Still, she felt the weight of his gaze as he leaned forward, his elbows resting lightly on the table’s edge. “Will your sister be worried when she returns home and finds you gone?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard, and her jaw tightened slightly. “If she returns home,” she replied as a thread of bitterness wove through the words. “I never quite know what Lucinda will do next. One moment she’s preparing for a dinner party, the next she’s off to Brighton without so much as a note.”
“I’m sorry,” he said after a pause, his voice sincere. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s quite all right,” she replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I suppose I shouldn’t resent her for her desire to see the world. I just—well, it’s difficult to plan for anything when I don’t know whether she’ll be gone a week or a month.”
Lord Wilton gave her a pointed look. “She did leave you to manage the estate on your own.”
“And I much prefer it that way,” she replied.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Hodgkins bustled in once more, a smile on her lined face and a tankard in each hand.
“I brought you both something to drink,” she announced cheerfully as she placed the mugs on the table. “The kitchen fire’s still warming cider, but I thought this would settle your bellies in the meantime.”
Theodosia murmured her thanks as the innkeeper’s wifebobbed a curtsy and departed, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.
She stared down at the tankard, her brows pulling together. “What is that?”
Lord Wilton reached for his and lifted it slightly, eyeing the murky liquid inside. “Watered-down ale, I imagine. It’s the common fare at places like this.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t possibly drink that.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid your options are rather limited. Welcome to the rustic joys of coaching inns.”
With great reluctance, Theodosia wrapped her fingers around the handle and lifted it to her lips. The scent was earthy and bitter, like something that had been left too long in the sun. She took the smallest possible sip.
The taste was somehow worse than the smell. The ale burned down her throat like sharp vinegar, catching her by surprise and triggering an abrupt cough. She set the tankard down with a loud thud and reached for her napkin.
“That is purely awful,” she gasped, dabbing at her lips. “Is this what people choose to drink?”
Lord Wilton chuckled. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“I cannot imagine acquiring it.”
“You’ve been far too sheltered,” he said, still grinning. “Though I suppose that’s not entirely your fault.”
She narrowed her eyes, though her tone was more curious than offended. “Would you let your sister drink this?”
“From a coaching inn? Absolutely. It’s safer than the water, which likely comes from a questionable well—or worse, a river.”
She made a small, indelicate noise of disgust and pushed the tankard farther away. “Perhaps I’ll just wait for the cider.”
Lord Wilton lifted his own drink and took a long,unperturbed sip. “Suit yourself. But I daresay if you’re to survive London, you’ll need to develop a stronger constitution.”
“Do ladies in London drink ale?”
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “No, not typically. They are far more likely to indulge in wine or champagne.”
“I have never tasted champagne before.”
“Then I do hope I’ll be present to witness the occasion,” he said with mirth in his eyes.
She let out a faint scoff. “I thought you were meant to be a gentleman.”
Setting down his tankard with exaggerated care, he gave a mock-solemn nod. “It depends greatly on the day. Today, I appear to be failing miserably.”
She didn’t quite smile, but the corner of her mouth curved with reluctant amusement. Her gaze drifted towards the window, now completely black with night. Rain tapped softly against the glass in a steady rhythm.
