Eliza crossed to stand beside him. “Then let her see the man I know you are. The one who still believes in honour, in truth. Even in love, if he allows himself.”
He turned to her, lips curving with a reluctant smile. “You’ve grown wise in your old age.”
“I shall take that as the highest compliment,” she said, laughing.
They stood in companionable silence for a while, brother and sister, the weight of confession softened by understanding.
Outside, the garden stirred in the wind. And somewhere beyond the hedges and horse-drawn carriages, a future waited to be shaped—not by strategy, but by sincerity.
And maybe, just maybe, by love.
Perhaps it was time to stop hiding behind logic and detachment.
Mayhap it was time to be honest—with himself, with Abigail, with what he truly wanted.
And hopefully… it wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The carriages had begun to line the curb on Brook Street long before the Darlington carriage joined the slow-moving procession, its polished wood gleaming under the last blush of sunset.
Though Lady Worthington’s house was not a big townhouse, its intimate proportions had earned it a reputation for offering the best of the London Season’s smaller gatherings—a “squeeze,” as the ton fondly called it, where reputations were built, alliances formed, and, more dangerously, affections tested under close scrutiny.
Inside the swaying carriage, Abigail sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gloves pulled too snug over her fingers, her pulse fluttering in her throat with every jolt of the carriage. There was a quiet turmoil building in her chest.
The pale green silk of her gown rustled gently, the understated sheen catching in the fading light. The bodice was elegantly cut, modest by fashion’s standards, yet it clung just closely enough to remind her of how conscious she had become of Arthur Beaumont’s gaze. Or perhaps, more truthfully, how much she wished to feel it tonight.
Beside her, Lady Harriet chattered on, her tone effusive, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. “It will be a charming evening,” she pronounced, dabbing her already rosy lips with her handkerchief. “Lady Worthington’s soirées may not be the largest, but they are certainly the most select. Everyone of consequence will be there—everyone that matters, Abigail. Lord Edward has already confirmed his attendance.”
Abigail kept her eyes fixed on the window as she rolled them skywards privately, the familiar streets of Mayfair rolling past in a blur of warm light and trailing skirts. “How fortunate,” she murmured indifferently, her tone deliberately bland.
Charles, sitting opposite, caught her eye and offered a faint, wry smile. He had become her co-conspirator in a world of unwelcome suitors and maternal ambition, and he knew, perhaps better than anyone, just how much Abigail dreaded these performances.
“Do be kind,” he said lightly, one brow lifting as he leaned forward. “I’ve no doubt Lord Edward has already composed a monologue on the superiority of his tailor.”
Abigail bit back a laugh. “Or a paean to his own character, mayhap.”
Lady Harriet looked between them with a bemused frown. “Really, Charles. It is unbecoming to mock a man of such distinction. You may not appreciate the value of lineage and fortune, but I assure you, in matters of marriage, such things are essential.”
“Apologies, Lady Harriet. I simply believe our lovely Abigail deserves someone who recognises that her charm far outweighs his own. Lord Colton has often been described as the ‘ego’ of the ton, and it is not altogether inaccurate. Nor it is a term of affectionate endearment. Any distinction you may infer is secondary to his self-importance.”
Lady Harriet looked as if she’d accidentally swallowed a fly.
“Do you feel better now you have got that off your chest, Charles? Let’s not have any more little outbursts like that in public, this evening. Most unseemly.” She tutted and brushed imaginary dust off her gown. “You would do well to take a leaf out of Edward’s book about how to conduct yourself.”
Abigail gave Charles a grateful smile. There was little point in expressing her own opinion on the subject, but she was grateful for her cousin’s support nevertheless.
It was always the same script from her mother. Fortune, station, respectability, and decorum. Never once did her mother speak of affection. Of understanding. Of laughter, or kindness, or a shared sense of purpose. Of love. She had not mentioned Arthur Beaumont in days. Not once had she asked how Abigail truly felt about the Viscount. She didn’t care. Arthur didn’t get a look in because, in her mother’s eyes, he simply wasn’t worthy.
But perhaps that was for the best.
If Harriet suspected how tangled her daughter’s feelings had become, she would waste no time in ending the alliance. A fake courtship was tolerable—amusing, even—but love? Love was foolishness. Dangerous. Unpredictable.
The carriage slowed before the modest cream facade of Lady Worthington’s house. Lamps glowed golden in the windows. A footman opened the door with a bow.
Abigail descended with Charles’s assistance, the chill of the evening brushing against her bare shoulders like a whisper of warning. As they approached the entrance, the muffled sound of music and laughter drifted through the open door. She smoothed her gloves, forced a smile, and stepped inside.
Lady Worthington greeted them in the hallway, her presence as warm and welcoming as ever. Her gown was a deep plum satin that flattered her mature figure, and her silver hair was artfully arranged beneath a tasteful circlet of pearls. “My dear Miss Darlington!” she exclaimed, taking both of Abigail’s hands. “What a delight to see you again.”
