He laughed at his own joke.
Abigail smiled faintly and said nothing.
The clock near the corner marked each passing moment with the low echo of inevitability.
Lady Harriet beamed, inserting helpful comments every few sentences. “Of course, Abigail plays beautifully, though she is terribly modest about it… Indeed, and her embroidery has been praised even by Lady Frome…”
Abigail folded her hands in her lap, pressing her thumbnail against the inside of her palm.
“You must come riding with me soon,” Edward said. “I have a new mare. Gentle as a lamb. You’ll love her.”
“I prefer walking,” Abigail replied.
He blinked, then laughed indulgently. “A lady with such elegance should never settle for walking.”
“Abigail finds pleasure in simplicity,” Harriet said, smoothing over the awkwardness with a smile. “It’s one of her finest qualities.”
“Ah indeed,” Edward said. “But surely there’s no harm in embracing more elaborate experiences.”
Abigail listened with strained civility, nodding at intervals, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Her thoughts, meanwhile, wandered.
To the book she’d been reading. To the birds outside. To the many, many ways in which her life could be different if only she were allowed to direct it herself.
Edward’s voice droned on.
He spoke of his horses—newly imported, fine lineage. Of his acquaintance with a minor duke who had recently asked his advice on which tailor to employ. Of his belief that women ought not to trouble themselves with politics or opinion, “for surely there is enough to worry about in the choosing of gowns and supper menus.”
Abigail’s grip tightened ever so slightly on the handle of her teacup, her finger tracing swirls around the rim in an effort to stave off the boredom of time wasted during this utterly mundane one-way conversation. It brought a small comfort. The tiniest sense of control.
A fly buzzed against the windowpane behind her, its frantic wings beating a panicked rhythm as its small body slammed over and over into the glass.
Trapped.
She could sympathize, could feel herself in that small, desperate rhythm.
“Miss Darlington,” he said abruptly, leaning forward, “you strike me as a lady of excellent taste. Tell me, what is your favourite flower?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon, Lord Colton?”
“Your favourite flower,” he repeated, smiling indulgently, as though humoring a child. “For I would have them ordered to be brought to you, daily if need be. I should like to know what pleases you.”
Abigail hesitated. Her mind offered one answer, her tongue another.
“Lilies,” she said, and saw something flicker in his eyes.
“Excellent. Lilies. Very pure.” His smile widened. “Fitting.”
There was something in the way he said it. A note too reverent. Too commanding.
Abigail felt her stomach twist.
“I shall have bouquets delivered until you tire of them,” he said, his voice dipped low.
Harriet beamed. “Isn’t that generous, Abigail? Such attentiveness.”
Abigail lowered her gaze to her lap. “Very kind, but it would be an unnecessary extravagance, Lord Colton” she murmured.
