The private dining room at The Gilded Lily was lit by flickering candelabras, but the atmosphere could hardly have felt colder.

Seated at opposite ends of a lacquered mahogany table, Quentin strained to suppress a cough, his cheeks flushed and forehead damp with fever.

Across from him, Arabella blew her nose so vigorously that the napkin quivered in her gloved hand. Both wore expressions of sheer contempt—having resolved, before even setting foot in the restaurant, to make this blind date as dreadful as possible.

Quentin leaned back in his chair, propping one elbow on the table. “I trust your orders, madam,” he drawled. “What’s your first whim? Shall I signal the waiter to fetch your soufflé, or is my sole purpose merely to exist in your radiant presence?”

Arabella’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Do be quiet, darling. I can hear your every thought, and frankly, I’ve heard better ideas from drunks in taverns. Honestly, your chin—does it tremble when you think of obedience?”

He sniffed loudly. “Madam Empress, I’ll fetch water, wine, or a footstool if it pleases Your Highness. Though perhaps your royal self would prefer to draw a bath here and now—do ring that bell!”

At that, Arabella rose on tiptoes and tapped the table thrice with her knife, sending the salt cellar skittering. Quentin jerked to attention, eyes rolling. A waiter in crisp livery hovered at the door, bewildered.

Their parents, huddled by the exit, exchanged frantic glances. Mrs Hawthorne clasped her hands to her mouth. “Good heavens, Geoffrey—this is worse than we imagined!”

Sir Geoffrey Hawthorne cleared his throat. “I told you, Marian, they’d find common ground. They both have strong personalities.”

Marian’s eyes brimmed. “They’re tearing each other to pieces, Geoffrey! Don’t let them linger another moment. Go on, intervene!”

Back at the table, Arabella sniffed again, her voice icy. “Is that all you have, sweetheart? I expected more flair. Perhaps you should stay in—binge on porridge and mend your constitution before you embarrass me further.”

Quentin slammed his palm on the table. “Flair? You hate flair. Last week you screamed at your parlourmaid for playing the lute too loudly. I’m merely behaving as you do—ungracious, unrefined, and entirely unwilling to pretend otherwise.”

Arabella huffed. “Exactly! You’re perfect for me—merciless and insufferable. Now fetch us both a glass of whatever you can afford, peasant.”

At that, Mrs Hawthorne rushed forward, flinging her shawl aside. “Stop this at once! We arranged this match because we know you’re perfect for one another. Now, please, at least pretend to be civil—“

Sir Geoffrey seized Arabella’s wrist. “Darling, this is beneath you. Behave yourself.”

Arabella shewed him away. “Tell that to your son, O King of the Unimpressed.”

Quentin sprang to his feet. “And you—Empress of the Entitled—stop commanding like a child and show some decency!”

Silence fell. Candle flames danced across their flushed faces. Outside, a carriage wheels turned on cobblestones.

Neither suitor would yield, yet both parents, undeterred, flanked the doorway like generals determined to salvage their carnage of a campaign.

Marian took a breath. “Dinner is served. Perhaps food will calm your tempers.”

Quentin and Arabella exchanged a glance equal parts shock and grudging curiosity. As the waiters glided in with steaming dishes, each wondered—despite themselves—if this disastrous clash might somehow kindle a spark they never intended to light.