“You are very kind, Lady Worthington,” Abigail said, returning her smile.
“And you look enchanting,” the older woman added with a knowing glance, her eyes sparkling. “Green suits you incredibly well. You are a vision, my dear.”
Harriet positively beamed at the compliment, already scanning the crowd that spilled from the drawing room.
Inside, the press of bodies was thick but genteel. The scent of orange blossoms, and expensive perfume hung in the air. A quartet played a delicate arrangement near the fireplace, their music weaving through the polite conversation and the rustle of fans. Abigail accepted a glass of punch from a passing footman and sipped automatically, her gaze flitting across the room.
Arthur was not yet present.
A fact that she both cursed and blessed.
As her mother steered her into a conversation with Lady Foxcroft and her three curiously sallow and vapid daughters, Abigail stood still, offering the occasional murmur of agreement. Her thoughts, however, were entirely elsewhere, drifting to Arthur’s hand on hers on the night of the musicale. The way his voice had lowered when they spoke in confidence. The look in his eyes when he had kissed her—not the carefully guarded gaze of a man performing a role, but something altogether more raw. More… real.
She should not think of it. Should not hope.
But the memory clung to her like the soft perfume behind her ears and his gentle kiss as his lips brushed her lips…
“Ah. The Beaumonts have arrived,” Charles murmured beside her.
Abigail’s pulse fluttered.
She turned—too quickly—and caught sight of them entering the room. Arthur was flanked by Eliza and their mother. His coat was dark blue, almost black, and his cravat was tied with the sort of effortless elegance that whispered of restraint rather than vanity. His eyes scanned the crowd.
And then they found her.
The moment lingered. Only for a second. But it was enough.
He looked at her not as a conspirator. Not as a fellow performer.
He looked at her like a man trying to find the words he had not yet dared to speak.
Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away, pretending to listen to Lady Foxcroft’s daughter recount the agonies of last week’s cotillion.
“Arthur seems distracted,” Eliza murmured to her mother as they made their way into the drawing room.
Beside her, Gillian hummed in disapproval. “Distracted is not the word I would use. He’s been distant. Distant and—frankly—overly invested in a young lady whose mother is entirely too pushy and whose connections are tenuous at best.”
Eliza raised a brow. “I thought you liked Abigail.”
“I thought I liked the idea of her,” Gillian replied tartly. “But I’ve begun to wonder if she’s not simply clever at playing the part of the modest intellectual. That type can be dangerous. Especially to a man like Arthur, who always believes himself above such things.”
Eliza said nothing. Her brother, she thought, needed no further scrutiny tonight. He was doing a perfectly fine job of unraveling all on his own.
James found Arthur near the window, watching Abigail speak with Eliza.
“You seem preoccupied,” he said mildly.
Arthur did not glance away. “Have I reason to be anything else?”
James folded his arms. “You’re going to tell her?”
“Yes.”
“Then I wish you luck.” He paused, his tone softening. “But be careful. The ton delights in nothing more than unmasking private truths and turning them into parlor sport.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “I have no interest in the opinions of the ton.”
“No,” James said. “But you do have an interest inher. And that’s what makes you vulnerable.”
