Charles smiled kindly. “Then you will have lost a lie. But if you do not speak, you may lose the truth.”
Abigail exhaled slowly, nodding. “You’re right. As always.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the breeze stirring the hem of her gown and rustling the leaves above them. The path remained quiet. A few passersby walked in the distance, oblivious to the quiet epiphany that had taken place beneath the trees.
“I suppose I just needed to tell someone,” she said at last, “someone who wouldn’t mock me or immediately begin planning the wedding breakfast.”
Charles laughed. “You have my solemn vow. No breakfast. Not even a scone.”
She gave him a grateful look.
“Abigail,” he said gently, “whatever comes of this, know that what you’re feeling is not foolish. Nor is it something to be ashamed of. Love—real love—rarely comes when or how we expect. And it always carries risk.”
She nodded slowly.
“And if he proves foolish enough not to recognise what you’ve come to offer,” Charles added with a lift of his brow, “well, I shall be forced to challenge him to a duel.”
She laughed, though her eyes glistened.
“Do you think he’ll come around?” she asked.
Charles hesitated, then said, “I think he already has. I think he’s halfway to admitting it. But you’ll need to be patient. And brave.”
“I can be both,” she said, surprising herself with the strength in her voice.
“I know you can,” Charles said warmly. “You’re a Darlington after all.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That used to be a curse.”
“Mayhap now it’s a shield.”
They rose and resumed their walk, the path now curving back toward the edge of the park. Abigail already felt a little better, not because her heart had settled, but because it had found space to be heard. To be understood.
She didn’t know what Arthur felt. Not truly. But she knew whatshefelt—and now, at least, she was no longer hiding it from herself.
“I should return. My mother will wonder where I have gone,” Abigail said eventually. “Thank you, as ever, for your words of wisdom, Charles, and your time. I do appreciate it. I’m lucky to have you.”
Charles offered her his arm once more. “If she presses you about Edward, feign a migraine. Works for me every time.”
She laughed, the tension in her chest easing slightly.
As they walked back toward the edge of the park, Abigail felt lighter. The burden of her feelings hadn’t lessened, but she had shared them. Spoken them aloud. Given them shape. It was a significant weight off her shoulders.
The future still felt uncertain, but her path forward was clearer.
She would not run. She would not hide behind polite smiles or well-crafted performances.
If what she and Arthur shared had grown into something more than pretense, she would face it.
With eyes wide open.
And her heart unguarded.
Chapter Twenty-One
The library at Beaumont Manor had always been his sanctuary.
It was a place untouched by the shifting demands of the Season, by the persistent buzz of social ambition, by the endless parade of faces and facades. Within these four walls, the world narrowed to the scent of vellum and ink, the soft rustle of pages turned by candlelight, and the steadying weight of volumes that had long outlived kings and courtships alike.
