“I only just heard—what happened?” Charles asked, his gaze scanning the scene.
Harriet, for once, was too stunned to respond.
Arthur stepped forward. “A great deal,” he said simply, “and all of it real.”
Charles turned to Abigail, and his expression softened. “Are you well?”
“I am now,” she said, her voice steady, a far cry from the trembling it had carried moments earlier.
Charles’s eyes flicked from her injured ankle to Arthur’s hand in hers. Then, slowly, he smiled—an expression of quiet understanding.
“Well,” he said after a beat, “I must say… it is about time.”
Even Arthur could not suppress the low laugh that escaped him.
The moment, as intense and overwhelming as it had been, now settled into something more solid. The storm had passed—or at least moved further off—and what remained was not ruin, but possibility.
They rose, slowly, Arthur offering the full strength of his arm to steady Abigail, her ankle still weak beneath her. He did not rush her. They moved together, slowly, facing the crowd that parted to let them pass, their shoulders aligned, their hands joined. Though many eyes still followed them, no longer did Arthur feel weighed down by the scrutiny.
In the music’s soft strains, in the hushed murmurs now tinged with reluctant approval, he heard the slow shifting of the tide.
They had begun as conspirators. They had become partners. And now, they were something altogether different—altogether real.
They walked forward not as Viscount and heiress, not as props in a performance—but as Arthur and Abigail.
And from that moment onward, they would walk forward together.
Epilogue
One Year Later…
The gardens of Beaumont Manor basked in the golden hush of late spring, the gentle rustle of leaves blending with the low hum of bees drifting lazily through beds of lilac and blooming roses. The air was fragrant with wisteria and wild hyacinth, and the afternoon sunlight draped the grounds in a glow so gentle it seemed almost sacred.
Abigail stood near the terrace balustrade, her gloved hand resting lightly upon her husband’s arm. Her figure, clothed in a soft ivory lawn gown with delicate embroidery, bore the unmistakable bloom of approaching motherhood. The curve of her belly, rounded with the promise of new life, seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.
The sunlight caught in the warm tones of her chestnut hair, and a gentle breeze played with the hem of her gown. Her eyes, bright with serenity and anticipation, met Arthur’s, and in that quiet exchange was the testament of all they had endured and all they had become.
Arthur Beaumont, Viscount of Westbrook, stood at her side—no longer the guarded, solitary figure he had once been, but a man softened and strengthened by love. His gaze, once perpetually distant and unreadable, now held an ease, a warmth cultivated only in the soil of mutual understanding.
His arm, beneath Abigail’s hand, tensed slightly as he drew her closer in a gesture so natural it needed no announcement. The cool exterior that had once been his armor had long since fallen away, replaced with something altogether more human—hope, perhaps, or simply contentment.
Nearby, Charles and Eliza Wescott strolled hand-in-hand beneath the flowering pear trees, their laughter mingling with the birdsong. Eliza, radiant and spirited as ever, was also expecting their first child. There was a freshness to her countenance, a glow that matched the season. Charles, ever the gentle presence at Abigail’s side and now the devoted husband to Eliza, appeared equally transformed. Their fingers remained interlaced, as if they had no need to impress the world with the strength of their bond—it was simply there, understood, evident.
“I still cannot believe it,” Eliza murmured, pausing to regard Abigail and Arthur with an affectionate smile. “We began all of this as co-conspirators in a charade, and look at us now. Proper matrons of the ton, glowing with maternal virtue.”
Charles chuckled. “Somehow, I doubt either of you shall ever be wholly conventional.”
“And would we wish to be?” Eliza rejoined, arching a brow at her husband with playful defiance. “I daresay I would rather remain slightly scandalous than entirely dull.”
Harriet Darlington, resplendent in lavender muslin and lace, stood a little apart near the marble sundial, fanning herself slowly as she surveyed the scene with a slightly bemused expression. Though she had once despaired over Abigail’s obstinacy, had mourned the loss of an earl in favor of a mere Viscount, she had come to a quiet, if reluctant, acceptance.
Arthur Beaumont, for all his academic reserve and peculiar independence, was a devoted husband. More importantly, he was a man who truly loved her daughter. And that, Harriet had finally conceded—after much sighing, several correspondence letters to her sister, and the persuasive influence of her husband and nephew—was of far more value than a title.
Lord Silas Darlington, recently returned from an extended business venture in Ceylon, now stood with one arm gently looped around his wife’s waist, his eyes bright as they followed Abigail’s movements. His absence had not dimmed his place in his daughter’s heart. If anything, their bond had grown stronger on his return. He had made no protestations when told of Abigail’s union. Rather, he had welcomed Arthur with the quiet dignity of a man who measured worth not by name or title, but by how one treated those they loved.
“She looks well,” Silas murmured, watching his daughter as she tilted her face toward the sun. “Happy.”
“She is,” Harriet replied, her tone unusually hushed. “He has been… good for her.”
