Richard gave no reply. His gaze remained fixed on the rain-drenched countryside flashing by the window. He remembered that night vividly—the frantic ride home, the sound of his mother’s sobs, the stillness in his father’s bedchamber. He hadn’t been ready. He still wasn’t ready.
Thankfully, Miss Theodosia said nothing more, and the silence that followed was different. It was gentler, less uncomfortable. They sat together as the coach rumbled through the rain, two people mourning in their own quiet ways.
Theodosia jolted forward as the coach lurched to a halt, the sudden motion pulling her from the fog of her thoughts. She peered out the window and took in the sight of a weary-lookingcoaching inn, its once-white walls streaked with soot and age. It was far from inviting, but after being confined in the coach for hours, her legs ached to stretch, and she longed for fresh air.
Outside, she spotted Lord Wilton dismounting his horse with practiced ease. He had ridden beside her inside the coach only until the rain ceased, then returned to his saddle, claiming he preferred the view from there. In truth, their earlier conversation had been… pleasant. Surprisingly so. Until she had foolishly allowed her emotions to stir, making the air between them taut and awkward. She would not make that mistake again. Better to remain composed. Detached. She would not allow herself to be mistaken for a simpering miss.
The door to the coach swung open with a groan, and Lord Wilton stood just beyond, offering his hand.
“We’ve arrived for the evening,” he said, his voice low and even, with only a hint of fatigue.
She hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his. The instant her boot touched the ground, it slid out from beneath her. The muddy cobblestones were slick from the earlier storm, and she gave a small yelp as she stumbled forward.
His grip tightened reflexively, steadying her with ease. “Careful,” he said. “The stones can be rather treacherous when wet.”
She bit back a pointed retort—yes, thank you, she’d noticed—and instead murmured a stiff “thank you” as she withdrew her hand from his.
He gestured towards the inn’s crooked entrance. “Shall we? One of the footmen went ahead to secure lodging.”
“Wonderful,” she replied, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as a sharp breeze teased her skirts.
As they neared the door, it flew open with a bang. A burly man barreled through without so much as a glance and shouldered into her with enough force to jostle her back a step.
“Watch where ye’re going!” he barked, not bothering to pause as he stomped off into the dusk.
Theodosia turned, stunned. She stared after the man, appalled. What sort of establishment was this? She had heard rumors of lawlessness at rural coaching inns—rowdy drinkers, vulgar company—but she had assumed such tales were exaggerated. Now, she wasn’t so certain. Was she even safe here?
Lord Wilton, appearing unbothered by such a scene, opened the door for her and waited. She stepped inside, and at once, warmth enveloped her. The scent of roasted meat and damp wool filled the air. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it might not be so terrible, after all.
Until they rounded the corner.
The main hall was thick with noise and pipe smoke. Men lounged at mismatched tables, tankards in hand, laughter rising in raucous waves. Their gazes turned towards her—some curious, others appraising, far too many crude.
She instinctively moved closer to Lord Wilton, standing near enough that their arms nearly brushed. Not because she wanted to. Certainly not. But because being near him felt marginally safer than enduring those stares alone.
He must have sensed her discomfort, for he leaned towards her slightly. “You’re safe with me,” he assured her.
She nodded, uncertain whether she believed it, but grateful for the reassurance, nonetheless. She didn’t fully trust him, but compared to the others, he seemed almost noble.
A footman approached, holding two keys on a brass ring. “I’ve secured two rooms and a private dining space, as requested, my lord.”
“Excellent,” Lord Wilton replied. He accepted the keys and turned to her. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she said, her tone deliberately mild.
“Then let’s remedy that.” His voice dipped low with warning. “Stay close to me. And don’t make eye contact with the men. Some will take it as an invitation.”
She stiffened but gave a small nod. Clinging to her composure, she followed him through the hall, keeping her gaze low and her expression neutral.
They reached a modest room tucked at the rear of the inn. A fire roared in the hearth, and she moved straight to it, holding her hands out to soak in the warmth.
Lord Wilton shut the door behind them, blocking out the noise of the main hall. He joined her at the fire. “How was the remainder of your journey?”
“Quiet,” she said without looking at him.
He let out a dry chuckle. “I imagine that was to your preference.”
“It was. I managed a nap.” She allowed the barest hint of a smile.
