The whispers had already begun. Scandal is never so alive as when whispered behind gloves and fans. A lady to the left pulled her daughter away with a hiss of distaste. Two gentlemen exchanged smug glances.
Arthur turned back toward Edward. “You are mistaken. Not to mention an absolute disgrace, Colton.”
“And you, my lord, are a liar.”
The crowd was now fully hushed. The music had ceased altogether.
“I had it on good authority,” Edward added, “that this charade was mutual. A private jest, perhaps. But not so private anymore.”
“Are you really so devoid of an imagination that this is your means of entertainment, Colton?” Arthur hissed. “You are a very poor excuse for a man… or even a human being.”
Edward only smiled with the zeal of righteousness, the smug curve of his lips resembling nothing so much as a man assured of victory. “Oh, come now, Beaumont. If you wished to end the charade privately, you ought to have taken better care to conceal it. One hears things. From footmen. From friends. The ton is not nearly so blind as you presume.”
Whispers became murmurs. The tide of speculation surged, crashing around them in waves of disbelief and curiosity. Why were they so easily swayed? So willing to accept the worst rather than listen to the truth?
What is the truth though? Really?
Arthur stood rooted, his expression unreadable, but inside, a slow, cold rage began to coil. Not at the exposure—for the truth was not entirely misrepresented—but at the callousness of its delivery. At the cruelty.
His hands itched to punch the smarmy, smug smile off Edward Colton’s repellent face. And yet, he would not lower himself to such uncouth behavior. Even through his anger, he could see that this pathetic excuse of a man didn’t warrant such efforts.
Instead, he turned to Abigail.
Her face had drained of colour. Her eyes, once so bright, were now clouded with something perilously close to horror.
“Abigail,” Arthur said gently, “please…”
He reached out to take her arm. But the ballroom was closing in around them. All at once, the stares of a hundred faces seemed to converge. Polite society, ever hungry for scandal, was feasting before their very eyes.
“I—” Arthur began, but the words caught in his throat.
It was too late.
The damage had been done. Whatever he said couldn’t undo the words that had just been uttered from the mouth of a man who was hoping to marry the very woman he had just humiliated so horribly.
What kind of a person would do such a thing?
That was when Abigail tore herself from Arthur’s hold.
Without a word, she turned and fled.
He reached for her, but she slipped beyond his grasp like smoke. Her skirts caught on the polished floor; the sound of her feet echoed as she reached the terrace doors and disappeared into the cool night air.
Arthur saw the desperation in her movement, the horror on her beautiful face, and the way she did not run, but bolted, as though the room had been deprived of oxygen and escape was her only means of survival.
He caught a glimpse of her vanishing through the doors—her back straight, her steps hurried, her dignity crumbling with each step.
***
She didn’t wait to see Arthur’s reaction.
She couldn’t.
Her only desire—urgent and all-consuming—was escape. Escape from the stares. Escape from the shame. Escape from the way the air itself seemed to curdle around her, thick with speculation and whispered delight at her public humiliation.
She barely registered the music faltering into silence behind her. The gasp of the crowd had shattered the fragile calm of the ballroom like porcelain on marble, and now every eye was upon her, every voice forming words she could not hear but could feel—like pinpricks to the skin.
She turned blindly, pushing through a crush of guests, her vision swimming. Her gloves brushed silks and satins, and someone’s fan caught briefly in her sleeve, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t dare.
