“Not tonight,” Olivia replied firmly, already ascending the steps. “Perhaps tomorrow. Right now, I simply want to forget this entire wretched evening.”
Lady Wilton took a step forward. “If that is your wish, dearest.”
“It is,” Olivia said without turning back. “Goodnight.”
As they followed Olivia into the townhouse, helplessness washed over Theodosia. She longed to comfort her friend, but sensed such an attempt would only wound Olivia further.
“Should I follow her?” she asked quietly.
“No,” came Olivia’s answer, firm and echoing faintly from the staircase.
Lady Wilton touched Theodosia’s sleeve in silent reassurance. “Let me go with her. You may retire, if you wish.”
Left alone in the entry hall, Lord Wilton turned to her with a weary expression. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t how I imagined the evening ending.”
A small smile tugged at Theodosia’s lips. “I rather thought it went splendidly. I danced with a very eligible gentleman. Did you know he was a marquess?”
He chuckled. “I think I did hear that.”
“And he was a fine dancer. Not once did I fall.”
His gaze softened. “You’re safe with me, Miss Theodosia.”
She tilted her head. “I do believe you have earned the right to call me Dosia. We are friends, are we not?”
“We are. But only if you’ll call me Richard.”
Her smile deepened. “That may take some getting used to.”
He stepped closer—still careful, still proper—but his presence felt suddenly warmer. “What say you? Shall we see if the cook left us any biscuits?”
“I never say no to a biscuit.”
“Nor do I,” he said, offering his arm with exaggerated courtliness.
Just as they turned towards the back passage, a sharp knock echoed through the entry hall. Richard paused, brows furrowing. “Who would call at this hour?”
Theodosia glanced towards the door. “Should we answer it?”
“The butler will see to it.”
Sterling appeared and went to the door as if summoned bythose words. A moment later, a cloaked figure stepped into the dimly lit entry, his—or rather, her—silhouette familiar in an unsettling way.
The figure removed their hat, revealing a face Theodosia knew better than her own.
Her breath caught. “Lucinda?” she murmured.
But her sister ignored her, speaking instead to Richard in a low, deliberately masculine voice. “I heard you were looking for me, my lord.”
Theodosia blinked. Lucinda’s dark hair had been pulled back into a crude tie, and her attire was that of a gentleman—waistcoat, breeches, and boots. Her voice was deeper than usual, almost unrecognizable. But her eyes, pleading and defiant, were the same.
Richard’s gaze narrowed. “You are Mr. Smith, I presume.”
“I am,” Lucinda replied.
Theodosia’s voice cracked with disbelief. “What?”
Lucinda turned towards her sister. “Before anything else, I must speak with Theodosia. Alone.”
