She finally looked at him, properly. “It is the simplest way to avoid unnecessary conversation.”
August nearly choked on his toast. “Are you suggesting I am unnecessary?”
She did not smile, but her silence was the sort that invited laughter.
He tried again, fishing for a different response. “My sisters are famous for their capacity to make breakfast feel like the social event of the season. You may consider this a reprieve.”
“I prefer it,” Eliza said.
There was no edge in it; it was simply true.
He watched her pour another cup of tea. She had a way of making stillness seem like a challenge.
He added sugar to his own cup, three spoons’ worth, and watched her eyes follow the motion.
She set her own cup down, perfectly level. “Lady Hartwell says sugar is the downfall of the English aristocracy.”
He raised his cup in a salute. “Then I am destined for ruin.”
She regarded him then quietly slid the sugar bowl to the far end of the table, just out of his reach. She did not look up from her reading as she did so.
The duel was on.
August buttered a second piece of toast, noting that the only jam remaining was a sullen orange marmalade. He hated orange marmalade. He spread it anyway.
He leaned back in his chair, watching her turn pages—methodical, never hurried, but each turn punctuated with a crisp little snap. He wondered if she meant it as commentary on his presence.
He could have let the silence persist, but it was against his nature.
“Do you always rise with the sun, or is this some sort of marital test?” he asked.
Eliza’s eyes did not leave the paper. “Only on Mondays, wedding days, and days ending in ‘y.’”
He laughed, unable to contain it. “Every day, then.”
“Precisely,” she replied.
He watched her for a moment, genuinely unsure how to proceed. “What are you reading?”
She looked up. “The Chronicle. I am verifying whether we are scandalized in print yet.”
He was taken aback. “I assumed that would take at least a fortnight.”
“Society moves quickly when there is nothing better to discuss.”
He considered her profile, the set of her jaw. She was not beautiful in the usual way, but she had a sort of grace that made the whole room seem to adjust itself around her.
He said, “I imagine you will find that you are more than capable of surviving a little notoriety.”
She shrugged, barely a motion at all. “I have survived worse.”
He wanted to ask what but knew better. Instead, he finished his tea, the bitter edge of it oddly comforting.
The room was silent again but not empty. There was a sense of negotiation happening, sentence by sentence, across the table.
He reached for the jam again, only to find her hand had beat him to it—again.
They both froze.