The two, not lovers, not yet friends, but close, oh so close; the two survivors of a shipwreck of a wedding, sat on the hidden bench, drank their coffee, and watched the sun rise. They did not speak; they ate the scones. He took a bite, not an exaggerated bite, but a man-sized bite, out of the cheese scone and then put it on the napkin which divided the bench between the two of them. She took a diminutive bite out of the currant scone and then laid it on top of the cheese scone.
He shook his head and laughed to himself at her nibble; if she wanted to starve herself, she could, he was going to enjoy these scones. He picked up the currant scone and took another bite, a regular bite. He waited for her to pick up the cheese scone and then he placed the currant scone back on the napkin. He was curious to see where she would take her nibble. Would she bite where he had bitten or would she take her tiny bite on an untouched edge.
She saw that he was watching her. She thought to maintain what she thought were the gentil eating habits of the ton and take only another minute bite, but she really liked Cook's cheese scones, and it looked as if he did as well, so she took a bite the size of which would not have been out of place at the Bennet breakfast table. She chewed carefully, swallowed, and took a sip of her coffee. Still, he stared at her, at her mouth. She wondered if she had a crumb there. The only napkin she had brought was the one on the bench between them so she searched for the crumb with the tip of her tongue.
He watched her bite into the scone, expanding his bite mark, not shy at all, and then her enjoyment as she chewed. When she licked her lips, he started wondering about the appropriateness of a kiss; perhaps as a token of appreciation for the breakfast; certainly, the perfect dessert for such a breakfast. The coolest part of his mind of his rapidly heating mind damped down that thought, for awhile at least. He turned his attention to the horizon and tried to think philosophical thoughts, the rising sun symbolizing new beginnings and all that; but his mind insisted on taking a poetical turn. The earth kissed the sky and the sky blushed.
He picked up the cheese scone and cast about for something to say. Somehow, he thought that making some sort of remark on the size of the garden, or the number of flowers, would not do. He understood from the previous night that she could not speak of her experience as a companion; he already knew of her favourable opinion of the estate; he dared not ask about her family. There were books, he could ask if she found any ancient treasures in the Abbey's sadly neglected library. But she might tell him that she could not talk of books in a garden. Shy of a topic he said nothing.
She wanted to ask him about him. Not about them. Not about his money. Not about his connections. She knew enough of him for mercenary purposes, marriage to him would make her comfortable, very comfortable indeed. She had told Jane that was enough for her; she had told herself that; but sitting with him, sharing with him, felt so right. She wanted to know more about him and she felt the path to that knowledge started here in this garden but she was too shy to take that first step. So, she said nothing.
The two sat there for a time, saying nothing, alternating bites of scone, sipping coffee, basking in something more than the sun.
But all such moments must end. They came to the end of the scones. There was about half a bite more currant scone than cheese scone. It was his turn for the cheese scone but he had seen how she favoured it over the currant scone. He picked up the last piece of cheese scone and held it out, not to her hand, but to her lips. She took his wrist in her hand and guided his hand to her mouth. She ate the last of the cheese scone from his fingers but did not let go of his wrist as she chewed. After she swallowed, she did not drop his wrist, instead she guided his hand behind her neck.
It was all the invitation he needed.