The very last thing they needed was the whispers of a potential scandal. If the ton could get worked up about something as simple as Arthur preventing her from an accidental fall, they would undoubtedly let their imaginations run wild about a moonlit tryst. Abigail couldn’t help but think that such a situation might provide the perfect solution to their predicament, if Arthur felt willing, but she quickly pushed the notion aside.
“You are welcome to the air as much as I am,” Arthur replied, his voice low. “I find I cannot breathe in there.”
Abigail moved to stand beside him at the balustrade. For a moment, they said nothing. The silence between them was not awkward—it was heavy and charged with words left unspoken, but not unpleasant.
She was the first to break the quiet.
“I do not know what is worse,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “the need to smile for the sake of politeness, or the knowledge that every smile is being scrutinized and weighed for some hidden agenda.”
Arthur turned his head, studying her profile—the delicate line of her jaw, the way the moonlight shimmered in her chestnut hair. There was such a weariness in her voice with which he felt a profound sense of empathy. But more than that—there was longing.
“You wear the mask well,” he said gently.
“I’m so tired of masks, Arthur,” she confessed. “I long for something real. Something… genuine. Something untouched by the expectations of society.”
He looked away, back to the gardens.
“So do I.”
They were simple words, but their weight startled even him. He had not meant to say them aloud.
Abigail turned toward him then, and he faced her in kind. Her eyes searched his, full of questions, full of doubt, full of something deeper that he didn’t know how to name.
“When we began this charade,” she said slowly, “I thought it would be easy. Pretend to care, pretend to be seen. And yet, now…”
Arthur waited, his heart thudding with anticipation.
“…I find that the pretense has made no difference… to my mother at any rate. She will still do whatever she can to ensure that I marry Edward Colton purely to suit her own skewed purpose.
“You cannot marry him,” Arthur retorted. “I cannot bear the thought. He is neither a good person, nor is he deserving of your wisdom, insight, and… beauty.”
There’s another thing, Arthur. I—I no longer know what is pretense and what...what my true… feelings are.”
A relieved breath escaped him—half laugh, half sigh. “Nor do I.”
Another silence fell, but it was no longer comfortable. It trembled with pregnant anticipation and frustrated longing—unsteady, powerful, and growing.
“I thought this arrangement would shield me,” Arthur admitted, his voice rougher now, more vulnerable. “From my mother’s incessant schemes, and from society’s expectations. And yes—perhaps from myself. From the dangers of hoping again.”
Her gaze held his. “Sophia? You still care about her?”
He flinched at the name, though she had asked her question without accusation or judgment.
“Indeed,” he said, after a long pause. “She taught me what it meant to trust wrongly. And what it costs to hope when the other person does not feel the same way as you. She gave me a harsh lesson in unrequited love.”
“And do you think it was true love? Or have you revised your opinion after… her departure? Abigail asked.
The guests at the far end of the terrace were heading back inside, and Arthur and Abigail found themselves alone. While they knew they should follow suit or seek a chaperone, they also knew they would probably not get a chance like this again.
“In all honesty, I do not know,” Arthur said, earnestly. “In truth, I have not had any frame of reference until… quite recently. And I still feel rather confused.”
“And what do you hope now?” Abigail whispered, pressing for the answer she wanted, and needed to hear.
Arthur’s throat tightened. He did not know. Or rather—hedidknow, but feared to say it aloud.
Instead, he stepped closer.
“There is something I need to say,” he murmured. “And I may regret saying it. But I can no longer pretend that what has passed between us thus far is mere illusion.”
