Arthur stood by the tall mullioned windows, one hand braced against the frame, the other cradling a glass of brandy he had no real desire to drink. The gardens stretched before him—manicured, orderly, composed. Much like the life he had so meticulously crafted. A life of restraint. Of obligation. Of measured decisions made with the cold precision of logic.
And yet here he was, his gaze unfocused, his thoughts miles away. Or rather, narrowed to one point. One moment.
He did not see the clipped hedges or the frost-tipped petals of the crocuses beginning to brave the air. His thoughts were still lost in the pale blue silk of Abigail Darlington’s gown. In the curve of her cheek. The glint in her eye.
He exhaled, long and low, as if the very breath might purge the confusion tightening in his chest. But it didn’t.
Abigail.
He could still feel the ghost of her lips against his, the silken warmth of her mouth, the gentle tension in her fingers as they’d curled against his sleeve. It had not been a kiss of calculation. There had been no audience, no need for performance. No reason for pretense.
It had been real. And that—more than anything—unsettled him.
He had kissed her because he wanted to.
Not as part of their agreement. Not as a strategic maneuver. But because, in that fragile moment beneath the moonlight, with her gaze open and searching, he had felt something new. Something that had unmoored him from all he had come to accept about himself.
He’d spent much of the morning trying to reason through it. To contain what had happened that night. To return to the calm, clinical detachment with which he had first agreed to the courtship ruse. But his mind refused to be subdued. It returned again and again to the moment her eyes had searched his face in the moonlight. To the tremor in her voice when she’d confessed her weariness with the world’s expectations. And then to the kiss—unplanned, unperformed, and undeniably real.
She had kissed him back.
And now… now, he could not stop thinking of her. Of the quick wit behind her careful composure. Of the quiet fire she kept hidden beneath a veil of courtesy. Of the way she looked at the world—not with the simpering acquiescence of so many young ladies of the ton, but with curiosity, with hunger for understanding, for substance.
In short, his ship had become unmoored, and he had no idea what to do about it.
Arthur lifted the glass to his lips, then lowered it again. The brandy remained untouched.
“Arthur.”
He turned slightly, his expression shifting quickly into the familiar mask of cool detachment.
Eliza stood in the doorway, clad in pale pink, her auburn hair pinned with the gentle elegance that marked her style. She stepped into the room, her footfalls muffled by the thick rug.
“You’ve taken up haunting the library again,” she remarked, her tone gently teasing.
Arthur gave no reply.
Eliza stepped further into the room, her footsteps light but purposeful. “May I join you in your brooding or shall I come back later when you’re in a mood more suitable for conversation?”
He glanced at her then, faintly amused despite himself. “You may stay.”
“You didn’t attend breakfast,” she said softly. “Our darling mother was less than amused.”
Arthur turned back to the window. “Then I shall make my apologies later.”
Eliza crossed the room without comment, coming to rest by a chair but not yet sitting. She was quiet for a moment, watching him with that perceptive gaze he had never quite learned how to evade.
“Are you going to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you? You seem preoccupied.” A quiet moment passed before she added, more softly, “you’ve been distant since last night.”
Arthur returned his gaze to the window. “It was a crowded evening.”
“It wasn’t the crowd that unsettled you,” she said mildly.
He said nothing.
Arthur allowed a long pause before replying. “There is much on my mind.”
She arched a brow. “That much is plain. And I suspect very little of it has to do with estate accounts or fencing appointments.”
