7
Richard glared at Miss Theodosia over the rim of his spoon as she lifted hers with measured grace. Now that she was seated at his family’s table, in his house, he no longer felt the need to offer even the barest illusion of civility. The time for politeness had passed. She was here, ensnared in his world, and she could not simply leave. Not without his permission. She may have walked in with her head high and her chin set, but he knew that she was effectively cornered.
Across the table, his mother caught his eye and gave a discreet clearing of her throat. A warning. A reminder.
“Do you intend to go to the House of Lords tomorrow, Richard?” she asked.
He was pulled from his thoughts and straightened. “I do,” he said, adjusting his grip on his spoon. “Lord Warwicke and I are drafting a bill that would raise the minimum age for children in workhouses.”
Olivia’s eyes snapped up. “It’s about time,” she stated. “Children are being worked to death in those places. If they survive the labor, they don’t survive the neglect.”
“Warwicke is quite passionate about the matter,” Richard said with a nod. “And I’ve decided to lend my support.”
“Well, if you’re in the mood to lend your support,” Olivia began, arching a brow, “have you considered championing women’s rights? It’s positively barbaric how few rights we have.”
Richard set his spoon down with a faint clink. “That’s a lost cause.”
“Says thelord,” Olivia muttered under her breath, but not quietly enough to go unnoticed.
“Women’s minds are too fickle for politics. They would vote based on sentiment, not reason.”
Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “That is the most backward thing I’ve heard this week. I am perfectly capable of forming an educated opinion.”
“You may be,” Richard conceded, “but most women are content to concern themselves with fashions and gossip, not matters of state.”
With a fierce glare, Olivia asked, “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Their mother laughed softly. “Olivia, really. Play fair.”
“That is me playing fair,” she replied. “The only thing idiotic in this room is that opinion.”
Richard leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “This is precisely what I mean. You go straight to insult instead of debate. Emotion over logic.”
“I only insult idiotic arguments,” she shot back. “Don’t confuse passion with irrationality.” She turned to Miss Theodosia with a dramatic flourish of her hand. “Dosia agrees with me, don’t you?”
Miss Theodosia set her spoon aside and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Her tone was calm, but her eyes gleamed with quiet conviction. “I do, in fact. I believe women are just as capable as men of making informed political decisions. And I suspect that frightens some men.”
Richard’s jaw tensed. “And what, pray tell, do we have to be frightened of?”
Miss Theodosia met his gaze evenly. “Loss of control. For centuries, men have held the reins of power. Granting women a voice challenges that authority.”
He shook his head. “It’s not fear. It’s pragmatism.”
“No, my lord,” she said, “it’s denial. You deny women their rights not because they are incapable, but because they threaten the comfortable order you've grown used to.”
Olivia raised her spoon triumphantly. “Hear, hear!”
Richard gave a theatrical shudder. “Heaven help us all if women ever gain control of the government.”
“We’ve had queens,” Olivia reminded him. “And I don’t recall England descending into chaos under Elizabeth.”
Their mother interjected. “Perhaps we can find a topic less likely to start a rebellion at the table.”
Taking the cue with a smile, Olivia said, “I’ve decided to take Dosia to the circulating library tomorrow.”
“A lovely idea,” their mother replied. “And of course, our library is always at her disposal. We’ve a few first editions you might enjoy.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Miss Theodosia replied. “I’ve always loved reading. Books have a way of making the world feel both larger and more intimate at the same time.”
