She had just lifted a linen-draped basket when warm light spilled across the room, the soft glow of a candle stretching long shadows over the walls. She turned to see Lord Wilton standing in the doorway with a candleholder in one hand.
“I thought this might help,” he said, lifting the flame slightly. “A little light to aid in your noble quest.”
“That… does help,” she admitted reluctantly.
With the added illumination, her search was more fruitful. She found a loaf of crusty bread nestled beneath the cloth, along with a crock of butter that still held its chill from the stone pantry. Locating a knife, she began slicing carefully.
“Would you care for a piece, my lord?” she asked, her tone far too polite to be sincere. She hoped, prayed even, that he would decline.
To her great annoyance, he smiled. “A slice of bread sounds delightful, thank you.”
Of course it does,she thought, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.
She cut two slices and placed them on the plates he had helpfully retrieved from a nearby cupboard. He accepted his with a small nod of thanks and walked over to the long kitchen table, settling himself with all the ease of a man entirely comfortable in any room he entered.
Theodosia remained where she was for a moment, debating whether to simply snatch her plate and flee back upstairs. But that would look childish. Worse, it would look like he’d won some invisible battle. So she crossed the room and took the seat opposite him.
That didn’t mean she intended to engage in conversation.
She broke off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, hoping he’d take the hint.
He didn’t.
“I take it you’ve not yet memorized the configuration of the house,” he said after a moment.
She swallowed and replied, “No. Your townhouse is… expansive. My entire manor could likely fit inside your servants’ quarters.”
He glanced around the kitchen, then leaned back with a self-satisfied air. “It is a magnificent house,” he said, his tone bordering on smug. “My father made several improvements, and I’ve added a few of my own.”
“It is quite impressive.”
Lord Wilton cast her a sideways glance. “Is that a rare compliment I hear from you?”
“I am more than willing to offer praise when the situation warrants it.”
“And I do not warrant it?” he asked, his tone half-teasing, half-genuine in its challenge.
A bark of laughter escaped her. “Heavens, no. You are insufferable, my lord.”
Rather than appearing wounded by the insult, he leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into that maddening smirk of his. “If that is your way of flirting?—”
“Flirting?” she interrupted, nearly choking on the word. “I would never flirt with you.”
His grin only deepened, as if he were perfectly confident that her denial meant quite the opposite. “There will come a day when you will. Willingly and without shame.”
“I assure you,” she said, “that day will never come to pass.”
“We shall see,” he murmured.
Theodosia leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly as she regarded him. The man was so smug—so entirely full of himself—it was astonishing that there was any place left for air in the room. And yet, despite herself, she couldn’t help but notice the way the candlelight played along his angular jaw, or how his eyes seemed to hold secrets too heavy to name. What, precisely, was wrong with her?
Lord Wilton brushed the last crumbs from his fingertips and placed his empty plate aside. “That was delicious.”
Theodosia hesitated, curiosity nudging at her. “Earlier,” she began slowly, “in your office… you appeared rather preoccupied.”
At once, the warmth drained from his features. The playfulness vanished as if it had never been there. “I was merely thinking,” he said curtly.
She chose her next words with care. “Is it something you wish to speak of?”
