“I would love some,” Mr. Woodson said to Posy. “Above all else.”

Really, Sophie thought, it was as if she weren’t even there.

“How do you take it?” Posy asked.

“However you wish.”

Oh now, this was too much. No man fell so blindingly into love that he no longer held a preference for his tea. This was England, for heaven’s sake. More to the point, this was tea.

“We have both milk and sugar,” Sophie said, unable to help herself. She’d intended to sit and watch, but really, even the most hopeless romantic couldn’t have remained silent.

Mr. Woodson didn’t hear her.

“Either of them would be appropriate in your cup,” she added.

“You have the most extraordinary eyes,” he said, and his voice was full of wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was right there in this room, with Posy.

“Your smile,” Posy said in return. “It’s…lovely.”

He leaned forward. “Do you like roses, Miss Reiling?”

Posy nodded.

“I must bring you some.”

Sophie gave up trying to appear serene and finally let herself grin. It wasn’t as if either of them were looking at her, anyway. “We have roses,” she said.

No response.

“In the back garden.”

Again, nothing.

“Where the two of you might go for a stroll.”

It was as if someone had just stuck a pin on both of them.

“Oh, shall we?”

“I would be delighted.”

“Please, allow me to-”

“Take my arm.”

“I would-”

“You must-”

By the time Posy and Mr. Woodson were at the door, Sophie could hardly tell who was saying what. And not a drop of tea had entered Mr. Woodson’s cup.

Sophie waited for a full minute, then burst out laughing, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound although she wasn’t sure why she needed to. It was a laugh of pure delight. Pride, too, at having orchestrated the whole thing.