Chapter 7
Richard glared at Miss Theodosia over the rim of his spoon as she lifted hers with measured grace.
Now that she was seated at his family’s table, in his house, he no longer felt the need to offer even the barest illusion of civility.
The time for politeness had passed. She was here, ensnared in his world, and she could not simply leave.
Not without his permission. She may have walked in with her head high and her chin set, but he knew that she was effectively cornered.
Across the table, his mother caught his eye and gave a discreet clearing of her throat. A warning. A reminder.
“Do you intend to go to the House of Lords tomorrow, Richard?” she asked.
He was pulled from his thoughts and straightened. “I do,” he said, adjusting his grip on his spoon. “Lord Warwicke and I are drafting a bill that would raise the minimum age for children in workhouses.”
Olivia’s eyes snapped up. “It’s about time,” she stated. “Children are being worked to death in those places. If they survive the labor, they don’t survive the neglect.”
“Warwicke is quite passionate about the matter,” Richard said with a nod. “And I’ve decided to lend my support.”
“Well, if you’re in the mood to lend your support,” Olivia began, arching a brow, “have you considered championing women’s rights? It’s positively barbaric how few rights we have.”
Richard set his spoon down with a faint clink. “That’s a lost cause.”
“Says the lord,” Olivia muttered under her breath, but not quietly enough to go unnoticed.
“Women’s minds are too fickle for politics. They would vote based on sentiment, not reason.”
Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “That is the most backward thing I’ve heard this week. I am perfectly capable of forming an educated opinion.”
“You may be,” Richard conceded, “but most women are content to concern themselves with fashions and gossip, not matters of state.”
With a fierce glare, Olivia asked, “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Their mother laughed softly. “Olivia, really. Play fair.”
“That is me playing fair,” she replied. “The only thing idiotic in this room is that opinion.”
Richard leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “This is precisely what I mean. You go straight to insult instead of debate. Emotion over logic.”
“I only insult idiotic arguments,” she shot back. “Don’t confuse passion with irrationality.” She turned to Miss Theodosia with a dramatic flourish of her hand. “Dosia agrees with me, don’t you?”
Miss Theodosia set her spoon aside and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Her tone was calm, but her eyes gleamed with quiet conviction. “I do, in fact. I believe women are just as capable as men of making informed political decisions. And I suspect that frightens some men.”
Richard’s jaw tensed. “And what, pray tell, do we have to be frightened of?”
Miss Theodosia met his gaze evenly. “Loss of control. For centuries, men have held the reins of power. Granting women a voice challenges that authority.”
He shook his head. “It’s not fear. It’s pragmatism.”
“No, my lord,” she said, “it’s denial. You deny women their rights not because they are incapable, but because they threaten the comfortable order you've grown used to.”
Olivia raised her spoon triumphantly. “Hear, hear!”
Richard gave a theatrical shudder. “Heaven help us all if women ever gain control of the government.”
“We’ve had queens,” Olivia reminded him. “And I don’t recall England descending into chaos under Elizabeth.”
Their mother interjected. “Perhaps we can find a topic less likely to start a rebellion at the table.”
Taking the cue with a smile, Olivia said, “I’ve decided to take Dosia to the circulating library tomorrow.”
“A lovely idea,” their mother replied. “And of course, our library is always at her disposal. We’ve a few first editions you might enjoy.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Miss Theodosia replied. “I’ve always loved reading. Books have a way of making the world feel both larger and more intimate at the same time.”
Olivia’s expression brightened. “Did you know Catherine Parr wrote books and had them published under her own name?”
“I didn’t,” Miss Theodosia said. “It’s rare. Most women still write under pseudonyms to avoid prejudice.”
“I once considered writing a novel,” Olivia shared, swirling her spoon in her soup.
Richard groaned. “I’m not sure the world is ready for that.”
She ignored him. “It was going to be a romance, naturally. But I abandoned it. I’ve decided love is dead.”
“Love is not dead, my dear,” their mother responded. “Your father and I loved each other very deeply.”
Olivia’s gaze dropped to her bowl. “Well, it’s dead for me.”
A silence followed—longer than it ought to have been.
Richard felt something shift in his chest. A pang. His sister had always believed in love. She used to sneak novels into her governess’s lessons, daydreaming about gallant heroes and moonlit proposals. Mr. Smith had destroyed that part of her, and Richard didn’t know how to bring it back.
Before he could speak, Miss Theodosia’s voice broke through the silence. “Love never truly dies,” she said. “Even when it’s lost… it lingers. It stays with you.”
Olivia snorted. “Love is a useless emotion. All it ever does is leave you with pain.” But her voice cracked at the edges, and her eyes shimmered a little too brightly in the candlelight.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Miss Theodosia said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Lord Wilton told me only a little, just enough to understand—”
The chair scraped sharply against the floor as Olivia shoved it back and shot to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said. “I can’t do this. Not right now.”
Without another word, she turned and swept from the room, her skirts rustling with haste, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.
Miss Theodosia watched her go, her body half-turned in her chair. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she murmured, her voice filled with remorse.
“No,” Richard said curtly, not bothering to mask his irritation. “You shouldn’t have.”
She turned back to him slowly. “Should I go after her?”
“No,” he snapped. “That will only make it worse.”
Miss Theodosia lowered her gaze to the table, her fingers curled slightly against the edge of her napkin.
The slump of her shoulders and the quiet way her chest rose and fell made it clear that she wasn’t skilled at hiding her emotions—not yet, at least. The guilt she carried was written clearly across her face.
He picked up his spoon again and resumed eating his soup, determined to ignore the knot in his stomach. The silence that followed felt oppressive. He could feel his mother’s disapproval radiating from her end of the table.
Still, he said nothing.
After what felt like an eternity, Miss Theodosia pushed her chair back with slow deliberation. “I believe it would be best if I retired for the evening,” she said, rising with dignity despite the tremor in her voice.
Finally. That was the first sensible thing she’d said all night. He opened his mouth to agree—
“Nonsense,” his mother interjected. “You will remain right where you are.”
Miss Theodosia paused, caught off guard. “But, my lady—”
His mother leaned forward slightly. “You did nothing wrong. You offered kindness. That is not a crime. You have no reason to punish yourself for Olivia’s pain.”
Then she turned her gaze sharply towards her son. “Isn’t that right, Richard?”
The words were there, poised on the edge of his tongue. He wanted to argue. Wanted to protest that Miss Theodosia had overstepped, that she didn’t belong, that she should have known better. But something in his mother’s stare stopped him. There was a challenge in it, and disappointment.
He swallowed his retort. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “That’s right.”
His mother gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Now, let us enjoy the next course, shall we?”
She lifted her hand in a subtle, graceful gesture, and the footmen moved forward at once, collecting the soup bowls with silent efficiency.
Another servant appeared, bearing a silver tray upon which rested a beautifully roasted haunch of venison, its scent filling the room with rich notes of rosemary and wine.
As the platter was placed at the center of the table, Miss Theodosia slowly sat back down. She straightened her posture, smoothing her napkin once more across her lap. Though her face remained composed, there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes that even Richard couldn’t ignore.
Blast it.
Richard clenched his jaw and shoved a piece of venison across his plate. He didn’t give a whit what Miss Theodosia was feeling. She was the deceiver in all of this, not him. So why was he noticing the shadow in her eyes or the way her hands lingered on her napkin as if it were an anchor?
He scowled into his wine, annoyed with himself.
Across the table, his mother took a sip from her glass, then turned to Theodosia. “Tell me, Miss Theodosia,” she said, “what usually occupies your time in the countryside?”
Miss Theodosia lifted her chin with quiet poise. “As I mentioned earlier, I manage a small estate, my lady.”
“That is rather unusual,” Lady Wilton said.
Miss Theodosia squared her shoulders with subtle pride. “Yes. My father passed away without any sons, and as I had a head for figures and a familiarity with the land, the responsibility fell to me. I’ve been managing the estate for nearly a year now.”
“That’s quite remarkable,” Lady Wilton said, clearly intrigued. “Not many ladies would claim such a task—or succeed in it.”
“It may be unconventional,” Miss Theodosia allowed, “but I find it suits me. I’ve little time for more traditional pursuits, and I prefer it that way.”
Despite himself, Richard spoke. “Miss Theodosia is also quite skilled at drawing.”
“Lord Wilton flatters me,” Miss Theodosia said with a modest smile. “I’m merely proficient.”