With that, he bowed—ostentatiously and insolently—and turned away, vanishing back into the crowd as though he had merely exchanged pleasantries.
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
The gall of the man. At his own estate. The shamelessness. And worse still—the accuracy. Edward had not stumbled across some vague insinuation. No, he had aimed with purpose. He knew about Sophia. And he had wielded her name like a blade.
Arthur’s hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side. The man was insufferable—worse, he was dangerous.
He glanced at Abigail. Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes betrayed her unease. The air between them had shifted—tainted, momentarily, by the shadow Sophia had cast.
Arthur turned to Abigail. “Do not give weight to his words,” he said quietly. “He seeks only to unsettle. Let us not let him think he has won. Let us not give him the permission to ruin the evening.”
She nodded, but her silence was not reassuring. For a moment, it looked as though she was about to disclose something meaningful. There was a flicker of something in her eyes that suggested she was fearful about something, but then it was gone.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” Despite his efforts to offer words of reassurance, the brightness that had lit her eyes earlier in the evening had dulled, the strain of the evening now written plainly in the set of her shoulders as she walked away.
What had she been about to say?
The ballroom was stifling.
Not with heat—though the combination of bodies and candlelight had raised the temperature to an uncomfortable degree—but with the sheer weight of expectation. Of watching eyes and murmured judgments. Of unspoken schemes and unrelenting performances.
Despite standing at the periphery of the room in an effort not to have to speak to anyone until he could organize his muddled thoughts, Arthur found himself nodding to an aging peer whose breath reeked of port and whose political theories were as outdated as his cravat.
He was so tired of the sheer weight he felt he was carrying all the time. The pointlessness of it all. He wanted to speak to Abigail without interruption and freely, but it didn’t look as though the fates would allow him that luxury tonight.
I just wanted her to have a good time. Is that really too much to ask?
He could scarcely recall the last ten minutes of the current conversation, although he had done a reasonable job of making appropriate noises of acknowledgement here and there. It was largely one-sided anyway. Gentlemen of the ton were always so painfully full of themselves and this one-sided conversation was a prime example.
Across the room, Sophia’s laughter rang out—delicate, artful, perfectly orchestrated to be noticeable. ShewantedArthur to notice her, perhaps still long for her. She was asserting her power as a beautiful woman; a pointed reminder of what he could have had.
Arthur did not look. He had already looked once too often. And the memory of her golden presence at the threshold, the poised elegance of her smile, had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not in London, not this Season, not when his life—however falsely—was being reshaped around a woman who, until recently, had meant nothing more to him than a convenient shield against the demands of society.
Abigail.
Arthur’s gaze drifted toward her without conscious intention. She was speaking to her cousin Charles now, her head tilted as she listened, one gloved hand resting lightly at her waist.
The expression on her face was composed, but not entirely serene. She had learned how to mask emotions—hadn’t all of society—but he saw the telltale tension in her shoulders, and the faint shadow in her eyes. She was performing—just as he was—and yet, within that performance, there was something real. Something he had not seen in Sophia. Something that drew him in and unsettled him in equal measure.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Eliza, sharp-eyed as ever, was watching him. She offered him a look that was equal parts inquiry and warning, then returned to her conversation. Arthur stifled a sigh. He needed air.
He had to get out of the ballroom. And he had to speak with Abigail—truthfully, quietly, without the oppressive hum of orchestrated society bearing down on them.
With a murmured apology to the political relic at his elbow, Arthur began to make his way toward the French doors leading to the terrace giving Abigail a pointed look that he hoped would convey his intentions.
The candlelit ballroom gave way to the cool embrace of night, and he stepped outside, inhaling deeply as the chill kissed his skin. The moon hung low and pale above the gardens, illuminating the trimmed hedges and gravel paths with a soft, ghostly glow.
He rested his hands on the balustrade and stared out into the shadows.
His thoughts swirled like the dancers within. Sophia’s return, Abigail’s quiet courage, his own increasing inability to distinguish performance from reality.
A soft rustle behind him broke his reverie.
He turned slightly, already sensing who it was. Abigail stood just inside the terrace doors, the candlelight of the ballroom outlining her figure in gold. She stepped forward slowly, her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor, her expression unreadable.
“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I did not know if you wanted me to follow you out. From the look on your face, I thought you did.” She scanned the terrace briefly to ensure there were other guests present and noted a few other people taking in the cool night air away from the heat of the ballroom.
