Perhaps Cook left out some bread,she mused.Something simple. Anything at all.
She hesitated, then pushed back the heavy covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she reached for her wrapper, a white muslin garment she tied snugly around her waist before stepping quietly into the corridor.
The house was hushed and dim, the sconces along the walls darkened for the night. Shadows danced along the edges of the gilded wallpaper, and the silence stretched with every tentative footstep she took.
Where is the kitchen?she thought.And do I even know how to get there?
She wandered through the corridor with cautious steps until a faint flicker of candlelight caught her attention. A thin ribbon of gold spilled out from beneath a partially open door just ahead.
Curiosity nudged her forward.
She padded towards the door and peered inside.
Lord Wilton sat at an ornate desk surrounded by strewn ledgers and papers. His dinner jacket had been discarded, and the candlelight cast long shadows over his face, accentuating the stern line of his jaw. But he wasn’t working. He sat utterly still, staring out the window, lost in thought.
Something in his expression—so far from the arrogance she was accustomed to—gave her pause. There was weariness there. And solitude.
She began to quietly step back, hoping to retreat unnoticed, but her heel pressed against a loose floorboard with an unfortunate creak.
He turned sharply.
“Who’s there?” he barked.
She froze, inwardly cursing her luck. Then, seeing no escape, she stepped fully into the room.
“It’s just me, my lord,” she said, her voice calm despite her flustered heart.
His gaze narrowed. “Miss Theodosia? What exactly are you doing sneaking about the house at this hour?”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” she replied, though her smile was sheepish. “I was looking for the kitchen.”
“The kitchen,” he echoed dryly. “Which happens to be on the opposite end of the house.”
“Well… now I know,” she said with a curtsy. “Good evening.”
He shoved back his chair and stood. “You can drop the act. If you’re here to entrap me into marriage, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You appear in my study, after midnight, wearing nothing but your wrapper,” he said, folding his arms. “What impression am I meant to take from that?”
She squared her shoulders, her pride flaring to life. “No offense, my lord, but you are quite literally the last man I would ever wish to entrap.”
He gave a scoffing laugh. “I doubt that.”
“Oh, do you?” She took a step forward, chin lifted. “You’re arrogant, condescending, and far too pleased with yourself. None of those are qualities I seek in a husband.”
“I’m a marquess.”
“That’s atitle,not a virtue,” she snapped. “And it does not impress me.”
He looked genuinely baffled. “My title impresses everyone.”
She threw her hands up. “And we’re back to arrogant. Do you even hear yourself speak?”
“If you’re truly on a mission to find the kitchen, I won’t keep you.”
“I would appreciate that.”
