“Why not?”
“It’s not appropriate, and…”
“We’re both here. We’re both awake. And tea is hardly scandalous.” He pulled down two cups. “Humor me.”
Eliza bit her lip, then nodded, a smile warming her face.
They waited in silence while the water heated. Eliza watched him move around the kitchen, admiring his tall stature and ease navigating the kitchen.
It was strange, seeing him like this. Domestic. Human.
He poured the tea and handed her a cup, then leaned against the counter across from her.
“You’ve taken good care of the book,” he said, nodding at the towel.
“I didn’t want to damage it. It’s beautiful.”
“It was a childhood friend’s…”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “How lovely. What was his name?”
“Her name was Lady Cecilia Hartwick,” he said as his voice became quiet. “She loved mythology.”
“That’s lovely,” Eliza said, not wanting to press him further, noting that his emerald eyes had turned dark. She closed the book. “It is nice to have something to remember others by.”
“Do you have anything you treasure? From someone important to you?”
She looked down. “I… I lost a friend of mine, suddenly, not long ago… there is not much left of her. Not much beyond memories, that is.”
Eliza had the uncomfortable feeling he knew she wasn’t being entirely truthful. But he didn’t press her either.
“I am most sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“What story are you reading?” he asked instead.
“Persephone. I’ve always loved that one.”
“Why? It is a bit dark for a young woman such as yourself.”
“I suppose because she found power in an impossible situation. She was taken to the underworld against her will, but she made it her own. Became a queen.” Eliza paused. “There’s something beautiful about that. About finding strength in the darkest places, a sort of love with the most unexpected of matches.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Morgan said. “I always focused on the tragedy of it. That she was trapped.”
“She was. But she was also free. In a way.” Eliza set down her cup. “When I need to remind myself that even when things seem hopeless, that there’s still a way forward, I remember Persephone’s story. No knot is too tangled for a mind steadfast and willing.”
His gaze was intense, searching hers, as he rubbed a hand along his beard. “You speak as though you’ve known hopelessness,” he said finally.
“Haven’t we all, Your Grace?”
Before he could respond, he turned to pour more hot water for his tea. His hand slipped slightly, and hot water splashed across the counter.
“Drat,” he hissed.
“Allow me,” Eliza said as she grabbed a cloth and rushed over, reaching for the teapot to steady it?—
And their hands met. His long fingers closed over hers, warm and strong. They both froze, as if stunned by some outside force bigger than themselves. It was electric, real, and palpable.
