8
Richard emerged from his bedchamber and strode down the dim corridor. Sleep had eluded him last night. His thoughts had churned relentlessly throughout the night, circling back to one frustrating, utterly maddening subject: Miss Theodosia Smith.
Why did she persist in asking questions he had no desire—no intention—of answering?
She could not possibly understand the weight that came with being a marquess. The constant obligations and the expectations that pressed down like a lead cloak. He had been thrust into the role far too soon, with little preparation and no time to grieve the man whose legacy he was meant to uphold. His father had been a pillar of strength, a man of unshakable integrity and presence. And now that pillar was gone, leaving Richard to build a life from the rubble of duty and doubt.
He should feel grateful—honored, even. But gratitude had no power against the creeping fear that whispered:What if I am not enough? What if I fail?
It was a relentless fear, one that throbbed in time with his very heartbeat. And it was not something he would everconfess aloud. Not to his mother, or even to his closest friends. Certainly not to Miss Theodosia, who had a knack for asking the wrong questions with infuriating persistence.
She was vexing.
And the most irritating part was that he noticed her at all.
As if summoned by the very force of his thoughts, she appeared at the top of the staircase, her pale blue gown catching a shaft of morning light. She offered him a polite smile.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He paused and gave her a shallow bow. “Miss Theodosia.”
“Are you on your way to breakfast?”
“I am.”
“Well then,” she said, falling into step beside him, “as we are bound for the same destination, shall we walk together?”
Richard resisted the urge to groan. “If we must.”
Her smile widened, as if she found his reluctance endlessly amusing. She fluttered her lashes in exaggerated coquetry. “You certainly know how to make a lady feel special.”
“You wish me to flatter you?” he asked dryly.
“I should hope not. I have no need for empty praise,” she replied breezily. “I prefer honesty. Always.”
They descended the stairs side by side, and he glanced her way. “Ah, yes. Honesty—the most elusive of virtues. Not for the faint of heart.”
“Perhaps not,” she allowed, her tone thoughtful, “but surely it is better to be honest with oneself, if nothing else.”
Richard nearly scoffed. How easily she spoke of truth, when she had lied to him—boldly, unapologetically. She had deceived him about Mr. Smith, misled him with her charm and calm demeanor, all while pretending to be the very embodiment of integrity. Her hypocrisy was laughable.
He opened his mouth, prepared to remind her of it in no uncertain terms, when a familiar voice called from behind.
“Good heavens,” his mother declared, her tone touched with surprise. “There are two of you up at this hour?”
Richard halted at the base of the stairs and turned to see his mother approaching. “Pardon?”
“You and Miss Theodosia,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You’re both early risers. They must keep earlier hours in the countryside.”
Miss Theodosia spoke up. “Indeed. I find the mornings quite peaceful. There is a certain quietude to them I rather like.”
His mother made a dismissive noise. “There is never any quiet in this house. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”
Richard offered his arm to his mother. “Allow me.”
“Thank you, dear,” she said, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve.
As they walked, Miss Theodosia fell into step on his other side.
