Her gloved finger traced a slow line down the page. There was something quite captivating in that moment, something unpretentious in the way she moved, focused not on her surroundings or their ever-watching audience but on the simple business of choosing a cup of tea.
She did not fidget, did not glance about to see who might be observing her. If she was conscious of the elaborate performance in which they were all engaged, she did not show it. On the contrary, she seemed to have slipped into her role with disarming ease—neither coquettish nor self-conscious, but steady, composed, and utterly untroubled.
When the server returned, Eliza ordered a fragrant tea with rose petals; Charles, a straightforward breakfast blend. Abigail selected a black tea flavored with oil of citrus fruit, and Arthur requested a strong black tea with lemon—his customary choice—and added a plate of currant cakes and a trio of cream tarts for the table.
As the server departed and their tea was poured from porcelain pots painted with tiny violets, Arthur allowed his gaze to return to Abigail.
She had turned toward him fully now, her expression unreadable, but her manner—calm, inquisitive, almost candid—seemed to invite something beyond the routine politeness of social interaction.
And he, without meaning to, leaned ever so slightly forward. As though, despite himself, he did not wish to miss a single word she might say.
“So,” she said, her voice low but steady. “I believe this is where we are meant to look rapturously into each other’s eyes and murmur about poetry.”
Arthur’s lips curved faintly. “Is that what young couples do these days?”
“That, and argue over which poets are misunderstood geniuses and which should be consigned to the ash heap.”
“I suppose I’d better learn to love Wordsworth, then.”
She smiled. “Not at all. I rather prefer Byron. The messier the better.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, then said, “you surprise me.”
She sipped her tea. “Often, I hope.”
Eliza leaned in from across the table. “What are you two conspiring about?”
“Whether Lord Beaumont has a soul,” Abigail replied mildly.
“An ongoing debate,” Arthur said. “Even I’m not certain.”
They laughed quietly, but Abigail’s gaze remained on him, a glint of something playful behind her composure.
He cleared his throat. “Tell me—do you prefer history to literature, or the other way round?”
Abigail set down her cup. “That’s a bit like asking if I prefer breathing or thinking.”
Arthur blinked. “You are fond of history, then.”
“Passionately. Particularly ancient Rome. The Republic era, to be precise.”
Arthur leaned back slightly, intrigued despite himself. “A surprising choice.”
“It’s not all violence and gladiators,” she said, her voice warming. “There’s rhetoric, philosophy, political maneuvering. Cicero. Cato. The fall of noble ideals. There’s a tragedy to it that feels oddly modern.”
He studied her face, noting how her expression had come alive with enthusiasm. Gone was the polished debutante mask—this was the real woman underneath. Intellect unfiltered. Thought unmarred by performance.
“I hadn’t expected that from you,” he admitted.
“I daresay you’ll find a number of things about me unexpected,” she replied, a touch of challenge in her tone.
“Undoubtedly.”
Eliza and Charles had turned their attention to a nearby table, clearly discussing something gossipy and ridiculous. Arthur was aware of their presence only dimly. Abigail held his attention with quiet force.
“And what of you?” she asked. “What do you read when you’re not being hounded by matchmaking mothers and literary skeptics?”
He hesitated. “History, mostly. Politics. A bit of philosophy.”
