“As do I.”
She looked up at him, and for a moment, there was nothing but the two of them—no guests, no music, no elaborate ruse. Only the gentle tension of possibility.
And then—
“Pardon the interruption.”
The voice cut through the moment like a blade. Cold. Confident. Poised to wound.
Edward Colton had materialized with the precise timing of a man who understood the power of performance. His approach had been smooth, calculated, cloaked in the garb of charm, and executed with all the subtlety of a predator whose eyes never strayed far from his prize.
There was a sharpness to the angle of his jaw, a peculiar glint behind the smile he bestowed upon her—just enough to awaken something cold and instinctive in Arthur’s chest.
The surrounding dancers, sensing something amiss, instinctively slowed, drawing away to offer a wider berth.
Edward bowed. “Forgive me, Miss Darlington, Lord Beaumont. I loathe to interrupt a dance so... convincing. But I must beg a moment of your attention.”
“Now is hardly the time, Colton,” Arthur said stiffly. “We are engaged.”
Edward’s smile only deepened. “Indeed, that is precisely the subject I wished to address.”
Without waiting for consent, the earl turned with theatrical deliberation and raised his voice above the gentle murmur of the room loudly enough to draw attention from those nearby.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “Pray forgive my interruption, but I believe a certain revelation is owed to us all.”
The musicians faltered. One of the violinists set down his bow. The air grew dense with anticipation, the very breath of the room held hostage.
Arthur’s stomach dropped.
Edward turned slowly, sweeping the crowd with his gaze. “We have all, I suspect, been quite captivated by the romance that has bloomed this Season between Viscount Beaumont and Miss Darlington. A match that, to all outward appearances, seemed forged in mutual affection.”
His eyes glinted with triumph.
“But it is nothing of the sort.”
A murmur passed through the crowd.
“It is, in fact,” Edward went on, “an artful fiction. A clever arrangement. A facade designed not to foster love, but to repel it. A pact formed not in affection, but in self-interest. Their courtship is a ruse—no more real than the powdered wigs of our ancestors.”
Abigail stiffened in Arthur’s arms. Her hand, still resting in his, trembled violently.
“My dear Miss Darlington,” Edward said, “I must say, your performance this Season has been most… convincing.”
Edward pivoted slightly to include an even wider audience in his address. He was enjoying himself now, shouting loud enough for the whole room to hear. “As has yours, Lord Beaumont,” he continued, with the unmistakable cadence of a man performing for a crowd. “Indeed, it seems we have all been spectators in a most elaborate charade.”
Guests turned. Fans ceased fluttering. A hush descended, not with drama, but with dread.
Arthur felt a prickle of foreboding move across his skin.
“A pleasant masquerade to amuse themselves—and, I daresay, to rid themselves of inconvenient suitors. This entire affair—a clever ruse, a scheme, to gain the freedom of affection without its consequences. A mockery of courtship. A lie to court scandal.”
A chorus of gasps—sharp and immediate—cut through the room like the intake of breath before a storm.
Abigail’s eyes were wide, fixed on Edward, and her lips parted, as if she might speak, though no words emerged. The silence stretched between them like a taut string.
“Edward,” Arthur said, his voice low and warning, “youwilldesist.” He turned quickly to Abigail, sensing that he would not get another opportunity. “I had intended,” Arthur said quietly, “to speak to you. Alone. Before this… this nonsense of his.”
But she could not meet his eyes.
