Edward spoke as if he were narrating an endless monologue to an audience of fawning admirers, with no expectation—or perhaps no desire—for the opinions of others.
“You were lovely at the musicale,” Edward said suddenly, turning to her. “My mother was so disappointed to have missed your performance. I assured her it was exquisite.”
“It was tolerable,” Abigail replied. “I prefer reading to performing.”
Edward waved his hand. “Well, yes, but all ladies say that. Modesty, and so forth.”
She blinked at him. “Allladies? Do they?”
He didn’t hear the edge in her voice. Or chose not to.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you must come riding with me sometime, Miss Abigail. Ajax takes well to new company. I imagine he’d be charmed by you.”
Abigail resisted the impulse to remark that she had no desire to charm a horse. Instead, she smiled with what she hoped was sufficient blandness to discourage further enthusiasm. “I shall consider it.”
Edward beamed, utterly convinced by his own success.
Beside him, Lady Margaret nodded approvingly—as though the match were all but sealed—before offering her own contribution. “Of course, I do think Abigail would find our countryside estate quite peaceful. It has a lovely library—though mostly filled with my late husband’s law books.”
Abigail inhaled slowly through her nose, then reached for her wine again.
Her mother jumped in. “Oh, how wonderful. Abigail simplyadoreslibraries.”
“Indeed,” Abigail said, with a smile that was more grimace than anything else, “so long as the books aren’t legal treatises.”
“What a marvelous sense of humour!” Lady Margaret laughed.
Edward laughed too loudly. “A spirited wit! I adore that.”
It wasn’t a compliment. It was a claim.
Abigail glanced at the chandelier overhead, entertaining—for the briefest of moments—the image of it falling directly onto the table. At least that would be an interruption. A welcome one. Even if it landed on her head.
“Of course,” Edward said, between mouthfuls of soup, and bread which he chewed with his mouth open, “what I admire most in a young lady is a balance of liveliness and decorum. There’s a line, you see. A woman must be clever, but not too opinionated. Modest, but not dull. Graceful, but not aloof. It’s a fine art, really.”
Abigail stared at him. “Indeed. So reassuring to know the correct balance has already been so precisely defined.”
Lady Margaret patted her son’s hand fondly. “Edward is a great admirer of symmetry—in horses, in gardens,andincourtship.”
Harriet laughed again, this time with a touch of pride that made Abigail’s stomach twist. “My daughter is fortunate to attract such discerning admiration.”
“I consider it no less than my duty to offer it,” Edward said solemnly, as if he were laying a wreath at the tomb of an honored statesman.
Abigail’s fingers clenched around the stem of her glass. She made a conscious effort to relax lest she might shatter it accidentally.
Perhaps an injury wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. At least I would have an excuse to leave.
She was invisible. Or rather, not invisible—present, but only in the way an ideal portrait was present. A woman to be spoken about, arranged, praised, and claimed, but never really known. They all spoke around her, over her, through her. As if she were already some man’s possession, to be discussed in terms of suitability and ornamentation, like a drawing room chair or a well-mannered spaniel.
If she opened her mouth and screamed, would they notice?
Probably not.
And for one wild, treasonous moment, she considered doing just that. Not to alarm anyone, or to cause scandal, but simply to make it clear that she was here. That she had thoughts. That she existed, not as a vision or a name on a guest list, but as a woman with opinions and preferences and a rapidly deteriorating sense of patience.
Instead, she forced another smile, colder this time, and glanced toward the windows, toward the waning light of day. How far away Hyde Park suddenly felt. How much farther still the quiet intelligence of a certain Viscount who asked questions instead of giving lectures.
As the second course was served—roasted duck with a red currant glaze—Lady Margaret dabbed delicately at her mouth with a lace-trimmed napkin and turned her sharp gaze fully on Abigail.
