Chapter 2 #2
“I do,” she said slowly, clearly beginning to lose patience, “but I choose to oversee matters myself.”
“Then delegate. Let him run it in your absence,” Richard pressed. “Surely a few weeks in London would not bring your estate to ruin.”
She drew herself up, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Why, exactly, are you so invested in this?”
“Because…” Richard began, then met her gaze with something approaching sincerity. “Because I truly believe that you and my sister would get along rather well.”
It wasn’t a lie. If anything, it was the only truth he could safely admit aloud. Both women were obstinate, headstrong, and entirely unafraid to speak their minds.
He continued. “Olivia is opinionated. As are you,” he added. “And she’s in need of distraction, something… or someone to take her mind off her present difficulties.”
Something flickered behind Miss Theodosia’s eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or a quiet pang of empathy—but it passed so quickly, he couldn’t be certain.
“I have never been to London,” she admitted.
“Then come,” Richard said, taking a small step closer. He kept his voice low, careful, less like a demand and more like an invitation. “See it for yourself. You needn’t stay long. If you hate it, you may return to your estate. No obligation. No pressure.”
He saw her weighing the offer, her fingers tightening slightly around the folds of her shawl. She was not a woman easily swayed, and he knew that now, more than ever, every word mattered.
“And I would be traveling,” she said, “under your protection?”
“Yes,” he replied, holding her gaze. “I would see to your safety personally. As any gentleman would.”
Miss Theodosia tilted her head as she studied him.
“How very curious,” she said at last. “One moment, you burst into my home, accusing me of harboring a mysterious gentleman, and suggest I am lying to protect him. The next, you invite me to travel across the country with you, as though we are… friendly acquaintances.”
Richard’s jaw tensed. He had no ready answer—at least, none that wouldn’t reveal the carefully concealed layers of manipulation behind his proposal. Because I need you as bait. Because I don’t trust you. Because I think you know more than you claim, and this is the only way I can keep you close.
But he said none of that.
Instead, he gave a small shrug. “I may have misjudged you,” he said. “Or perhaps I hoped I had.”
Miss Theodosia’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted—just slightly, a subtle easing of the shoulders, a flicker of intrigue she tried to disguise.
For the first time, the silence between them wasn’t heavy with accusation, but something else entirely.
Something not unlike the beginning of an uneasy alliance.
“I shall think on it,” she said.
Richard inclined his head in a bow. “Then, with your permission, I will return tomorrow to receive your answer.”
She gave the faintest nod before she started to walk down the path, not bothering to glance back at him.
As he mounted his horse, the weight of her guarded tone stayed with him. She had not said yes, but she had not said no either.
And that, for now, was enough.
Theodosia resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to glance back over her shoulder at Lord Wilton.
She could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her, and it irked her more than she cared to admit.
What nerve of that man! He accused her of deception and then, without the least hint of humility, offered her employment.
As though she were in need of his charity.
She had no desire for his money—or his approval. She had an income, a modest one perhaps, but sufficient. She managed her family’s estate with diligence and precision. She had no need of a marquess to rescue her.
And yet… some part of her—a quiet, wistful part she kept buried down—was tempted.
Not because of him. Heavens, no. He was infuriatingly arrogant.
But the offer itself… to travel to London, to see with her own eyes the things she had only ever read about in newssheets and books.
Vauxhall Gardens. Hyde Park. The glittering spectacle of carriages on Rotten Row.
And the balls… so many wonderful things to see in Town.
To be a companion to the sister of a marquess was no small honor. It was, in fact, the sort of opportunity most village girls only dreamed of.
But dreams were dangerous things. She was the daughter of a baronet, yes—but one with a small dowry and no connections. The world of the ton would not embrace her; it would merely tolerate her presence with veiled smiles and cutting remarks.
No. It was foolish to even entertain the thought.
With that determined conclusion, she pressed forward along the well-worn path until Penelope’s ancestral home came into view.
The Worthing manor was a charming two-story stone house, nestled amongst climbing roses and framed by quaint gardens she had helped tend since childhood.
Many a summer afternoon had been spent there—elbows deep in soil beside Penelope and her mother, gossiping and laughing until the light faded.
As Theodosia approached the steps, the front door flung open, and Penelope grinned from the threshold like an excited child. “Come quickly—I am starving!”
Theodosia arched a brow, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “You are always starving.”
Penelope stepped aside to let her in. “Yes, but I walk everywhere, so my figure remains unaffected.”
Before Theodosia could respond, a warm voice floated through the corridor. “I thought I heard your voice, dear. Do come in.”
The silver-haired Mrs. Worthing appeared from around the corner, her round face alight with welcome. Theodosia smiled and stepped inside. The scent of roast venison and stewed apples drifted from the kitchen, and her stomach gave a quiet rumble in response.
She followed Penelope into the dining room, where the table was already set with gleaming silverware and simple porcelain dishes. Everything about this house—the warmth, the laughter, the familiarity—felt like home.
A moment later, Mr. Worthing entered and pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “Sorry I’m late, my love. That blasted tenant of ours can’t seem to distinguish a fence post from a gate.”
Mrs. Worthing grinned. “You arrived just in time. And look who we convinced to dine with us tonight.”
Turning to Theodosia, he smiled fondly. “Our Dosia is practically family. She’s always welcome at our table.”
Theodosia returned his smile. “Thank you, sir. You always make me feel like one of your own.”
Mr. Worthing took his seat at the head of the table. “Now, Penelope tells me that Lord Wilton paid you a visit this morning.”
Theodosia groaned. “That he did. He was positively dreadful.”
Penelope, eyes twinkling with mischief, leaned her elbows on the table. “You should have married him. Then you could’ve been Lady Dreadful.”
Theodosia laughed. “Alas, he did not propose. And if he had, I assure you he would be the last man I’d consider accepting.”
“Not even before Mr. Pritchett?” Penelope teased.
Theodosia feigned a dramatic shudder. “Even Mr. Pritchett would be preferable. And that is saying something.”
Mrs. Worthing tsked. “Now, now, I won’t have you speaking ill of Mr. Pritchett. He’s a good-hearted gentleman.”
“He is,” Mr. Worthing agreed. “Steady fellow, and he has a sound head on his shoulders.”
“I don’t disagree,” Theodosia said, reaching for her napkin, “but you must admit that I could never make him happy. Nor he me.”
There was a pause, then a soft, almost reluctant nod from Mrs. Worthing. “Perhaps you are right, my dear.”
Just then, a maid entered carrying a large tray and began placing steaming dishes upon the table. Mr. Worthing rose and moved to carve the meat. As he sliced, Mrs. Worthing, ever the matchmaker, turned to Theodosia.
“Is there anyone else in the village who has caught your eye?”
Theodosia shook her head as a plate of food was placed before her. “I’m afraid not.”
Mrs. Worthing shifted her attention to her daughter. “What about you, Penelope? Mr. Pritchett does seem rather fond of you.”
Penelope gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not opposed to him. He’s always been kind.”
“There’s more to marriage than kindness,” Theodosia interjected.
“Don’t say such things,” Mr. Worthing protested. “If Penelope marries, she’ll leave us. I forbid it.”
“Now, George,” his wife scolded playfully. “Penelope can’t stay forever.”
“I can if I like,” Penelope declared. “Besides, I’ve no prospects at present, and I’m quite happy here.”
“Good,” Mr. Worthing declared. “Then it’s settled.”
Laughter danced around the table as the family began to eat, the warmth of the evening settled into Theodosia’s bones. It was moments like these that made her wonder why she ever longed for more.
Still, as the silence stretched into contentment, she found herself speaking. “Something rather absurd happened on my walk over.”
Penelope perked up instantly. “Let me guess—you were attacked by a werewolf and bravely fought him off.”
Theodosia snorted. “No. There were no werewolves.”
“One more guess!” Penelope raised a finger. “You fell into a hole and discovered a secret society of subterranean villagers.”
Mrs. Worthing laughed. “Let the poor girl speak, Penelope.”
Theodosia reached for a roll as she revealed, “Lord Wilton returned to speak to me.”
Penelope sat upright. “Did you kick him?”
“No, I did not kick him.”
“Pity.”
Theodosia smiled faintly. “He… apologized. For his behavior.”
The room fell silent.
“He did?” Mrs. Worthing asked at last.
“And then,” Theodosia continued, “he offered me employment as a companion for his sister. In London.”
Mrs. Worthing leaned forward, her eyes alight. “What did you say?”
“I told him I would think on it,” Theodosia admitted, cutting into her meat.
“You must go,” Mrs. Worthing said at once.
Theodosia winced. “I don’t think that would be wise. I fully intend to turn him down.”