Chapter 4
Richard sat astride his horse as the rain poured from the heavens with relentless fury.
What had begun as a light drizzle had swiftly transformed into a soaking downpour, and now, rivulets of water streamed from the brim of his riding hat and down the back of his greatcoat.
His gloves were sodden, his boots squelched with every shift of weight, and he was quite certain he had not felt dry in hours.
The chill crept beneath his collar and settled in his bones, but he remained stoic, his gaze fixed ahead.
He had been following the coach since shortly after breakfast, and though he’d never admit it aloud, he was weary of the saddle and aching in places he’d rather not name.
Still, he found a measure of satisfaction in the fact that everything had gone according to plan, thus far.
Miss Theodosia had agreed to accompany him to London, albeit reluctantly, and Mr. Crosby had remained behind to deliver word to the elusive Mr. Smith.
Now all that remained was to keep Miss Theodosia occupied—and under watch—until Mr. Smith came to collect her.
The rain showed no sign of letting up. He estimated they had at least another hour’s ride before reaching the coaching inn, and the thought of a roaring fire and a strong glass of brandy had become something of an obsession.
Just then, the coach lurched to a halt. The door creaked open, and Miss Theodosia leaned out, her bonnet askew and her cheeks flushed pink from the chill. “It would ease my conscience if you would ride in the coach with me, my lord.”
Richard hesitated, blinking rain from his lashes. He had promised her he would not share the coach, a courtesy to preserve appearances. But as the wind howled past his ears and thunder growled in the distance, he found himself reconsidering.
Before he could speak, Theodosia added, “Do come in before you catch a cold and die.” And with that, she disappeared inside, the door closing behind her.
He didn’t need to be asked again. Swinging down from the saddle, Richard secured his dripping horse to the back of the coach, then climbed aboard. The warmth of the interior hit him immediately, though the scent of damp wool and wet leather quickly followed.
He settled into the seat across from her and shrugged off his saturated greatcoat, folding it with care and placing it beside him. His hair dripped into his eyes, and he ran a hand through it, attempting in vain to tame it.
Miss Theodosia regarded him with a softness that surprised him. “I’m sorry you had to endure that.”
“Don’t be,” he replied. “Thank you for offering me shelter.”
She gave a modest nod. “It’s the least I could do. I wouldn’t want to be held responsible for the untimely death of a marquess.”
That coaxed a reluctant smile from him. “How considerate.” He noticed the small, green-bound book resting in her lap. “Were you reading?”
“I attempted to,” she said, her expression wry. “But the jostling of the coach disagreed with my stomach.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s about farming implements and crop rotation,” she replied, holding it up as though it were a prized possession. “It’s quite informative.”
“You must be jesting.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I find it fascinating.”
“It sounds abysmally dull.”
“To you, perhaps. But I enjoy learning new methods to improve estate efficiency.”
He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how close they were seated. “I hope I’m not getting you wet.”
“Would you care for a blanket?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “Though I appreciate the offer.”
An awkward silence fell between them. She turned her face towards the rain-spattered window, her features cast in profile against the gloom.
It gave Richard the opportunity to study her more closely.
Her features were refined and delicate, her eyes intelligent, though guarded. She was, objectively, quite beautiful.
Not that it mattered. She was here for a purpose, and any personal intrigue was a distraction he could ill afford.
Still, he needed to keep her engaged.
Clearing his throat, he attempted a conversational gambit. “Do you like to… ride?”
She glanced at him briefly. “I do, my lord.”
And then, maddeningly, she returned her attention to the window.
He blinked. That was it?
Richard scowled. He was the blasted Marquess of Wilton. Women generally hung on his every word, not dismissed him like a housemaid with no time for gossip.
Determined, he tried again. “What occupies your time, Miss Theodosia?”
She turned her gaze back to him. “I manage my estate. I also draw, as you know.”
“Yes, I recall.”
Another pause. And again, she looked away.
His temper flared—just a flicker—but it was enough to sting his pride. Was she truly so indifferent to him?
Before he could make a cutting remark, she surprised him by asking, “What about you, my lord? What fills your days?”
“I box,” he answered, perhaps too abruptly.
She raised a brow. “How barbaric.”
He smirked. “Only when done poorly.”
“And is that all you do? Punch people?”
“I oversee my estate,” he said defensively. “Though I rely heavily on my man of business.”
She shook her head. “I think that’s foolish. A man should know his accounts as well as his steward.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“You did say I could speak freely,” she countered.
“Yes, but perhaps consider the wisdom of what you say before you speak it.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because you’re a marquess and I’m a baronet’s daughter?”
Richard sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let us start again.”
Her expression softened, just a touch. “I am willing, if you are.”
“Good.” He inclined his head slightly. “I am Lord Wilton.”
She mimicked the gesture. “I am Miss Theodosia Smith.”
“There,” he said. “A full exchange without a single insult.”
A small smile played on her lips. “Progress, indeed.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Besides estate management, drawing, and riding—what else do you enjoy?”
“Gardening.”
He winced. “How dreadfully dull.”
“I thought we were being civil?”
“I smiled when I said it,” he replied. “Surely that softens the blow.”
“Not particularly,” she said with a shrug, though there was a glimmer of humor in her voice. “But it is true that it is not an exciting pastime. Still, I enjoy it. I spent many hours in the soil with my dearest friend, Penelope, and her mother.”
“You speak of her fondly.”
“She has a bright spirit. You would like her—everyone does.”
“Then it is a shame I did not meet her.”
Miss Theodosia fingered the edges of the blanket on her lap. “She was the one who urged me to take this trip. She said it would be an adventure.”
Richard allowed himself a chuckle. “On that count, I believe she was right.”
“I have known Penelope my entire life,” Theodosia shared. “She’s more than a friend. She is the one person who’s always been there when I’ve needed someone most.”
“That sounds like the mark of a true friend.”
“She is.” The corners of Theodosia’s mouth lifted in a faint smile, but it faltered as she looked down at her folded hands. “When my father died…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Her voice caught, and her breath hitched. The silence that followed was heavy with unsaid words.
Richard didn’t press her. He remained quiet, sensing that to interrupt would be to intrude on something sacred. If she wanted to continue, she would.
She blinked rapidly, but the tears welled anyway. “I do apologize,” she murmured, her voice tight with emotion. “Even now, it sometimes takes me by surprise just how easily the tears come when I think of him.”
Wordlessly, Richard reached into the inner pocket of his coat, retrieving a thoroughly damp handkerchief. It was creased and damp from the rain, but he held it out to her. “It’s wet, I’m afraid,” he said, offering a sheepish smile. “But it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.”
Her smile trembled at the edges as she accepted it. “Thank you, my lord. It’s kinder than most would think to offer.”
“If it offers you any comfort,” Richard said, leaning back in his seat, “my own eyes still sting when I think of my father. You're not alone in that.”
Theodosia dabbed delicately at her cheeks. “It does help. Truly.”
He studied her a moment longer, thoughtful. “Your father must have been a remarkable man, for you to grieve him so deeply.”
She bobbed her head. “He was the very best of men. He taught me how to think and how to ask questions. He never spoke down to me, not once. Even near the end… as the cancer ravaged his body, his only concern was for me and my sister. Not for himself. Never himself.”
“That must bring you some measure of comfort.”
“It does.” She lowered her gaze, her fingers still gripping the handkerchief. “Though I do wish he had stayed longer. He should have seen how far we’ve come. How hard we’ve worked.”
Then, as if suddenly aware of herself, she exhaled and pressed the handkerchief against her lips. “Dear heavens, I must apologize again. I hadn’t meant to fall apart in front of you.”
“Don’t think twice about it,” Richard said with sincerity. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
She looked up, her eyes rimmed in red but clear. “May I ask about your father?”
The question struck a chord he hadn’t expected. His body stiffened, his posture no longer relaxed. “What about him?”
“You must miss him terribly.”
The words were simple, yet they cut with unsettling precision.
Richard turned his gaze away, fixing it on the rivulets of rain running down the coach window. He didn’t want to speak of this. Not with her. Not with anyone. The wound was still too fresh, and his grief too private.
“I suppose I do,” he muttered, his tone clipped, hoping she would let it drop.
But he was not so lucky.
“May I ask how he died?” she asked.
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Illness,” he said flatly. “It took him before any of us were ready.”
“I’m sorry.”