Chapter 17
The golden light of morning streamed through the tall windows of the study, casting long beams across the surface of Richard’s desk.
The accounts lay open before him, figures and ledgers carefully arranged, yet entirely unread.
His eyes scanned the page, but his thoughts were far removed from the column of numbers.
They had returned, again and again, to the events of the previous night—and to her.
Miss Theodosia.
The image of Mr. Pritchett’s hand on her arm, of her startled expression, and that faint tremble in her voice, tormented him. What might have happened had they not arrived in time? The thought had robbed him of sleep.
She was under his protection. That had been the arrangement. But it wasn’t duty that drove this unrest in his soul—it was something far more dangerous.
He cared for her.
More than he should. More than was wise. More than he dared admit aloud.
He leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. Could it be love? Olivia had suggested as much, and at the time, he had scoffed. But now…
Good gads, no.
He couldn’t love Theodosia.
He wouldn’t.
And yet, he did.
The truth came down on him like a hammer—solid, unyielding, impossible to ignore. He did love her. Somehow, through late-night conversations, shared glances, and her maddening refusal to be anything less than herself, she had become the most important part of his day.
But how had it come to this? He had brought her here under false pretenses—as a companion for Olivia, yes, but truly as bait to lure out the elusive Mr. Smith. He had used her. And still, he had fallen for her.
Madness.
She was entirely unsuitable. A baronet’s daughter, formerly in service as a companion.
The ton would never accept her as a marchioness.
His marchioness. Furthermore, the scandal would cling to Olivia like a second skin.
No, he needed to marry someone whose name was above reproach, whose connections could help restore his family’s standing.
A knock interrupted his brooding, and Sterling stepped into the study. “The constable, Mr. Allen, is here to speak with you, my lord.”
Richard straightened. “Show him in.”
The butler bowed and withdrew. Moments later, a large man with a heavily lined face and a full beard entered the room.
“Good morning, my lord,” the constable said with a respectful nod.
“Good morning, Constable. Please, have a seat,” Richard offered, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
The man shook his head. “No need, I won’t stay long. I came to inform you that Mr. Benson has confessed to embezzling funds. He claims it began shortly after your father’s passing. Said he took advantage of your… difficulties with reading numbers.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Splendid.”
“He’ll remain at Newgate for the foreseeable future. I daresay you won’t be troubled by him again.”
Richard rose from his seat. “Thank you for your diligence, Constable.”
“It was my pleasure, my lord,” Mr. Allen replied before taking his leave.
The door shut, and silence reclaimed the room.
Richard sank slowly back into his chair, a deep ache blooming behind his eyes.
Mr. Benson, whom his family had trusted for years, had preyed upon his weakness.
He might never have known had it not been for Miss Theodosia’s careful scrutiny.
She had saved him more than just money. She had saved his pride.
His mother entered a moment later, her expression mild but observant. “Do you intend to join us for breakfast?”
“In a moment.”
She crossed the room to stand before his desk. “Something troubles you.”
“Nothing of consequence.”
Without the slightest hint of hesitation, she lowered herself into the chair that faced the desk. “Is this about last night? About Dosia?”
Richard’s shoulders stiffened. “Partly.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Have you finally admitted to yourself how you feel about her?”
He avoided her gaze. “It’s irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“She is under my protection. That is all.”
“You do realize I was not born yesterday.”
He exhaled. “She is merely a baronet’s daughter. A companion. Society would see it as a scandal if I were to pursue her. My title demands a marriage that improves our standing.”
“And Dosia cannot do that?”
“No,” he said, sharper than intended. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how precarious Olivia’s reputation is? I need a bride whose lineage is unimpeachable. Someone who will help restore what was lost.”
His mother tilted her head. “And Dosia is not enough for you?”
“She is too much,” he admitted. “Too clever. Too honest. Too… everything. But none of it matters.”
She stood and approached him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You sound very much like your father just now. Strong. Proud. Stubborn.”
“I am responsible for this family. I cannot afford to follow the dictates of my heart.”
“Even if it costs you your happiness?”
He stared out the window, jaw clenched. “My happiness is not what matters.”
“It should be.”
“I deceived her,” he said. “I brought her here under false pretenses. How could I ask her to forgive that?”
His mother was silent for a long moment before saying, “Tell her the truth.”
“And risk the one lead we have on Mr. Smith?”
She met his gaze. “You’ll have to choose, Richard—your heart, or your pride.”
He flinched. “It was easier when Father was alive.”
A shadow crossed her features. “Yes. And I miss him still.”
“As do I.”
“But I see him in you and Olivia every day. That helps. More than you know.”
He saw the sadness in her eyes. “How are you faring, truly?”
“I take each day as it comes.”
“Mother—”
She waved him off. “Shall we go to breakfast?”
“If that is your wish.”
“It is.” She stepped back.
Richard offered his arm, and they departed the study in silence. Once in the corridor, he asked, “How do you plan to pass the day?”
“Well,” she said with a smile, “we have Lord Warwicke’s ball this evening. And preparations are, as always, plentiful.”
He grinned. “Sometimes, I think being a man is far simpler.”
“I do hope you will dance with Dosia,” she added lightly, as if that thought had just come to her.
“Do you?”
“If you show her attention, the other gentlemen will follow suit. That is how these things work.”
The very thought of other men lining up for Miss Theodosia angered him. He offered no reply, but the conversation lingered in his mind long after they reached the dining room.
As they stepped into the room, he saw Miss Theodosia already seated at the long mahogany table with a book in her hand. Her back was straight, her expression intent, and she was utterly absorbed in her reading—until she caught sight of them entering.
She promptly closed the book and set it down. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, her tone apologetic, “but we are returning to the circulating library later today, and I was quite determined to finish this before we go.”
“No harm done,” Lady Wilton replied, waving her hand dismissively as she took her customary place at the head of the table. “A book worth finishing is often worth forgiving.”
Richard crossed to stand beside Miss Theodosia’s chair. “May I ask what you’re reading with such urgency?”
She glanced up at him, her lips curving faintly. “It’s one Olivia recommended—La Princesse de Clèves. A French novel.”
“Ah.” He raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “Fantastical nonsense, then.”
Miss Theodosia did not appear amused by his remark. “Not at all. It is, unfortunately, all too grounded in reality. The heroine is torn between the man she loves and the obligations imposed upon her by Society.”
He leaned a hand on the table, intrigued despite himself. “And which does she choose?”
“Duty,” Miss Theodosia answered, her fingers brushing the closed cover of the book as though reluctant to let it go.
“Even after her husband dies, she refuses the duke’s proposal.
She blames herself for her husband’s decline and remains alone, loyal to a sense of honor that, in truth, brought her little happiness. ”
“Fascinating,” he murmured, reaching for the book. He flipped through the pages idly, the soft crackle of paper the only sound for a moment. “Still, it is not uncommon. Those in high Society often find that happiness must be second to obligation. Not everyone is free to follow their heart.”
“That is a sad way to live,” Miss Theodosia said. “To sacrifice so much, only to please others.”
“Indeed,” Lady Wilton interjected from her end of the table. “I must agree with Dosia. A life without personal happiness is not one I would recommend. Don’t you think so, Richard?”
He knew that tone—it was deliberate. His mother was baiting him. He closed the book and set it gently on the table. “Whether I agree or not is irrelevant. As a marquess, my path is dictated by duty. To my estate. To my family. To my name.”
Miss Theodosia’s gaze lingered on him for a breath longer than necessary, and in her expression was something perilously close to pity. “And what of your happiness, my lord?”
He forced a smile as he moved to his seat. “I am perfectly content when my tenants are cared for, my accounts are balanced, and my work in the House of Lords is effective. That is happiness enough for me.”
But as he unfolded his napkin and reached for his cup of tea, he felt her eyes on him still. And for reasons he could not name, he could not quite bring himself to meet them.
Theodosia sat with a small stack of books nestled in her lap as the coach trundled through the cobbled London streets, bound for the circulating library.
She adjusted them carefully, her fingers brushing over the tooled leather spines.
The promise of new stories stirred a familiar flutter of anticipation within her since there was nothing quite like the prospect of discovering a fresh tale.
Across from her, Olivia sat gracefully, tapping a gloved finger lightly against her chin before speaking. “Well? How did you fare with the books I recommended?”