Chapter 3 #2
“No,” he replied. “Inside the townhouse, you may speak as freely as you wish. But I would advise discretion when among the ton. They are not as forgiving as I am.”
That earned a small laugh from her. “Forgiving? You, my lord?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Shocking, I know.”
Her eyes dropped to her simple green gown. “And my wardrobe? I have nothing appropriate for Town.”
“Then we’ll see to it that you have one. I don’t want you drawing unnecessary attention.”
Her gaze lingered on him, the silence between them charged and thoughtful. He didn’t press her. Not yet. But he could feel her resolve weakening.
At last, she drew in a steady breath. “Very well. I will go with you.”
Richard barely resisted the urge to let out a breath of relief. He clasped his hands together to mask his satisfaction. Step one accomplished. Now it was only a matter of luring Mr. Smith into the open.
Taking a step back, he said, “Wonderful. If you have no objections, we will depart at first light tomorrow. I’ll arrange for the coach.”
“Will you also ride in the coach?”
“No,” he replied promptly. “I’ll ride alongside on horseback.”
She smiled, a real one this time—cool, composed, but with the faintest glimmer of satisfaction. “Good. I find that much more preferable.”
“As do I.”
“Until tomorrow, then, my lord,” Miss Theodosia said with a slight curtsy.
He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
Theodosia sat on the floor of her bedchamber, the morning sun slanting through the tall windows and casting long, golden beams across the room. Before her sat two open trunks—half-filled, half-forgotten—and a scattering of neatly folded gowns, underthings, and shawls strewn across the carpet.
Her hands rested in her lap, still, unmoving.
What am I doing?
The question rang in her mind like a bell.
Could she really travel to London with Lord Wilton—a man she was hardly acquainted with and barely tolerated?
He was arrogant, overbearing, and altogether too self-satisfied.
And if his sister was anything like him?
Theodosia couldn’t bear the thought of spending days—weeks—in the company of people who would surely look down their noses at her.
She belonged here. In the village. With her ledgers and her fields and her tenants. With the wind in the trees and the sound of the church bells each Sunday morning. She had a purpose here.
What if her steward failed her in her absence? What if rents went uncollected, roofs leaked, or livestock fell ill? People depended on her. She couldn’t abandon them just to go gallivanting off to London for some foolish adventure that might end in disaster.
Her resolve hardened. Rising from the floor, she moved towards the nearest trunk and reached for the lid. No. She would stay. It was the sensible thing to do.
Before she could close it, the door swung open, and Penelope swept into the room. “Good morning,” her friend sang cheerfully, pausing at the threshold.
Theodosia turned, managing a faint smile. “Good morning.”
Penelope’s sharp eyes scanned the trunks and the piles of carefully arranged garments. With an exaggerated gasp, she dropped to the floor beside Theodosia. “Well, if the great packing has commenced, I assume this means you’ve decided to go to Town?”
Theodosia hesitated. Then, with a sigh, she closed the lid and settled onto the trunk. “Actually… I’ve decided not to go.”
“What? Whyever not?”
“I have an estate to run,” Theodosia replied. “People who rely on me. I can’t leave them in the hands of someone else—not for weeks.”
Penelope raised a brow. “You have a man of business. And a very capable one, if I recall correctly. You chose him.”
“What if he isn’t as capable as I thought?” Theodosia asked. “What if something goes wrong and I’m not here to fix it?”
“You won’t know unless you trust someone else to try,” Penelope replied. “And you are careful. You don’t make hasty decisions. If you believe he can do the job, then he likely can.”
Theodosia stared down at her hands. “Maybe. But even if I do go, I know nothing about being a companion. What if I make a fool of myself? What if I’m simply… not enough?”
Penelope gave her a wry look. “Methinks you protest too much.”
Theodosia arched a brow. “I’m serious. What if I’m a disaster? What if I’m dismissed the moment we arrive?”
“Then you come home. And at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you tried.”
“I don’t like uncertainty,” Theodosia murmured. “Here, I know what to expect.”
Penelope leaned forward, her tone shifting to something softer. “And that is exactly why you should go. You’ve spent your life doing what is expected of you. Running an estate, tending to others, and being utterly dependable. But when was the last time you did something just for yourself?”
Theodosia didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure she could.
Penelope continued. “You deserve to see more of the world than the borders of this village. You deserve ballrooms and fireworks and whispered secrets behind fans. You deserve to stand in a grand house and know that you belong there.”
“But what if I fail?”
“And what if you marry a prince?” Penelope said brightly.
Theodosia rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to marry a prince.”
“You could,” Penelope said with a grin. “And you’d have a castle, and dozens of servants to do your bidding.”
“You, my dear friend, are completely delusional.”
“Perhaps,” Penelope conceded with a shrug, “but I’m your delusional friend. And I need to share in these adventures with you. Which means you must go and you must write to me with every delicious detail.”
Theodosia rose from the trunk and wandered to the window. She stared out at the familiar gardens, the same ones she had played in as a child, learned to prune roses in, and walked through alone after her father’s funeral.
The thought of leaving everything behind terrified her.
However, the thought of never leaving it at all terrified her even more.
Penelope came to stand beside her. “You don’t have to stay caged by the life you’ve always known, Dosia. It’s time to be brave.”
“I wish you could come with me,” Theodosia said.
“And leave my parents?” Penelope scoffed. “Impossible. They’d be lost without me. I’m the glue that keeps them from driving each other mad.”
Theodosia laughed, and the tightness in her chest eased just a little. “I’ll go,” she said, turning towards her friend with a small, determined nod. “I’ll go to London.”
Penelope threw her arms in the air triumphantly. “Good! And when you do marry a prince, I had better be invited to the wedding.”
Theodosia smiled. “I promise you that I will not be marrying a prince.”
“That is a real shame since the queen is trying to marry her sons off. You would’ve had your pick,” Penelope replied with mock solemnity as she looped her arm through Theodosia’s. “Now, since we’ve made the most momentous decision of your life, I believe we’ve earned a biscuit.”
“I do love biscuits,” Theodosia said as they started towards the door together.
“Then let us go and pillage the kitchen like the scandalous adventuresses we are.”
Laughter still echoed between them as Theodosia and Penelope stepped out of the bedchamber and descended the staircase.
Though a knot of uncertainty remained curled in Theodosia’s chest, she felt lighter somehow.
Doubts lingered, yes—but when would such an opportunity come again?
Life rarely offered second chances at adventure.
As they walked into the sun-warmed kitchen, the scent of butter, herbs, and freshly baked bread wrapped around them like a familiar embrace. A cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and Mrs. Meng, the stout, dark-haired cook, stood over a large iron pot, stirring with practiced ease.
Upon hearing the door, she glanced over her shoulder, her round face lighting with amusement. “I know exactly what you two are looking for,” she said, her voice rich with affection. “Go on, now. They’re on the table.”
Theodosia crossed the room, lifted a linen cloth, and revealed a generous plate of biscuits. She plucked one free and bit into it with a soft sigh of contentment. “I’m going to miss these when I’m in London.”
Mrs. Meng set her spoon aside. “I’ve no doubt that handsome marquess keeps a proper French chef on his household staff. You’ll be well fed.”
“Lord Wilton? Handsome?” Theodosia took another bite and chewed deliberately. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Penelope let out a dramatic gasp and pressed a hand to her chest. “You hadn’t noticed?” she echoed. “Have your eyes failed you, Dosia? He’s precisely what I imagined when I used to dream about tall, brooding lords riding up to the manor gates.”
With an indifferent shrug, Theodosia replied, “He is not unpleasant to look at, I suppose.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes. “That’s it? Not unpleasant? Honestly, I’m beginning to question our entire friendship. Who are you? Have you been replaced by a changeling?”
Theodosia smirked into her next bite. “Because I don’t swoon over Lord Wilton?”
“Exactly!” Penelope declared, throwing her hands up. “He’s got that dark hair, that chiseled jaw, and stormy eyes. Don’t you think he might’ve been a pirate in a former life?”
“A pirate?”
Penelope nodded, eyes sparkling. “Oh, yes. I can just see it now—him in a long coat, sword at his hip, rescuing innocent maidens from terrible fates.”
“But aren’t pirates usually the ones causing the terrible fates?”
“Not in my story,” Penelope said firmly. “In mine, he’s the misunderstood hero, with a shadowed past and a ship named The Tempest’s Kiss.”
Theodosia glanced pointedly at the biscuit in her friend’s hand. “I wonder if Mrs. Meng slipped something stronger than sugar into these.”
Mrs. Meng snorted with laughter. “No spirits in the biscuits, I assure you, but perhaps Miss Penelope’s imagination doesn’t need any help.”
Penelope took another bite before saying, “Just admit it—he’s handsome.”
“I will do no such thing,” Theodosia said. “He is arrogant, intolerably rude, and endlessly condescending.”
“He’s a marquess,” Penelope remarked.
“That’s not a character trait,” Theodosia countered, though her lips twitched despite herself.
Brushing the crumbs from her skirt, Penelope turned to her with a teasing gleam in her eyes. “Very well, if you won’t admit it freely, let’s make a game of it.”
Theodosia groaned. “I already don’t like this game.”
Penelope ignored her, pressing forward. “The rules are simple. Say one kind thing about Lord Wilton.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because,” Penelope said sweetly, “I do believe you protest entirely too much.”
Theodosia folded her arms. “This is absurd.”
“It’s character building.”
“I’ve enough character.”
Mrs. Meng spoke up from the hearth. “Let the girl be, Miss Penelope. It’s far too early for teasing.”
“Not when I smell scandal in the air,” Penelope replied with exaggerated drama. “Come on, Dosia. One nice thing. One.”
Theodosia considered for a moment, then replied, “Fine. He is… of adequate height. He is neither too tall nor too short.”
“That’s a start. See? Not so hard.”
Theodosia gave a dramatic sigh. “I fear I may never recover.”
“It wasn’t so painful, was it?” Penelope teased, her grin stretching wide.
“You say that now, but next you’ll have me calling him charming, and if that day comes, I shall have to be examined for a fever. Or perhaps head trauma.”
Penelope leaned back against the wall. “Too late. I daresay we’re already halfway down that slippery slope.”
Theodosia gave her friend a withering look, though a smile tugged stubbornly at the corner of her mouth. “If I ever utter the words ‘Lord Wilton is charming,’ I give you full permission to lock me in the cellar and throw away the key.”
“Duly noted,” Penelope said, raising her biscuit in a toast.