12
Richard adjusted his top hat with a brisk tug, settling it more firmly on his head as the open carriage rolled through the streets of London. The sun was bright and cheerful, but his jaw was clenched as he recalled his last conversation with Miss Theodosia.
What in the blazes had he been thinking telling Miss Theodosia that she would look lovely in a blue gown?
He didn’t care what she wore. He couldn’t afford to care. And yet, the very thought of how that particular shade complemented her eyes had formed on his tongue before he could stop it. Madness. Absolute madness. She was not even a proper guest in his household—merely installed there under the guise of being Olivia’s companion. And here he was, thinking about the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled.
Dangerous territory indeed.
The last thing he needed to do was develop feelings for her.
The carriage slowed and came to a halt before Gunter’s. Patrons were already gathered beneath the establishment’s distinctive green awning, many of them pausing to note theirarrival. Richard’s gaze swept over the assembly, daring anyone to voice their opinions aloud. Let them stare. He would not have Olivia subjected to ridicule—at least, not in his presence.
Across from him, Olivia looked about nervously. “Why did I agree to this outing?” she asked under her breath.
“Because the lemon ice is divine,” Miss Theodosia replied with a teasing smile. “And because you deserve to indulge in a little sweetness now and again. Besides, why should we care what these people think?”
“I do care,” Olivia admitted. “I care very much. They are judging me... as harshly as I judge myself.”
Without hesitation, Miss Theodosia nudged Olivia’s shoulder affectionately. “Then it sounds to me like you need a distraction. I could read to you. Or—if you’re lucky—I might even juggle.”
Richard huffed. “You do not juggle.”
Miss Theodosia arched a brow at him. “And how can you be so certain, my lord?”
“Because women do not juggle,” he said in a tone that suggested the matter was beyond debate.
She gave him a slow, smug smile. “I am many things, Lord Wilton, but a liar is not one of them.”
He leveled a skeptical gaze at her. “Are you honestly expecting me to believe that a genteel-born daughter of a baronet has mastered such a skill?”
“I am,” she said simply.
Before he could press further, a male server from Gunter’s approached the carriage with a polite bow. “Are you ready to order, my lord?”
“We’ll have three lemon ices,” Richard replied, “and three oranges.”
The man looked surprised by the request. “Three whole oranges?”
“Yes,” Richard confirmed, his tone brooking no questions.
As the server turned away, Miss Theodosia leaned towards him with narrowed eyes. “Do you truly intend for me to juggle in front of Gunter’s, on a crowded afternoon?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked with feigned innocence.
She met his gaze. “Not at all. Though I ought to warn you, it will attract attention.”
“I believe that’s the entire point,” he said dryly. “Unless, of course, you care to admit that you fabricated the whole thing.”
“And why would I do that?” she countered. “It sounds to me as though someone is afraid of being proven wrong.”
“Juggling is not a drawing room accomplishment,” Richard said stiffly. “It belongs to the circus.”
Olivia turned in her seat to regard her companion with sudden eagerness. “Wait—can you truly juggle?”
“I can,” Miss Theodosia replied. “Though it’s been some time since I last attempted it. I might be a touch rusty.”
Just then, the server returned with a small wooden tray bearing three glossy oranges. He extended them towards Richard. “Will these do, my lord?”
