Chapter 7 #2
“Nonsense. My son is many things, but a flatterer is not one of them. If he says you’re talented, I have no reason to doubt it,” his mother stated, placing her napkin beside her plate. “I shall ensure you are given proper supplies.”
“That is most generous, my lady,” Miss Theodosia replied.
Before anyone could say more, the door to the dining room opened again and Olivia swept in. Her gown was still perfectly in place, her posture poised, but her eyes were red-rimmed and her smile a little too tight.
“I apologize for leaving so suddenly,” she said as she reclaimed her chair. “But I’m back now, and I’d rather not dwell on the why.”
Richard stood without hesitation and reached for the platter of venison. “We’re glad you returned,” he said as he served her a generous portion.
“Was anything of note discussed while I was gone?” Olivia asked, stabbing at her food more than slicing it.
His mother gestured lightly towards Miss Theodosia. “We were just speaking about Miss Theodosia’s artistic talents. It seems she has quite the talent for drawing.”
Olivia glanced up. “Is that so? That’s a talent I never had. My horses always looked like unfortunate cows.”
Miss Theodosia laughed. “I doubt that to be true.”
“Perhaps you’ll show me sometime. I might yet learn to draw something more dignified than a misshapen goat,” Olivia joked.
“I would be happy to,” Miss Theodosia replied.
Richard’s fork moved with measured deliberation as he focused on the task of cutting his venison into even bites. Fortunately, the attention had shifted away from him, and he was grateful for the reprieve.
He chewed slowly but was glad for the silence inside his own head. He didn’t have to defend, argue, or explain himself, especially to the infuriating Miss Theodosia.
And that, he decided, was enough.
Theodosia lay on her back, staring up at the shadowy canopy of her four-poster bed. The moonlight filtering through the parted curtains painted silver lines across the ceiling, but offered no comfort. It was late—well past midnight, surely—but her mind refused to rest.
Her thoughts lingered on Olivia’s stricken face, the abrupt scrape of her chair against the polished floor, the echo of her retreating footsteps.
Theodosia winced inwardly. She had meant only to offer sympathy, not wound her.
But she’d overstepped. Spoken as though she had any true understanding of heartbreak, when in truth, she had only ever brushed its edges.
And now, to make matters worse, she was starving. She had barely touched her supper, and her stomach protested with persistent grumbles that refused to be ignored.
Perhaps Cook left out some bread, she mused. Something simple. Anything at all.
She hesitated, then pushed back the heavy covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she reached for her wrapper, a white muslin garment she tied snugly around her waist before stepping quietly into the corridor.
The house was hushed and dim, the sconces along the walls darkened for the night. Shadows danced along the edges of the gilded wallpaper, and the silence stretched with every tentative footstep she took.
Where is the kitchen? she thought. And do I even know how to get there?
She wandered through the corridor with cautious steps until a faint flicker of candlelight caught her attention. A thin ribbon of gold spilled out from beneath a partially open door just ahead.
Curiosity nudged her forward.
She padded towards the door and peered inside.
Lord Wilton sat at an ornate desk surrounded by strewn ledgers and papers. His dinner jacket had been discarded, and the candlelight cast long shadows over his face, accentuating the stern line of his jaw. But he wasn’t working. He sat utterly still, staring out the window, lost in thought.
Something in his expression—so far from the arrogance she was accustomed to—gave her pause. There was weariness there. And solitude.
She began to quietly step back, hoping to retreat unnoticed, but her heel pressed against a loose floorboard with an unfortunate creak.
He turned sharply.
“Who’s there?” he barked.
She froze, inwardly cursing her luck. Then, seeing no escape, she stepped fully into the room.
“It’s just me, my lord,” she said, her voice calm despite her flustered heart.
His gaze narrowed. “Miss Theodosia? What exactly are you doing sneaking about the house at this hour?”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” she replied, though her smile was sheepish. “I was looking for the kitchen.”
“The kitchen,” he echoed dryly. “Which happens to be on the opposite end of the house.”
“Well… now I know,” she said with a curtsy. “Good evening.”
He shoved back his chair and stood. “You can drop the act. If you’re here to entrap me into marriage, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You appear in my study, after midnight, wearing nothing but your wrapper,” he said, folding his arms. “What impression am I meant to take from that?”
She squared her shoulders, her pride flaring to life. “No offense, my lord, but you are quite literally the last man I would ever wish to entrap.”
He gave a scoffing laugh. “I doubt that.”
“Oh, do you?” She took a step forward, chin lifted. “You’re arrogant, condescending, and far too pleased with yourself. None of those are qualities I seek in a husband.”
“I’m a marquess.”
“That’s a title, not a virtue,” she snapped. “And it does not impress me.”
He looked genuinely baffled. “My title impresses everyone.”
She threw her hands up. “And we’re back to arrogant. Do you even hear yourself speak?”
“If you’re truly on a mission to find the kitchen, I won’t keep you.”
“I would appreciate that.”
He gave a mockingly courtly bow. “Good evening, Miss Theodosia.”
Rolling her eyes, she turned and exited the study.
“Wrong way,” he called from behind her.
“I do believe any distance between us is a good thing,” she retorted without stopping.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but that direction leads to the gardens. Unless you intend to go for a moonlit stroll in your wrapper, I suggest otherwise.”
She halted and turned back to find him leaning against the doorframe, smirking like the devil himself.
Grinding her teeth, she asked, “Would you kindly point me in the direction of the kitchen?”
He gestured smoothly down the corridor. “That way. Straight on until the long clock, then left.”
Theodosia lifted her chin and marched past him, ignoring the way his gaze lingered as she passed.
When she reached the grand entry hall, she hesitated again. There were too many doors, and none of them felt particularly promising.
Lord Wilton reappeared beside her, maddeningly composed. “Allow me,” he said. “The servants’ staircase is this way.”
“I can manage,” she muttered, but followed him, nonetheless.
He led her to an unadorned door tucked behind a curtain, opened it, and gestured to the steep wooden staircase beyond. “This will take you down to the kitchens. Do mind the steps since they are narrow and worn.”
“I think I can handle a staircase.”
She brushed past him and descended—but misjudged the first step. Her foot slipped.
In a flash, his hand shot out, catching her arm firmly and steadying her.
“Careful, Miss Theodosia,” he said, voice low, close to her ear.
She immediately pulled away. “I will be,” she said stiffly.
“Perhaps I should follow you the rest of the way. Just in case.”
She paused, turned her head slightly, and gave him a narrow look. “You must think yourself terribly gallant.”
“No,” he replied with a slow smile. “Merely observant. You do have a tendency to miscalculate.”
With a dramatic sigh, she resumed her descent. “And you have a tendency to be insufferable.”
His voice drifted down after her, amused. “So I’ve been told.”
As Theodosia carefully descended the narrow staircase, the soft scuff of leather shoes behind her announced that Lord Wilton had, predictably, decided to follow.
She didn’t turn around. “You needn’t accompany me. Don’t feel obliged to stay on my account.”
“Careful, Miss Theodosia,” came his smooth reply from above. “That almost sounds as if you don’t relish my company.”
She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Trust me—I do not.”
He gave a theatrical tsk of mock disappointment. “Pity. I was beginning to think we were becoming friends.”
She muttered a curse word under her breath and took the last step with a little more force than was strictly necessary. The corridor at the base of the staircase was dim, and the stone floor cool beneath her feet as she made her way towards the darkened kitchen.
She moved cautiously, her hands brushing across the counters as she fumbled for something—anything—resembling food.
She had just lifted a linen-draped basket when warm light spilled across the room, the soft glow of a candle stretching long shadows over the walls. She turned to see Lord Wilton standing in the doorway with a candleholder in one hand.
“I thought this might help,” he said, lifting the flame slightly. “A little light to aid in your noble quest.”
“That… does help,” she admitted reluctantly.
With the added illumination, her search was more fruitful. She found a loaf of crusty bread nestled beneath the cloth, along with a crock of butter that still held its chill from the stone pantry. Locating a knife, she began slicing carefully.
“Would you care for a piece, my lord?” she asked, her tone far too polite to be sincere. She hoped, prayed even, that he would decline.
To her great annoyance, he smiled. “A slice of bread sounds delightful, thank you.”
Of course it does, she thought, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.
She cut two slices and placed them on the plates he had helpfully retrieved from a nearby cupboard. He accepted his with a small nod of thanks and walked over to the long kitchen table, settling himself with all the ease of a man entirely comfortable in any room he entered.
Theodosia remained where she was for a moment, debating whether to simply snatch her plate and flee back upstairs. But that would look childish. Worse, it would look like he’d won some invisible battle. So she crossed the room and took the seat opposite him.
That didn’t mean she intended to engage in conversation.
She broke off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, hoping he’d take the hint.
He didn’t.
“I take it you’ve not yet memorized the configuration of the house,” he said after a moment.
She swallowed and replied, “No. Your townhouse is… expansive. My entire manor could likely fit inside your servants’ quarters.”
He glanced around the kitchen, then leaned back with a self-satisfied air. “It is a magnificent house,” he said, his tone bordering on smug. “My father made several improvements, and I’ve added a few of my own.”
“It is quite impressive.”
Lord Wilton cast her a sideways glance. “Is that a rare compliment I hear from you?”
“I am more than willing to offer praise when the situation warrants it.”
“And I do not warrant it?” he asked, his tone half-teasing, half-genuine in its challenge.
A bark of laughter escaped her. “Heavens, no. You are insufferable, my lord.”
Rather than appearing wounded by the insult, he leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into that maddening smirk of his. “If that is your way of flirting—”
“Flirting?” she interrupted, nearly choking on the word. “I would never flirt with you.”
His grin only deepened, as if he were perfectly confident that her denial meant quite the opposite. “There will come a day when you will. Willingly and without shame.”
“I assure you,” she said, “that day will never come to pass.”
“We shall see,” he murmured.
Theodosia leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly as she regarded him.
The man was so smug—so entirely full of himself—it was astonishing that there was any place left for air in the room.
And yet, despite herself, she couldn’t help but notice the way the candlelight played along his angular jaw, or how his eyes seemed to hold secrets too heavy to name. What, precisely, was wrong with her?
Lord Wilton brushed the last crumbs from his fingertips and placed his empty plate aside. “That was delicious.”
Theodosia hesitated, curiosity nudging at her. “Earlier,” she began slowly, “in your office… you appeared rather preoccupied.”
At once, the warmth drained from his features. The playfulness vanished as if it had never been there. “I was merely thinking,” he said curtly.
She chose her next words with care. “Is it something you wish to speak of?”
He pushed his chair back. “You would do well to remember your place,” he said, his voice now edged in warning.
“We agreed, did we not, that I might speak my mind?”
Lord Wilton stood to his full height, towering above her. “What I think about is my own business,” he asserted. “And none of your concern.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, stepping away from the table. His tone had hardened, and his retreat was swift. “I trust you can find your way back upstairs?”
Theodosia gave a stiff nod. “Yes, my lord.”
He looked at her for a heartbeat longer, his expression unreadable—then, without another word, he turned and strode from the room.
She remained seated, staring at the space he had occupied only moments before.
She should not have pressed him. He had made it clear that he guarded his thoughts closely, as though revealing them might unravel something he could not afford to lose.
But she had seen the softer edges of him—the flickers of kindness, the glint of sorrow he tried so desperately to hide.
Perhaps that was what unsettled her most.
Because she, too, knew how it felt to keep the world at bay. To hide behind walls of sharp wit and cold indifference. To protect what remained of one’s heart by never offering it.
She ought to leave well enough alone.
But part of her wanted to understand the man behind the mask.
And that, she suspected, was the true danger.