"My father and your brother were having an excellent time, at the very least," Charles said after returning her greeting hug. "I'm not sure I can say the same for myself, but it was... enjoyable."
He was sure that he could be a better hunter if his heart was actually in it, but the sport had never really held his interest. Unlike poetry, of course. Charles reached into the interior pocket of his coat and pulled out the envelope he'd been safekeeping for Abigail.
"Oh, and I've written another poem for you," he said with a grin and handed her the envelope. He was eager to see if she enjoyed it. His concerns about the play and Mr. Fisher's actors would have to wait until later. It seemed to him that everyone else was within earshot, so instead he thought over the lines of the little poem he'd written.
For Abigail
Oft ladies are compared to a sweet rose, Or else to the delicate butterfly. You're all of these things, as everyone knows, And much more than this, none can deny! But the sweetest compliment I can rend Is in calling you my dearest friend.