Eliza smoothed the ribbon of her bodice, looking out the window at the bustling street below. "I think, Aunt," she said evenly, "that I should like to know where Lord Andrew intends to be before we decide."
Margaret's needle paused for a fraction of a second. She did not look up. She did not smile. Nor did she offer a triumphant speech about the nature of love. She simply pushed the silver needle through the fabric and pulled the thread taut.
"Very well, my dear. I shall leave the letter on the desk for a few days."
Nothing more needed to be said. The old, protective walls were finally coming down.
When Thursday arrived, Andrew and Eliza had arranged to meet near the grand entrance of Sydney Gardens for a morning promenade. Mrs. Ellison was to accompany them, having promised to meet them at the gates just before ten o'clock.
In the quiet sanctuary of her bedchamber, Eliza stood before the mirror, adjusting the brim of her bonnet. She smoothed the soft leather of her gloves, checked the drape of her walking pelisse, and then turned to look at the elegant brass clock resting on the mantelpiece.
It was early. She had nearly twenty minutes before she needed to leave the townhouse.
In Scotland, she would have feigned ignorance. She would have told herself that she simply wanted a longer walk, or that the clocks in the house were running fast, hiding her true intentions behind the convenient mask of coincidence. Today, there was no illusion. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly who she was going to see.
Eliza picked up her reticule, offered her reflection a small, knowing smile, and walked out the door.
The morning air was fresh, carrying the scent of damp earth and the sweet fragrance of blooming hawthorn. As she approached the wrought iron gates of the gardens, the wide gravel path was mostly empty, save for a few early risers enjoying the quiet.
Standing near the stone pillars, precisely where they had agreed to meet, was Lord Andrew.
He was early, too.