She did not allow him to protest. “No. You don’t get to think about scandal right now. You don’t get to worry about the gossips and the whispers. You’ve let her walk away once. Don’t let her believe she is alone in this.”
“She’s not,” he said quietly.
“Then show her,” Eliza urged. “She needs to hear it from you. Not in some carefully constructed confession next week over tea. Now. Tonight. Before the hurt hardens into something worse.”
He hesitated, his heart thundering, the noise of the room rising around them once more. Edward, somewhere nearby, basked in the chaos he had wrought. Arthur could feel the weight of the ton’s attention as surely as if it were a noose around his neck. But none of that mattered. Not now. Eliza was right. He should have followed her straight outside.
He turned and strode for the terrace.
The air outside was blessedly cool. The scent of roses mingled with the faint salt of London’s evening breeze, and for a moment he could breathe again.
And then he saw her.
She was crumpled at the foot of the balustrade, her gown spilled around her like fallen sea-foam, one hand clutching her ankle, the other trembling against the stone. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and her face was turned away, but the fragile curve of her posture struck something deep in Arthur’s chest.
He dropped to his knees beside her without hesitation.
“Abigail,” he said, her name catching in his throat. “Are you hurt?”
She turned toward him, and the sight of her tear-streaked face, so vulnerable and full of pain, nearly undid him.
“My ankle,” she whispered, wincing as she shifted slightly. “I… I tripped.”
His hand reached instinctively to support her, gently guiding her into a sitting position. She grimaced as her weight shifted, and he swallowed hard, torn between fear for her physical pain and the knowledge that he was, in no small part, responsible for the emotional agony that had no doubt caused the fall.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, the words tumbling forth. “Abigail, I never meant—Heavens, I never wanted any of this.”
She looked at him then, really looked, and in her gaze he saw not anger, but something worse—betrayal, confusion, and heartbreak.
“This was never supposed to happen,” he continued, his voice raw. “The charade—it was a foolish idea, born of weariness and rebellion. But then…”
He paused, struggling to find the words.
“Then I began to know you. Not just the facade you show the world, butyou. The woman who reads for pleasure, who sees through flattery, who dances with grace even though she hates the waltz. I started to look forward to our conversations, to the way you challenge me without ever intending to. And somewhere along the way… I forgot we were pretending.”
She drew in a shaky breath, her eyes locked on his.
“I fell in love with you,” he said simply. “And I did nothing to deserve it. I should have told you before. I should have stood beside you tonight, not behind.”
Behind them, the French doors creaked open.
Arthur didn’t turn. He didn’t care who had come to watch. His entire world had narrowed to the woman before him, her expression trembling on the edge between hope and despair.
“I know I have no right to ask anything of you now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I needed you to know the truth. Even if you never forgive me, even if we cannot repair what’s been broken, I had to say it. I love you.”
Abigail’s lips parted, as though to speak, but no sound came.
Arthur’s hand hovered near hers—not quite touching, not daring to—waiting, breath held in suspension.
And behind him, the murmurs began.
Abigail’s gaze did not shift. Her eyes, wide and luminous even in the dimming light, held him fast. At first, they bore all the weary ache of a woman too long bruised by the careless whims of others—a young lady laid bare before the merciless judgment of society. But slowly, so slowly that he dared not speak for fear of interrupting it, he saw the storm within her begin to ease.
The sharp edge of betrayal in her expression softened into something more fragile, more uncertain. Her brow furrowed, not in dismay now, but in contemplation, as though she were attempting to place some distant memory in context, or reconcile a fact long misjudged. Then, at last, the tremble in her lower lip stilled. Her breathing slowed. The tears, though still fresh upon her cheeks, ceased their descent.
And then—he saw it. The faintest upward pull at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, not yet, but the beginning of one, fragile and miraculous.
“You truly meant it?” she asked, her voice a thread of sound, frayed but gathering strength. “All of it?”
