almost imperceptible stiffening in his posture.
Abigail noted this with quiet discomfort—fully aware she was being judged inadequate. She was obviously a disappointing match for a future Viscount, in his mother’s eyes at any rate. The fleeting pang deepened her anxiety, reminding her once again how tightly society’s expectations bound her every choice.
As Harriet and Gillian moved aside to converse quietly, Abigail released a silent breath she had not registered she had been holding, grateful for the brief reprieve. Charles and Eliza were already chatting comfortably, leaving Abigail and Arthur standing slightly apart.
Arthur leaned closer, his voice soft yet reassuring. “Do not let her opinion distress you, Abigail. My mother holds no sway over my regard.”
His words brought immediate comfort, yet Abigail lowered her gaze, her heart fluttering unsteadily. “Still, I would not wish to cause tension in your household, Arthur, or do anything that would cause her to dislike me further.”
“Let that concern rest with me,” Arthur insisted gently. “Tonight is yours to enjoy. I want you to forget about society for a while and ignore the expectations of others. After all, worrying about them won’t make them disappear.”
“Too true,” Abigail agreed with a smile. “No sense in wasting a good worry.”
He smiled at her beatifically, his quiet sincerity melted her lingering anxiety, and drew a genuine smile to her own lips. As Abigail walked deeper into the ballroom to mingle, she glanced over her shoulder, catching Arthur’s lingering gaze. Warmth spread through her again; a quiet hope tentatively blossoming despite the mounting complexities of their situation.
The evening soon reached a dazzling crescendo, with couples swirling gracefully to the strains of a waltz and flashes of color spinning about the room as ladies’ gowns floated around them.
Abigail moved through polite conversations, yet her eyes repeatedly sought Arthur’s reassuring presence across the crowded ballroom. He remained at the edge, seemingly detached yet ever watchful. The invisible connection between them brought Abigail unexpected joy, making even tedious social exchanges more bearable.
Being away from her haranguing mother for more than five minutes also brought with it a sense of peace she hadn’t felt for weeks. Abigail had been concerned that her mother would have been pushing her into the arms of eligible bachelors all evening, but Lady Harriet seemed far more interested in asserting her own place in society this evening.
While this brought blessed relief, it also filled Abigail with an impending sense of doom. For her sudden lack of attention meant that her mother had clearly decided Edward would be her betrothed before the end of the Season.
Determined to rid herself of such negative thoughts, Abigail sought out a footman carrying refreshments and sought solace in a glass of wine to calm her fluttering nerves and provide a spot of respite.
Her contentment was short-lived, however. Edward Colton appeared suddenly before her, his usually oppressive presence impossible to avoid. Abigail’s stomach tightened reflexively, dread pooling within her.
“Miss Darlington,” Edward cooed, his smile thinly masking the hard glint of possessive triumph in his eyes. “There you are. I was trying to find you, but you have been rather elusive this evening. Might I have the pleasure of this waltz?”
Every fiber of Abigail’s being protested most vehemently. She wanted to make her opinion of this man known once and for all now that her mother was not there to chide her, but she found her lips curving upwards into a somewhat unconvincing, but ladylike smile. Edward’s meticulously cultivated charm could not disguise the discomfort she felt in his company. Yet society’s ruthless expectations offered her no escape.
“Of course, Lord Colton,” she replied softly, forcing politeness through clenched teeth. Her hand felt heavy as she placed it upon his arm, her heart sinking a little further as he led her onto the crowded dance floor.
As they began to dance, Abigail’s discomfort grew as she noticed one sweaty, gloved hand in hers while the other rested almost forcefully at her back. His grasp was firm, almost possessive, his movements subtly dominating, forcing her compliance.
“You dance beautifully tonight,” Edward remarked smoothly. “But I would expect nothing less from my future countess.”
The words turned Abigail’s blood cold, her breath momentarily hitching. She fought to maintain her composure, dread filling her at the certainty in Edward’s eyes.
“You presume too much, my lord,” Abigail replied quietly, striving to keep her voice steady. “Nothing is yet decided.”
Edward’s grip tightened slightly, his voice lowering with deceptive softness. “Society has already decided, Abigail. It would be wise not to fight the inevitable.”
A shiver of fear raced through Abigail, threatening her carefully constructed composure. Her eyes desperately sought Arthur across the ballroom, her heart aching to escape Edward’s oppressive grasp and return to Arthur’s comforting, steady presence.
At last, the waltz ended, the music fading mercifully. Edward released her reluctantly, bending slightly to whisper into her ear, “we are far from finished, Abigail.”
She felt ill as he stepped away, leaving her shaken amidst the swirling sea of silk and laughter. Her breath came unsteadily, her heart pounding as Arthur stepped determinedly toward her, clearly intending to reclaim her side. Abigail’s relief was immediate, yet mercilessly brief.
A sudden, abrupt hush fell over the crowded ballroom, the atmosphere shifting palpably. Heads turned expectantly toward the entrance. Abigail followed the collective gaze, her chest constricting sharply as a strikingly beautiful woman entered the room, accompanied by her equally distinguished husband. Instantly, whispers began to ripple excitedly throughout the guests, curiosity sharpening every gaze.
Lady Sophia Carter had arrived.
Abigail’s pulse quickened in anxious curiosity as she instinctively turned toward Arthur. His face paled slightly, his eyes fixed upon Sophia with unreadable intensity, tension rigidly lining his posture. Abigail’s heart twisted painfully, a new wave of uncertainty and fear overtaking her.
Sophia Carter moved gracefully through the crowd, every gesture elegant and choreographed, fully aware of the impact of her entrance. Abigail felt suddenly plain, and overshadowed, her newly found hope swiftly dissipating. How could she compete with a woman who so effortlessly captured attention, whose presence seemed to dominate the whole ballroom with immediate effect?
Arthur’s reaction also left Abigail deeply unsettled, her confidence wavering as she saw a look of hurt and barely suppressed pain flash across his face. She had begun to hope Arthur felt something genuine for her, something beyond their careful deception. But now she questioned everything. Perhaps Sophia remained the true keeper of Arthur’s heart. She might be unobtainable, but wasn’t the forbidden fruit all the more tantalizing than any to which you could lay claim?
