Chapter 1 #2
A slight line formed between Miss Theodosia’s brows. “You must be mistaken. No man departed from this house this morning.”
Richard stiffened, his patience evaporating. “Stop lying,” he ground out.
Miss Theodosia leaned back in her chair, regarding him as one might a particularly irksome insect. “You are a bothersome man, indeed. Pray tell—what offense did this mysterious figure commit against you that you are so determined to hunt him down?”
“I intend to kill him,” Richard said, his voice unflinching.
In a calm, expectant voice, she asked, “And you expect me to assist you in your murderous intent?”
“I expect you to tell me where to find your brother,” Richard demanded.
“I have no brother,” she repeated. “Only an older sister.”
“Then who,” Richard began, “was the man who left your house this morning?”
She gave a delicate shrug. “Perhaps you saw our gardener or one of our tenants leaving for their day’s work. We do keep early hours here in the country.”
Her eyes danced with a hint of mischief, as if daring him to accuse her further. She was either the best liar he had ever encountered or she was telling the truth. And Richard hated the gnawing uncertainty clawing at his gut.
Theodosia wasn’t entirely certain whether she ought to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or weep from sheer frustration.
It took every ounce of restraint instilled by years of genteel breeding not to reach for the pistol discreetly hidden in the top drawer of her desk.
Of course, brandishing a weapon at a marquess—even one as arrogant and insufferable as the one presently standing before her—would likely end poorly.
Still, the temptation lingered.
She regarded the lord with a critical eye.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with strikingly dark hair that curled just enough to suggest it defied control.
He was impossibly handsome with his chiseled jaw and straight nose.
However, all that physical perfection was marred by the thunderous scowl etched onto his face and the scorn in his voice.
He radiated entitlement, as though the mere act of questioning him was an affront punishable by death.
Theodosia hadn’t spoken a single untruth since he’d stormed into her study, but that didn’t seem to matter to him.
“I know the difference between a gardener and a gentleman,” he said with no small amount of derision, as if her refusal to tremble under his gaze somehow proved her guilt.
“How very clever of you,” she said sweetly. “Do tell, my lord—can you also distinguish between a goat and a vicar? Or perhaps a duchess and a dairymaid?”
His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “You are an impertinent thing.”
“And you seem to forget,” she countered, “that you forced your way into my home and are now accusing me of harboring a brother I do not possess. As I’ve told you—twice now—I have only an elder sister.”
The second man took a step forward, his demeanor less hostile than that of his companion. “Is your sister here?”
Theodosia gave a polite shake of her head. “I’m afraid not. She departed last night to visit friends in Essex. I seldom see her, to be frank.”
Lord Wilton made a dismissive sound. “I have no interest in your sister. I came seeking your brother.”
She sighed, exasperated. “And I keep telling you that I haven’t one. Honestly, my lord, speaking to you is like shouting into the wind.”
She returned her attention to the open ledger before her, as if that might prompt him to leave, and continued. “If you would be so kind as to remove yourself, I have accounts to balance, and your presence is most unhelpful.”
He opened his mouth, clearly intent on launching another round of accusations, but his companion intervened before he could.
“Thank you for your time, Miss,” the man said, offering her a short, respectful bow.
She dipped her head in return. “Good day to you, sir.”
But Lord Wilton did not leave immediately. Instead, he stepped closer to her desk, his voice dropping to a low growl. “This is not over.”
Their eyes locked briefly before he turned on his heel and stalked from the room. With a look that blended apology and faint amusement, the second man gave her one last glance before following after him.
Theodosia exhaled slowly as the door clicked shut and silence blanketed the room once more.
Dear heavens, but Lord Wilton was the most arrogant man she had ever had the misfortune of meeting.
She had heard whispers of him, of course—who in London hadn’t?
A marquess, wealthy, powerful, and, according to the Society pages, among the Season’s most eligible bachelors. But none of that mattered to her.
She was the daughter of a baronet and had no desire to mingle with the ton.
They would only judge her for her rustic upbringing and dismiss her as provincial.
Let them. She was perfectly content with her life here in the village.
And with her father gone, she had the estate to oversee, a duty she took most seriously.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her dearest friend’s familiar, cheerful voice. “Did I just see two very handsome gentlemen leaving your front steps?”
Theodosia looked up to see Miss Penelope Worthing sweeping into the room, her golden curls bouncing beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet. “You did,” she confirmed, folding her hands atop the ledger she had been reviewing.
Penelope’s eyes sparkled as she sat, not bothering to conceal her curiosity. “They had the look of important men. Particularly the tall one.”
“That,” Theodosia said, “was Lord Wilton.”
Penelope’s brows shot up. “The Marquess of Wilton?”
“The very same.”
Penelope leaned forward, eyes wide with disbelief. “And you let him leave without securing a proposal? Dosia, you must marry him!”
Theodosia gave an inelegant snort and shook her head. “I would sooner throw myself into the lake behind the stables. He was intolerable. He burst in here, demanded to see my brother, and would not take no for an answer.”
“But… you haven’t a brother,” Penelope said, bewildered.
“Precisely,” Theodosia responded. “Yet he insisted he had seen a gentleman leaving the manor earlier this morning.”
Penelope frowned, her expression turning thoughtful. “Could it have been Lucinda with a caller?”
Theodosia shook her head, her voice tight. “No, because she left last night,” she replied. “I hardly see her these days. She comes and goes as she pleases.”
“That must grieve you,” Penelope said. “Your father would have been saddened to see such distance between his daughters.”
“It is what it is,” Theodosia replied, her voice carefully composed, though her chest ached. “When Papa passed, Lucinda made it clear she had no intention of staying. She wanted more than this inconsequential village could offer.”
“And left you to manage the estate alone.”
Theodosia gestured towards the ledgers with a flick of her hand. “I don’t mind. I rather enjoy it. There’s a comfort in order, in knowing each task matters.”
“Or perhaps you enjoy having something to fill the silence.”
Theodosia didn’t answer. Her friend wasn’t wrong. She did feel rather lonely.
After a moment, Penelope said, “You could always marry Mr. Pritchett.”
A shudder passed through Theodosia. “I think not. He deserves someone who can return his affections. And I… cannot.”
As if summoned by the mere utterance of his name, the drawing room door creaked open, and a maid stepped inside. “Miss, Mr. Pritchett requests a moment of your time.”
Penelope stifled a laugh. “Speak of the devil. He is nothing if not persistent.”
“That he is,” Theodosia agreed wearily before nodding to the maid. “You may show him in.”
Penelope rose. “And that is my cue to leave.”
“Must you?” Theodosia asked, only half-teasing.
Grinning, Penelope swept towards the door. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a most intriguing social call.” Her laughter echoed down the corridor as she departed.
Moments later, Mr. Pritchett was shown into the room by a maid. He was tall and lanky, with an earnest expression. His long face, narrow shoulders, and thinning hair were offset by an eagerness she had always found… tolerable, if nothing else.
“Mr. Pritchett,” she greeted, rising.
He bowed low. “Miss Theodosia. Thank you for receiving me.”
She dropped into a curtsy. “Of course.”
He removed his hat and immediately began wringing it in his hands, the brim twisting beneath his fingers. “I won’t waste your time with unnecessary pleasantries,” he said abruptly. Then, before she could so much as blink, he dropped to one knee. “I’ve come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Theodosia’s breath caught. No, no, no… this cannot be happening.
He pressed forward. “I’ve given this matter considerable thought. A union between us would be both logical and beneficial. Together, we would control the largest acreage in the county.”
“Mr. Pritchett—” she began.
But he lifted a hand, stopping her. “Please, allow me to finish. I have admired you for years. I believe I could make you happy, if given the chance.”
She opened her mouth to respond again, but he barreled on.
“You’ve done an admirable job managing your father’s estate, but I believe it would be best if I took over the responsibilities of both households.
You could then devote yourself to more womanly pursuits—needlework, social visits… things of that nature.”
Her lips parted in astonishment. She had endured many things in her life—loss, loneliness, even Lord Wilton’s arrogant disdain—but this?
This was beyond the pale. Not only had Mr. Pritchett proposed with hardly a word of affection, but he had somehow managed to insult her competence, erase her independence, and relegate her existence to embroidery hoops and tepid tea visits in the space of a single conversation.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was calm and measured—far calmer than she felt. “Mr. Pritchett—”
“Adam,” he interjected, as if that slight familiarity might sway her.
She gave him a weak smile. “Mr. Pritchett,” she repeated, “I appreciate the offer… truly. But I must decline.”
He blinked, confusion flashing across his face. Then again, more slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“You and I have always maintained a cordial relationship,” she said, carefully choosing each word, “and I value that. I do. But I do not believe marriage would suit either of us.”
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“You are rejecting me?” he asked, still on one knee, as if the very idea was too foreign to be real.
“I propose,” she continued with deliberate delicacy, “that we put this unfortunate moment behind us and continue on as friends. As we always have.”
He did not rise immediately. Instead, his brow furrowed, and he stared up at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue. “But… it makes perfect sense,” he said at last. “Our lands adjoin. We’ve known each other for years. And—” he hesitated, then pressed on, “you have no other prospects.”
“That may be true, Mr. Pritchett. But even so, I must decline.”
He huffed. “My mother said you were desperate to marry. That you were only waiting to be asked.”
Theodosia stiffened, her smile now gone. “Did she?”
“I mean no insult,” he said quickly, climbing to his feet at last, brushing off his knee with a stiff motion. “It’s just that you are two and twenty years old. And alone. It is not unreasonable to assume…”
“That I ought to leap at the first proposal I receive?”
His mouth opened and closed again, as if trying to gather words that wouldn’t make things worse.
“You are mistaken,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “I may be unmarried, but I am not desperate.”
He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “Forgive me. I… I only meant to help.”
“I am certain you did,” she replied. “But I must live a life of my own choosing, not one arranged for convenience.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a tight nod, he replaced his hat and offered her a bow far less confident than the one he’d entered with. “Good day, Miss Theodosia.”
She inclined her head. “Good day, Mr. Pritchett.”
He turned and walked out, his steps brisk and uneven, leaving Theodosia standing in the silence of the study, her heart pounding—but not with regret. It was with steady certainty that she had made the right choice.
Penelope’s voice drifted in through the open window, laced with amusement. “Poor Mr. Pritchett.”
Startled, Theodosia turned towards the sound and spotted her friend leaning casually against the window frame. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“I was,” Penelope said unrepentantly, resting her chin in her hand. “How could I not?” A glint of mischief danced in her eyes. “Though I must say, I nearly swooned when he invoked his mother during the proposal. That was a bold strategy.”
Theodosia let out a weary sigh and sank into her chair. “Why must a woman be married to be considered of value?” she asked, not entirely expecting an answer.
“Do you not wish to marry?”
“I do want to marry. Truly. But not like that. I want to love the man I marry. I want to choose him.”
A shadow passed over Penelope’s expression, and her usual playfulness waned. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of such lofty ideals,” she said. “I would settle for a marriage built on admiration. Respect, at the very least.”
Theodosia’s gaze swept around the study. “And once I marry,” she said, “all of this—my work, my independence—will be gone. I’ll be relegated to the drawing room to pour tea and discuss floral arrangements until I die.”
Penelope’s lips twitched. “But you would be married,” she replied with mock solemnity, her tone lightening once more.
Reaching for the nearest ledger, Theodosia flipped it open with a familiar sense of purpose. “I have work that must be done,” she said.
Penelope sighed dramatically. “You are no fun at all.”
Theodosia’s fingers trailed down a column of estate expenditures. “I consider balancing ledgers to be fun.”
“Then I shall leave you to your thrilling calculations,” Penelope responded. “But before I go, Mother hoped you might join us for supper this evening. She insists, in fact.”
Theodosia looked up, pleased by the invitation. “I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent. I’ll tell Cook to prepare an extra custard tart. You’ve earned it, what with the day you’ve had.” Penelope backed away from the window. “Until tonight, then,” she called, her voice trailing behind her as she strolled down the gardens’ path.
Left alone once more, Theodosia stared at the open ledger but didn’t immediately resume her work. Instead, her mind drifted to Lord Wilton. How could such a handsome man be so entirely disagreeable?