He gave a mockingly courtly bow. “Good evening, Miss Theodosia.”
Rolling her eyes, she turned and exited the study.
“Wrong way,” he called from behind her.
“I do believe any distance between us is a good thing,” she retorted without stopping.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but that direction leads to the gardens. Unless you intend to go for a moonlit stroll in your wrapper, I suggest otherwise.”
She halted and turned back to find him leaning against the doorframe, smirking like the devil himself.
Grinding her teeth, she asked, “Would you kindly point me in the direction of the kitchen?”
He gestured smoothly down the corridor. “That way. Straight on until the long clock, then left.”
Theodosia lifted her chin and marched past him, ignoring the way his gaze lingered as she passed.
When she reached the grand entry hall, she hesitated again. There were too many doors, and none of them felt particularly promising.
Lord Wilton reappeared beside her, maddeningly composed. “Allow me,” he said. “The servants’ staircase is this way.”
“I can manage,” she muttered, but followed him, nonetheless.
He led her to an unadorned door tucked behind a curtain, opened it, and gestured to the steep wooden staircase beyond. “This will take you down to the kitchens. Do mind the steps since they are narrow and worn.”
“I think I can handle a staircase.”
She brushed past him and descended—but misjudged the first step. Her foot slipped.
In a flash, his hand shot out, catching her arm firmly and steadying her.
“Careful, Miss Theodosia,” he said, voice low, close to her ear.
She immediately pulled away. “I will be,” she said stiffly.
“Perhaps I should follow you the rest of the way. Just in case.”
She paused, turned her head slightly, and gave him a narrow look. “You must think yourself terribly gallant.”
“No,” he replied with a slow smile. “Merely observant. You do have a tendency to miscalculate.”
With a dramatic sigh, she resumed her descent. “And you have a tendency to be insufferable.”
His voice drifted down after her, amused. “So I’ve been told.”
As Theodosia carefully descended the narrow staircase, the soft scuff of leather shoes behind her announced that Lord Wilton had, predictably, decided to follow.
She didn’t turn around. “You needn’t accompany me. Don’t feel obliged to stay on my account.”
“Careful, Miss Theodosia,” came his smooth reply from above. “That almost sounds as if you don’t relish my company.”
She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Trust me—I do not.”
He gave a theatricaltskof mock disappointment. “Pity. I was beginning to think we were becoming friends.”
She muttered a curse word under her breath and took the last step with a little more force than was strictly necessary. The corridor at the base of the staircase was dim, and the stone floor cool beneath her feet as she made her way towards the darkened kitchen.
She moved cautiously, her hands brushing across the counters as she fumbled for something—anything—resembling food.
