“I know,” she said softly. “And I appreciate it. I don’t need you to approve of every man I speak to, Arthur—but I do value your opinion.”
He softened at that. “Then I shall answer honestly. If either of them means to court you seriously, they had better be serious men, or they shall have to answer to me, friends or no. You deserve someone who sees your worth—and not just your dowry or your family name.”
“Well,” she said, bumping his shoulder gently, “likewise, my dear brother. I wish exactly the same for you. I hope you find a match that makes you happy sooner rather than later.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, but nudged his sister affectionately with his arm. He was loath to admit it but, in truth, there was a deep-seated part of him that hoped for that too.
***
Later, Arthur stepped away from the ballroom, drawn not by discomfort but by a quiet desire to breathe. The weight of silk and perfume, the ceaseless rustle of fans and flirtation—it was all too familiar, and endlessly tiring.
He paused near a column beside the tall French doors that opened onto the terrace. The cool night air drifted in with the scent of jasmine. He wasn’t alone.
Abigail Darlington stood just beyond the open doors, half-hidden by shadows, speaking to her cousin, Charles Wescott. Arthur watched them silently, unnoticed in the half-light.
There was a lightness to her posture now, the weariness of earlier gone, replaced by something relaxed and authentic. Her voice, though soft, held a wry edge as she recounted the details of her dance with Lord Edward Colton.
“…monologue about marble tiles and the decline of feminine intellect,” she was saying. “And he used the word‘discerning’twice.”
Charles gave a low, appreciative chuckle, the sound echoing faintly in the cool air. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t fall in love with him on the spot? Goodness, woman, you are unbreakable. What does a man have to do for you to succumb to his magnificent charms?”
“I nearly fainted from rapture,” Abigail replied, her voice deadpan. “Although I was sorely tempted to pierce myself with my hairpin just to escape yet another remark about his uncle’s marble flooring.”
“I can’t imagine why you’re still unmarried,” Charles said, leaning against the door frame with an easy smile.
“Oh, it’s a mystery,” Abigail murmured. “Though I dare say it may stem from the fact that I am compelled to select among a gentleman who compared my violin to a milking stool, another who expounded upon the meaning of the word ‘literature,’ and a third who devoted twenty minutes to describing his hounds’ bowel habits.”
“Ah yes,” Charles said with mock solemnity. “The sacred trinity of marital eligibility—milking stools, air-headed wives, and defecation. Perhaps not the most agreeable discourse for intimate moments.”
“Charles!” Abigail chided, playfully slapping her cousin on the arm. “You shouldn’t say such ghastly things in public.”
“You play your part of horrified damsel of the ton beautifully cousin, but we all know that, deep down, you’d shed the perfect lady image in a heartbeat.”
Abigail turned toward him slightly, her silhouette lit softly by the glow from the ballroom behind them. “Do you suppose there is any man in London capable of speaking to a woman as though she might possess a brain and a mind of her own?”
“Present company excluded?” he asked lightly.
Abigail gave him a look. “You’re family. It doesn’t count.”
He tilted his head. “Then, no. I suspect you are utterly doomed.”
She smiled, but the expression faded a little, her gaze drifting toward the garden beyond the terrace. The night was still and fragrant, the moonlight catching on the damp leaves like spilled silver. At that moment, she would’ve liked nothing more than to disappear into the gardens and escape.
“I don’t know that I want it anymore,” she said quietly. “Marriage, I mean. At least, not in the form my mother envisions. I fear I’ll lose myself in it. One becomes a wife, and everything else—your thoughts, your preferences, yourperson—is quietly swept aside like dust on a mantel. I can already feel myself disappearing with every polite conversation, every forced effort to be polite with the most awful individuals.”
Abigail sighed in exasperation. “I probably wouldn’t even be addressed by my name anymore. I’d just be someone’s wife, incapable of making a single decision without my husband’s advice, or worse, his permission.” She paused thoughtfully. “That…obviously, is if I were addressed at all.”
Charles regarded her with a new softness, one that replaced his usual jesting. “You’ve always been more than the ton could handle, Abby. You have a mind for something greater. That doesn’t disappear just because you fall in love.”
“And what if one never does? Fall in love, I mean. I understand that one cannot always be so lucky to find a love match, particularly in modern society, but it would be nice to believe that it could happen. What if I never find anyone that I can even stand?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then, with a half-smile, he said, “then you and I shall retire to the countryside to raise goats. Or maybe we could read novels aloud to one another. Otherwise, you will have to tolerate your mother’s meddling for the rest of your days. Which is worse?”
She laughed at that—rich and unguarded. “I think I might have to pass on the goat rearing,” she said. “But I do like the sound of the reading. I could certainly do with a break from my mother. I know she means well, in her own way. But…it is rather suffocating.”
He gave a small bow. “Discount the goats and your mother, then. We’ll dispense with plans A and C and revert to B. I shall ensure my voice is properly trained for reading with projection. Perhaps I’ll audition with a passage from Radcliffe.”
“Oh, please…spareme the melodrama,” she said, and her smile, though still tinged with amusement, softened at the edges. “You always know how to make things feel a little less… heavy. I am so grateful for you, Charles.”
