He pushed his chair back. “You would do well to remember your place,” he said, his voice now edged in warning.
“We agreed, did we not, that I might speak my mind?”
Lord Wilton stood to his full height, towering above her. “What I think about is my own business,” he asserted. “And none of your concern.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, stepping away from the table. His tone had hardened, and his retreat was swift. “I trust you can find your way back upstairs?”
Theodosia gave a stiff nod. “Yes, my lord.”
He looked at her for a heartbeat longer, his expression unreadable—then, without another word, he turned and strode from the room.
She remained seated, staring at the space he had occupied only moments before. She should not have pressed him. He had made it clear that he guarded his thoughts closely, as though revealing them might unravel something he could not afford to lose. But she had seen the softer edges of him—the flickers of kindness, the glint of sorrow he tried so desperately to hide.
Perhaps that was what unsettled her most.
Because she, too, knew how it felt to keep the world at bay. To hide behind walls of sharp wit and cold indifference. To protect what remained of one’s heart by never offering it.
She ought to leave well enough alone.
But part of her wanted to understand the man behind the mask.
And that, she suspected, was the true danger.
