She lifted her hand in a subtle, graceful gesture, and the footmen moved forward at once, collecting the soup bowls with silent efficiency. Another servant appeared, bearing a silver trayupon which rested a beautifully roasted haunch of venison, its scent filling the room with rich notes of rosemary and wine.
As the platter was placed at the center of the table, Miss Theodosia slowly sat back down. She straightened her posture, smoothing her napkin once more across her lap. Though her face remained composed, there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes that even Richard couldn’t ignore.
Blast it.
Richard clenched his jaw and shoved a piece of venison across his plate. He didn’t give a whit what Miss Theodosia was feeling. She was the deceiver in all of this, not him. So why was he noticing the shadow in her eyes or the way her hands lingered on her napkin as if it were an anchor?
He scowled into his wine, annoyed with himself.
Across the table, his mother took a sip from her glass, then turned to Theodosia. “Tell me, Miss Theodosia,” she said, “what usually occupies your time in the countryside?”
Miss Theodosia lifted her chin with quiet poise. “As I mentioned earlier, I manage a small estate, my lady.”
“That is rather unusual,” Lady Wilton said.
Miss Theodosia squared her shoulders with subtle pride. “Yes. My father passed away without any sons, and as I had a head for figures and a familiarity with the land, the responsibility fell to me. I’ve been managing the estate for nearly a year now.”
“That’s quite remarkable,” Lady Wilton said, clearly intrigued. “Not many ladies would claim such a task—or succeed in it.”
“It may be unconventional,” Miss Theodosia allowed, “but I find it suits me. I’ve little time for more traditional pursuits, and I prefer it that way.”
Despite himself, Richard spoke. “Miss Theodosia is also quite skilled at drawing.”
“Lord Wilton flatters me,” Miss Theodosia said with a modest smile. “I’m merely proficient.”
“Nonsense. My son is many things, but a flatterer is not one of them. If he says you’re talented, I have no reason to doubt it,” his mother stated, placing her napkin beside her plate. “I shall ensure you are given proper supplies.”
“That is most generous, my lady,” Miss Theodosia replied.
Before anyone could say more, the door to the dining room opened again and Olivia swept in. Her gown was still perfectly in place, her posture poised, but her eyes were red-rimmed and her smile a little too tight.
“I apologize for leaving so suddenly,” she said as she reclaimed her chair. “But I’m back now, and I’d rather not dwell on the why.”
Richard stood without hesitation and reached for the platter of venison. “We’re glad you returned,” he said as he served her a generous portion.
“Was anything of note discussed while I was gone?” Olivia asked, stabbing at her food more than slicing it.
His mother gestured lightly towards Miss Theodosia. “We were just speaking about Miss Theodosia’s artistic talents. It seems she has quite the talent for drawing.”
Olivia glanced up. “Is that so? That’s a talent I never had. My horses always looked like unfortunate cows.”
Miss Theodosia laughed. “I doubt that to be true.”
“Perhaps you’ll show me sometime. I might yet learn to draw something more dignified than a misshapen goat,” Olivia joked.
“I would be happy to,” Miss Theodosia replied.
Richard’s fork moved with measured deliberation as he focused on the task of cutting his venison into even bites. Fortunately, the attention had shifted away from him, and he was grateful for the reprieve.
He chewed slowly but was glad for the silence inside hisown head. He didn’t have to defend, argue, or explain himself, especially to the infuriating Miss Theodosia.
And that, he decided, was enough.
Theodosia lay on her back, staring up at the shadowy canopy of her four-poster bed. The moonlight filtering through the parted curtains painted silver lines across the ceiling, but offered no comfort. It was late—well past midnight, surely—but her mind refused to rest.
Her thoughts lingered on Olivia’s stricken face, the abrupt scrape of her chair against the polished floor, the echo of her retreating footsteps. Theodosia winced inwardly. She had meant only to offer sympathy, not wound her. But she’d overstepped. Spoken as though she had any true understanding of heartbreak, when in truth, she had only ever brushed its edges.
And now, to make matters worse, she was starving. She had barely touched her supper, and her stomach protested with persistent grumbles that refused to be ignored.
