Chapter 8
Richard emerged from his bedchamber and strode down the dim corridor. Sleep had eluded him last night. His thoughts had churned relentlessly throughout the night, circling back to one frustrating, utterly maddening subject: Miss Theodosia Smith.
Why did she persist in asking questions he had no desire—no intention—of answering?
She could not possibly understand the weight that came with being a marquess.
The constant obligations and the expectations that pressed down like a lead cloak.
He had been thrust into the role far too soon, with little preparation and no time to grieve the man whose legacy he was meant to uphold.
His father had been a pillar of strength, a man of unshakable integrity and presence.
And now that pillar was gone, leaving Richard to build a life from the rubble of duty and doubt.
He should feel grateful—honored, even. But gratitude had no power against the creeping fear that whispered: What if I am not enough? What if I fail?
It was a relentless fear, one that throbbed in time with his very heartbeat. And it was not something he would ever confess aloud. Not to his mother, or even to his closest friends. Certainly not to Miss Theodosia, who had a knack for asking the wrong questions with infuriating persistence.
She was vexing.
And the most irritating part was that he noticed her at all.
As if summoned by the very force of his thoughts, she appeared at the top of the staircase, her pale blue gown catching a shaft of morning light. She offered him a polite smile.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He paused and gave her a shallow bow. “Miss Theodosia.”
“Are you on your way to breakfast?”
“I am.”
“Well then,” she said, falling into step beside him, “as we are bound for the same destination, shall we walk together?”
Richard resisted the urge to groan. “If we must.”
Her smile widened, as if she found his reluctance endlessly amusing. She fluttered her lashes in exaggerated coquetry. “You certainly know how to make a lady feel special.”
“You wish me to flatter you?” he asked dryly.
“I should hope not. I have no need for empty praise,” she replied breezily. “I prefer honesty. Always.”
They descended the stairs side by side, and he glanced her way. “Ah, yes. Honesty—the most elusive of virtues. Not for the faint of heart.”
“Perhaps not,” she allowed, her tone thoughtful, “but surely it is better to be honest with oneself, if nothing else.”
Richard nearly scoffed. How easily she spoke of truth, when she had lied to him—boldly, unapologetically. She had deceived him about Mr. Smith, misled him with her charm and calm demeanor, all while pretending to be the very embodiment of integrity. Her hypocrisy was laughable.
He opened his mouth, prepared to remind her of it in no uncertain terms, when a familiar voice called from behind.
“Good heavens,” his mother declared, her tone touched with surprise. “There are two of you up at this hour?”
Richard halted at the base of the stairs and turned to see his mother approaching. “Pardon?”
“You and Miss Theodosia,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You’re both early risers. They must keep earlier hours in the countryside.”
Miss Theodosia spoke up. “Indeed. I find the mornings quite peaceful. There is a certain quietude to them I rather like.”
His mother made a dismissive noise. “There is never any quiet in this house. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”
Richard offered his arm to his mother. “Allow me.”
“Thank you, dear,” she said, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve.
As they walked, Miss Theodosia fell into step on his other side.
“And how did you sleep, Miss Theodosia?” his mother asked lightly.
She smiled, a glimmer of warmth softening her features. “Please, you must call me Dosia. It is far less cumbersome.”
“How very gracious,” his mother replied. “Isn’t she gracious, Richard?”
He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly involved in the conversation, but he offered a half-hearted shrug. “Yes, I suppose.”
His mother patted his arm with a knowing look. “That wasn’t so difficult to admit, was it?”
Richard grumbled under his breath. “Why must you ask so many questions before breakfast?”
“I take it you didn’t sleep well,” she said, undeterred.
“I rarely do.”
Her expression softened. “Were you up late again?”
He hesitated before glancing briefly at Miss Theodosia. “I was.”
They reached the dining room, where the table was laid with silver, porcelain, and trays of warm rolls and preserved fruits. He pulled out his mother’s chair and waited for her to settle before taking his place at the head of the table.
To his right, Miss Theodosia sat down and immediately gasped with delight.
“Is this chocolate?” she asked, lifting a delicate porcelain cup to her lips. Her eyes widened in appreciation after a sip. “It’s delicious.”
“You’ve never had chocolate before?” he asked, raising a brow.
She nodded her head. “Only when my father visited Town and returned with it as a special treat. It was rare, but always memorable.”
“Well,” Richard replied, leaning back in his seat, “in this household, it is served every morning.”
She met his gaze over the rim of her cup. “Then I do believe I could grow accustomed to mornings in your household.”
He allowed himself a small smile—until he remembered who he was smiling at and quickly composed his expression. “My sister often requests a breakfast tray be sent to her bedchamber,” he said, tone returning to its usual clipped civility.
As if summoned by his very mention of her, Olivia swept into the dining room, her presence as theatrical as ever. “But not today, Brother,” she announced with a bright smile. “I have decided to grace you all with my company.”
“How wonderful,” Richard muttered under his breath, rising politely from his seat.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Do sit down. No need to rise on my account. I hope Dosia is as delighted as I am to visit the circulating library today. I’ve been looking forward to it all morning.”
“I am rather excited,” Miss Theodosia said with a smile. “Thank you again for allowing me to borrow your gown for the outing.”
Olivia waved the thanks away as she seated herself. “Think nothing of it. Now that I’m married, I am free of those pasty pale gowns meant to signify innocence and modesty. I have resolved to begin wearing crimson gowns.”
Richard arched a brow. “Perhaps you might begin with shades that do not attract quite so much attention.”
“Nonsense,” Olivia replied. “It’s one of the few freedoms that marriage affords me. If I must submit to the rest of it, I shall at least wear whatever color I please.”
Before he could retort, the butler appeared silently in the doorway and approached with the morning newssheets balanced neatly on a silver tray. He placed them beside Richard with a slight bow. “Will there be anything further, my lord?”
“Not at this time, thank you,” Richard replied with a nod of dismissal.
He had just reached for the topmost paper when Olivia snatched it up with a triumphant grin. “You must be faster next time, Brother.”
“Need I remind you that reading the newssheets is not considered particularly ladylike?”
She did not even glance up from the page as she flipped it open. “Ah, but I am married now,” she replied, as though that single fact rendered all previous expectations obsolete.
“Being married does not mean you must abandon all decorum,” he responded.
Olivia peered over the newssheet at him with a smug look. “Oh, I think it rather means I can do exactly that.”
Beside him, Miss Theodosia bit her lip to keep from smiling, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. Richard sighed, pressing his fingertips to his temple. He found he couldn’t wait until these two departed for the circulating library.
For a few blissful moments, the only sound in the breakfast room was the soft rustling of paper as Olivia perused the newssheets, her tea momentarily forgotten. Then without warning, she let out a sharp gasp.
“How extraordinary,” she exclaimed. “It appears that Mr. Haverleigh’s trial is moving forward. He is to be tried for attempting to murder his sister, Lady Warwicke!”
Lowering the newssheets, Olivia met Miss Theodosia’s gaze and continued. “They claim he used an age-old poison that is so potent, it can kill with just four drops.”
“That is awful,” Miss Theodosia murmured.
Olivia gave a solemn nod, though a touch of mischief crept into her tone. “Yes, dreadful indeed. Still, one must admit, it is quite the scandal. Perhaps it will distract Society just long enough to forget I eloped to Gretna Green.”
She had barely finished speaking when a flash of white fur and fluttering silk ribbons streaked into the dining room like a miniature whirlwind. Miss Theodosia shrieked and scrambled backward in her chair, clutching at the table edge.
“What is that?” she cried.
Unperturbed, Olivia bent down with a delighted laugh and scooped up the tiny bundle of fur. “That is a Pomeranian puppy. His name is Finnegan. Isn’t he the dearest little thing you’ve ever seen?”
“I thought it was a rat,” Miss Theodosia admitted.
Richard chuckled. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister did try to keep a rat as a pet.”
“Hush,” Olivia murmured as she brought the puppy close to her cheek. “Don’t listen to them, Finnegan. You are nothing like a rat. You are perfection in a puffball.”
“I meant no offense,” Miss Theodosia said quickly, still eyeing the animal with uncertainty.
With a graceful shrug, Olivia placed Finnegan in her lap and reached for a slice of ham from the serving dish. “None taken. But I should remind you that Her Majesty herself keeps Pomeranians. They are very fashionable.”
Richard’s brow furrowed. “That may be, but you are not the queen. And more importantly, you are not to feed your dog from the breakfast table.”
Olivia turned wide, innocent eyes upon her brother. “And where, pray tell, should I feed him?”
“In the kitchen, where his food dish is,” Richard replied.