“That’s because I’ve watched you carry the weight of your mother’s ambition for too many Seasons,” he said, his voice low now, tender. “You never complain. You never rebel—not really. But I see it. And I know it isn’t easy.”
Abigail exhaled, a long and quiet breath. “It isn’t rebellion I fear,” she said at last. “It’s that I might concede. That one day, I’ll be too tired to resist or put up a fight any longer, and I’ll marry someone like Edward Colton. Someone with alcohol-fueled breath and a sweaty top lip who calls me discerning and imagines he’s sealed the deal by paying a compliment that isn’t really a compliment at all.”
Charles’s jaw ticked, just slightly. “You’re quite extolling his virtues! That won’t happen, Abby. I won’t allow it.”
She turned to him then, her eyes clear in the moonlight. “And what if there’s no one else?”
“There will be,” he said simply. “Someone who sees you for you, and not your fortune. Who respects your thoughts rather than tolerates or dismisses them. Someone who looks at you and sees not a prize—but a partner.”
Abigail looked away, blinking hard. “You make it sound so simple.”
He smiled. “The best things often are. We just tend to get in our own way.”
Arthur turned away. He had already heard too much. In truth, he had found the conversation intriguing, and couldn’t help but find Abigail Darlington’s candor incredibly refreshing.
But he didn’t want to intrude. More than that, he didn’t want to admit how strangely hollow it made him feel, to watch her find solace in someone else’s easy companionship. It wasn’t exactly jealousy—not that—but something quieter, and perhaps a little sadder. The ache of disconnection. Of possibilities glimpsed and dismissed.
He had told Eliza it wasn’t protection, this emotional distance he kept. That it was experience. But now, in the hush of the night, watching a young woman find refuge not in wealth or rank but in the company of a male family member who simply understood her, Arthur felt the first tremor of doubt. Perhaps there were women in the ton who were bearable. Perhaps he’d been far too hasty and dismissive.
Miss Darlington and Charles Wescott shared a familial bond not dissimilar to the one he had with his sister, that had been built on years of history and trust. Was it even possible to find a romantic attachment with the same level of confidence at such spectacles as these? How could anyone separate the authentic characters from those who merely wanted to secure titles, societal positions, and wealth?
He wasn’t so sure anymore.
He lingered for another moment in the shadows pondering on whether a life of solitude might prove a safer choice than putting his heart out on the line again. Then, with a soundless sigh, he returned to the ballroom.
Chapter Three
A pale spring sun rose over the rooftops of Covent Garden, casting a golden sheen across the tightly packed stalls and glinting off the glazed surfaces of overflowing flower carts. The air was filled with the scent of early blossoms and the more pungent notes of damp cobblestones, ripe cheese, and straw. It was a cacophony of scent and sound, the very heart of London in springtime—vivid, relentless, alive.
The scent of hyacinths, fresh earth, and citrus mingled in the crisp morning air, and the cries of vendors rang out in a chaotic clamor of noise that echoed through the cobbled alleys and overflowing flower stalls. Petals floated gently on the breeze, confetti scattered by unseen hands.
“Fresh-cut tulips! Beautiful tulips for you beautiful ladies!”
“Best rhubarb this side of the Thames!”
“Fresh herbs!”
“Get your bread and pastries here!”
The crush of people moved like an unpredictable tide between stalls laden with jars of honey, bolts of cotton, and heaps of glistening lemons.
Abigail Darlington edged through the market with measured steps, weaving through the press of elbows and chatter with all the delicacy of a lady trained for ballroom grace but tested here by wayward baskets and splashing puddles.
The crowded walkways overwhelmed her senses and she tried to stay close to her mother. However, Lady Harriet Darlington spared no one, advancing through the crowds like a general in command of a well-planned campaign, her voice rising above the din in a steady stream of matrimonial strategy.
Abigail had hoped for a modicum of respite after the ball, but for the entirety of the past two days, her mother hadn’t let up in giving her daughter opinions on every potential suitor from London to Scotland. Indeed, Abigail had begun to wonder if she was capable of talking about anything else. She had half a mind to marry the next person she bumped into, if only it would cease her mother’s relentless chatter on the subject.
“Lord Bexley is newly widowed and wealthy, dearest. His estate near Bath is quite renowned for its conservatories. Imagine you there, entertaining important guests, your children playing near the fountains. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Widowers of means and manners are rare treasures—and he has three children already! You would be mistress of an estate before the Season is out.”
Not even betrothed and she thinks I should be a mother of three in a matter of months? No, thank you!
Abigail’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Mama. Quite a vision. What a charming… handful.”
Harriet tutted. “Don’t be glib. You have a nurturing disposition; I’ve always said so.”
Abigail doubted her mother had ever said such a thing.
She longed to simply enjoy the spring day in silence, but there was a heavy weight in her gut; the battle between wanting to please and running as far away as humanly possible. Abigail trailed behind her mother, her smile carefully stitched in place like embroidery on a gown—a clown face painted on to hide her true feelings, decorative and meaningless.
