Chapter 10 #2
He was almost relieved she had chosen to stay. With him. And it was not just because of Mr. Smith and his elaborate ruse. A part of him was softening towards her. It was maddening. Impossible.
Yet, if he truly wished to keep her in London, he would have to try. He would have to make a genuine effort… to be less guarded. To speak with her, not just interrogate. To see her as more than a complication.
Being open with her would not come easily.
But for the first time in years, Richard found himself willing to try.
Theodosia stepped out of her bedchamber, smoothing a hand down the pale pink gown Olivia had lent her.
The fabric shimmered faintly in the candlelight as she moved down the corridor.
The dinner bell had not yet rung, but she had no desire to linger alone in her room with her thoughts.
The drawing room, she decided, would be a suitable place to pass the time—provided she didn’t encounter a certain marquess.
When she entered the drawing room, she came to an abrupt halt.
Lord Wilton stood near the tall window, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing into the darkness beyond the pane. The flickering wall sconces cast golden light over his form, highlighting the tension in his shoulders and the solemn set of his jaw. He hadn’t noticed her yet.
Botheration.
Theodosia considered retreating quietly before he turned around but that would be cowardly. She was not a child to be cowed by a man simply because he was insufferable. They were adults. They could exist in the same room without snarling at one another… in theory.
But something about his expression gave her pause. There was a heaviness in his gaze, a shadow that had not been there before. The Lord Wilton she knew wore arrogance like a second skin, but now… now he looked almost human. Vulnerable, even.
He turned abruptly, and their eyes met. Whatever softness she had glimpsed vanished beneath a familiar mask of cool detachment.
“Miss Theodosia,” he said with a terse nod and an even stiffer bow.
She dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Lord Wilton.”
An awkward silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. She remained rooted to the floor, unsure whether to stay or go, and he seemed equally unsure of what to do with her presence.
At last, he cleared his throat. “I trust you rested before supper?”
“I did, thank you.” She could have left it at that and let the silence reclaim the space between them. But her curiosity got the better of her. “Something troubles you.”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
She studied him, undeterred. “You seem rather… sad.”
His entire frame went rigid. “Do you always speak your mind so freely?”
“I do.”
“It is vexing.”
She smiled sweetly. “We shall have to agree to disagree, my lord.”
He took a step towards her, the movement slow and deliberate. “The women of my acquaintance do not speak to me in such a familiar manner.”
“Then I daresay you’re acquainted with the wrong women.”
His lips thinned. “You are a maddening young woman.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not meant as a compliment.”
“I chose to take it as one.”
He exhaled through his nose, exasperated. She took a step forward, narrowing the space between them to mere inches.
“You never answered my question,” she said.
“Because it is none of your concern.”
She arched a brow and placed a hand on her hip. “I thought you intended to make an effort to be civil.”
“I did. Then you opened your mouth.”
“I could say the same of you.”
His eyes narrowed. He stepped close enough that she could see the faint crease between his brows and the turmoil flickering in his gaze. “The difference is that I am a marquess.”
Her brow arched higher. “Is your title supposed to impress me? Because I assure you, it does not.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if trying to decipher a language he didn’t speak. “No one has ever spoken to me so plainly,” he murmured. “It is… oddly refreshing. Most women hide behind coy smiles and flutter their lashes.”
“I’ve never fluttered my lashes a day in my life.”
That drew the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I believe you.”
Her hand dropped from her hip. “We are not friends, I know. But you did look… well, sad.”
He let out a frustrated growl. “Miss Theodosia…”
“Why is it,” she asked, unbothered, “that whenever you say my name, it sounds like a curse?”
A chuckle escaped his lips. “Perhaps because I intend it as one.”
She tilted her head, her voice softening. “What troubles you, my lord?”
He turned away, shoulders drawn taut. She saw the flicker of indecision on his face before he looked back at her. “I miss my father,” he admitted.
The quiet admission stole her breath. “I understand that sentiment more than you know,” she responded.
His expression twisted. “I wasn’t ready to take on his title. He died too young and left behind a legacy I can’t possibly match.”
“Why do you say that?”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He was revered. In the House of Lords. Among our tenants. Even the servants adored him. And I—” His voice cracked with frustration. “I can’t even pass a single bill. I feel like I’m failing him… and myself.”
Moved by the raw honesty in his voice, Theodosia felt an urge to comfort him, though she dared not reach for him. Instead, she offered what little she could.
“You must give it time,” she encouraged.
“I don’t think that will make a difference,” Lord Wilton responded. “And I feel like I am drowning in the accounts.”
“I could look over the accounts for you.”
His head snapped towards her, incredulous. “You?”
“I’m rather good with numbers,” she said. “I run a profitable estate. Modest, yes, but thriving.”
He scoffed. “No, thank you. I don’t need your help.”
“I didn’t say you did. But why won’t you accept it?”
“Because accepting help would be admitting I can’t manage. That I’m failing.”
She met his eyes without flinching. “It would mean you are wise enough to recognize when support is needed. That takes more strength than struggling alone.”
He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair, leaving it terribly disheveled. “You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under. Everyone watching. Expecting me to be him.”
“I do imagine it,” she retorted. “I’m a young woman managing an estate. And everyone in my village is waiting for me to fail.”
He looked at her then, as if he noticed her for the first time. “Perhaps,” he said, “you understand more than I gave you credit for.”
Theodosia smiled. “Was that a rare compliment from you, my lord?”
The corners of Lord Wilton’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. “I suppose it was.”
His smile, genuine and unguarded, caught her off guard.
As their eyes held, something shifted between them.
A thread of understanding, perhaps, woven from shared burdens neither had intended to reveal.
She saw in him not just the irritable, arrogant marquess but a man shaped by grief, duty, and silent expectations.
And he, in turn, saw her not merely as an impertinent nuisance, but as someone who might actually understand the weight of standing alone.
The moment fractured at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Good heavens,” Olivia said from the doorway, her tone light and teasing. “I do hope you two are plotting each other’s downfall. It would be the only logical explanation for this level of intensity.”
Lord Wilton broke their gaze first, stepping back with a faint clearing of his throat. “We’ve come to something of an understanding.”
“Did you?” Olivia narrowed her eyes, her voice laced with mock suspicion.
Theodosia turned towards her. “It’s true. Your brother even offered me a compliment.”
Olivia gasped theatrically. “Is he bottle-weary? Should I summon the physician?”
“I haven’t touched a drop this evening,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.
Before the banter could continue, Lady Wilton entered the room and asked, “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”
“Yes,” her son muttered under his breath, already turning towards the door.
As they filed out of the drawing room, Theodosia found herself walking beside Lord Wilton once more. The air between them felt curiously lighter, less fraught than it had just moments ago. She glanced sideways at him and, before she could think better of it, said, “I had lemon ice today.”
The words left her mouth and immediately struck her as absurd. Of all things to say…
He turned his head just slightly towards her. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I did,” she said. “I can now understand why Gunter’s Tea Shop is all the rage.”
“Next time, you should try the lavender ice. It’s rather underrated.”
“Lavender?”
He nodded. “It is oddly satisfying.”
“If I had my way, I’d go to Gunter’s every day,” she mused aloud, not entirely joking.
His lips quirked. “There is nothing stopping you.”
“I imagine Lady Olivia might have something to say about that.”
Ahead of them, Olivia turned her head slightly and called over her shoulder, “Au contraire. I have no objections to daily lemon ice indulgence.”
“Then it is settled,” Lord Wilton said, his voice touched with mock formality.
Emboldened by the ease between them, Theodosia glanced at him again. “Would you care to join us tomorrow?”
She held her breath, expecting him to politely refuse. But to her astonishment, he replied without hesitation, “I would enjoy that.”
“You would?” Olivia asked.
Lord Wilton glanced between the two women, his tone dry but not unkind. “Even a marquess is allowed to enjoy lemon ice, is he not?”
“I suppose I shall allow you to join us,” Olivia said. “But no brooding allowed.”
“I do not brood,” he stated with a note of injured dignity.
Theodosia was unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “You most definitely brood, my lord.”
He came to a halt just outside the dining room door and turned to regard her with a mixture of mild offense and amusement. “I assure you, I am a man of profound thought, not brooding.”
“That is precisely what a brooding man would say,” Theodosia quipped.
With a muttered sound that may have been a laugh—or perhaps a grumble—he stepped aside and gestured towards the open doorway. “After you, Miss Theodosia.”
Inclining her head in thanks, she stepped into the dining room and she moved to take her seat beside Olivia. Lord Wilton took his place at the head of the table, his posture stiff.
Moments later, a footman entered and set bowls of soup before each of them. The clink of silverware began as they ate, the room falling into a companionable, if slightly awkward, silence.
Lady Wilton was the first to speak, setting down her spoon with a soft tap against porcelain. “How was the circulating library today?”
“It was wonderful,” Olivia said with a bright smile. “I found two novels I’ve been wanting for weeks.”
Theodosia nodded in agreement. “I must concur. I have never seen so many books in one place before. It felt like discovering a hidden treasure trove.”
“It is a magical place,” Lady Wilton agreed. “Which is why I am pleased to be among its patrons. As is Richard.”
Theodosia turned her gaze to Lord Wilton. “You are?”
He straightened slightly, as if preparing for a challenge. “Indeed. I do not know why that seems so unexpected. I have no objections to women reading. Quite the opposite, I encourage it.”
“But this afternoon…” she began, remembering his comment about frivolous reading material.
He cut in smoothly, setting down his spoon. “Had nothing to do with you reading, and everything to do with what you were reading. Surely, there are more enlightening choices than scandalous French romances.”
Theodosia opened her mouth to protest, but before she could respond, Lady Wilton added with a pointed nod, “I quite agree with Richard. Those books are written for shock and little else.”
“I daresay that they are written to entertain,” Theodosia argued. “And sometimes, that is enough.”
“Is it?” Richard countered. “Surely one’s time could be better spent with works that sharpen the mind.”
“My mind is plenty sharp, my lord. And I enjoy indulging it in both politics and passion,” she declared.
His lips twitched as if he were restraining a grin. “That sounds rather dangerous.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, raising her spoon to her lips. “But you might consider trying it sometime.”
Lady Wilton let out a soft, almost resigned sigh, and Olivia smothered a laugh behind her napkin. The conversation moved on, but Theodosia couldn’t help noticing the way Lord Wilton’s eyes lingered on her just a moment longer than necessary—thoughtful, and perhaps just a touch intrigued.