“That I ought to leap at the first proposal I receive?”
His mouth opened and closed again, as if trying to gather words that wouldn’t make things worse.
“You are mistaken,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “I may be unmarried, but I am not desperate.”
He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “Forgive me. I… I only meant to help.”
“I am certain you did,” she replied. “But I must live a life of my own choosing, not one arranged for convenience.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a tight nod, he replaced his hat and offered her a bow far less confident than the one he’d entered with. “Good day, Miss Theodosia.”
She inclined her head. “Good day, Mr. Pritchett.”
He turned and walked out, his steps brisk and uneven, leaving Theodosia standing in the silence of the study, her heart pounding—but not with regret. It was with steady certainty that she had made the right choice.
Penelope’s voice drifted in through the open window, laced with amusement. “Poor Mr. Pritchett.”
Startled, Theodosia turned towards the sound and spotted her friend leaning casually against the window frame. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“I was,” Penelope said unrepentantly, resting her chin in her hand. “How could I not?” A glint of mischief danced in her eyes. “Though I must say, I nearly swooned when he invoked his mother during the proposal. That was a bold strategy.”
Theodosia let out a weary sigh and sank into her chair. “Why must a woman be married to be considered of value?” she asked, not entirely expecting an answer.
“Do you not wish to marry?”
“I do want to marry. Truly. But not like that. I want to love the man I marry. I want to choose him.”
A shadow passed over Penelope’s expression, and her usual playfulness waned. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of such lofty ideals,” she said. “I would settle for a marriage built on admiration. Respect, at the very least.”
Theodosia’s gaze swept around the study. “And once I marry,” she said, “all of this—my work, my independence—will be gone. I’ll be relegated to the drawing room to pour tea and discuss floral arrangements until I die.”
Penelope’s lips twitched. “But you would be married,” she replied with mock solemnity, her tone lightening once more.
Reaching for the nearest ledger, Theodosia flipped it open with a familiar sense of purpose. “I have work that must be done,” she said.
Penelope sighed dramatically. “You are no fun at all.”
Theodosia’s fingers trailed down a column of estate expenditures. “I consider balancing ledgers to be fun.”
“Then I shall leave you to your thrilling calculations,” Penelope responded. “But before I go, Mother hoped you might join us for supper this evening. She insists, in fact.”
Theodosia looked up, pleased by the invitation. “I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent. I’ll tell Cook to prepare an extra custard tart. You’ve earned it, what with the day you’ve had.” Penelope backed away from the window. “Until tonight, then,” she called, her voice trailing behind her as she strolled down the gardens’ path.
Left alone once more, Theodosia stared at the open ledger but didn’t immediately resume her work. Instead, her mind drifted to Lord Wilton. How could such a handsome man be so entirely disagreeable?
