The conversation was cut short as the crowd shifted, and Edward Colton appeared with the smooth inevitability of a twilight shadow. He bore a grin that bordered on a grimace and a flower plucked from a table arrangement. He crossed the room with confident steps and bowed before Abigail with over-exaggerated exuberance. Abigail focused on his rat-like pointed nose to avoid looking into those beady little eyes.
“My dear Miss Darlington. Might I claim a moment of your company?”
She had no choice. Not in public. Not with so many eyes watching.
“Of course,” she said, setting down her drink with slow, deliberate fingers. She would have given one of her limbs to have the ground swallow her whole at that moment.
Arthur watched as Edward led her to the corner of the ballroom. He did not seem to be talking about anything serious and Arthur supposed he just made that move in order to attract attention. Abigail though seemed quite concerned.
And Arthur felt his composure slip. Just a little.
Just enough to realise how very real this all had become.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The waltz commenced with the delicate sweep of bows across strings, the melody swelling like a tide across Lady Worthington’s crowded drawing room. Candlelight shimmered upon silk and satin, casting soft glows on powdered shoulders and polished shoes. The air was thick with anticipation—the gentle flutter of fans, the subtle pivoting of heads as young ladies arranged themselves in readiness, and gentlemen took their cues with polite eagerness.
Across the room, she stood—Abigail Darlington, pale green silk clinging softly to her frame, her eyes like burnished hazel beneath the candlelight. She was speaking with her cousin, Charles, her fan held lightly at her side. But there was a tension in her posture, the faintest trace of apprehension etched into the careful curve of her smile. She, too, felt it—the heaviness of expectation, the unspoken truths teetering on the precipice of being spoken aloud.
Arthur scarcely remembered his steps as he crossed the room, weaving between other couples preparing to take the floor. He bowed low before her, the movement instinctive, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Miss Darlington,” he said quietly, the formality tempered by something deeper, more uncertain. “Might I have the honour of this waltz?”
Her eyes met his. For the briefest moment, something flickered there—wary, hopeful, questioning. And then she dipped her chin, her voice soft. “Of course, Lord Beaumont.”
He extended his hand. She placed hers in it, her touch warm and feather-light. Together, they moved to the centre of the room, where the space had begun to clear. As the melody swelled, Arthur drew her into hold, his gloved hand settling gently at her waist, his other clasping hers. Her free hand rested on his shoulder, trembling faintly against the wool of his evening coat.
They began to move.
At first, they danced as strangers might—technically perfect, rhythmically poised, and yet not entirely connected. Arthur’s thoughts were unsteady, his mind a flurry of unspoken words. He had rehearsed this moment in countless iterations, crafted declarations that now felt wholly inadequate.
But it was she who spoke first.
“You seem... distracted, my lord.”
He glanced down. “Do I?”
“Only somewhat.” Her lips curved faintly. “I wonder what occupies your thoughts this evening.”
“You,” he said before he could stop himself.
She faltered, ever so slightly. Their steps did not break, but her eyes widened.
“I meant,” he amended, “this arrangement we’ve entered into. I find myself questioning it. Or rather, questioning… my intentions within it.”
“I see,” she said slowly.
They turned in a graceful arc past a mirrored panel. Their reflection caught Arthur unawares—two figures twined together in an intimacy they had not earned but perhaps had begun to feel. Her profile was illuminated by candlelight, her lashes casting fine shadows along her cheek. He cleared his throat.
“I did not expect this to grow complicated,” he said. “And yet it has.”
“Complicated in what sense?”
“In every sense that matters.”
Their steps slowed as the music dipped into a more lyrical passage. Her breath caught slightly—he could feel it beneath his hand at her waist.
“I had thought to speak to you,” she murmured. “Tonight. Alone, if we could find a moment. There are… things I wish to say.”
