13
Richard sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on the columns of numbers that danced mockingly across the page. The ledgers sent over by his man of business should have been straightforward, yet the figures blurred and shifted no matter how often he blinked. With a frustrated exhale, he leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. His temples throbbed with a dull ache. Why did it have to be so infernally difficult?
A soft voice broke the silence.
“You missed dinner,” Miss Theodosia said from the doorway, holding up a small plate. “Your mother asked me to bring you pudding.”
He didn’t glance up. “We have servants for that sort of thing,” he muttered, his tone sharper than he intended.
Unbothered, she stepped into the room with a weak smile. “I know. But I didn’t mind. I was on my way to retire for the evening, and I thought you might appreciate something sweet.”
He gestured to the corner of the desk, his voice still curt. “You can put it there.”
She approached and carefully set the plate down. “You look tired,” she observed. “And frustrated.”
Something in him snapped. “It is none of your concern,” he said, the words flung with more force than he’d meant.
There was a brief pause. Then, calmly, she replied, “No, it is not. But I am asking as a friend. That is what we agreed to be, is it not?”
He raked a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the unruly strands. “We did,” he admitted gruffly, “but I’m not in the mood to talk. Not with you, not with anyone.”
“I understand.” Her gaze dropped to the cluttered papers. “Still, if you’re struggling with the accounts, perhaps I might offer some assistance.”
His eyes narrowed. “And why would you think I need your help?”
“I never said you did.”
“I am perfectly capable of handling my own accounts, Miss Theodosia,” he said, his voice tight with defensiveness.
A flicker of emotion crossed her face—perhaps disappointment or restraint. She bowed her head slightly. “Of course. Good night, my lord.”
She turned and made her way towards the door, her steps light, unhurried. But before she reached it, the weight of guilt tugged at him.
“Wait,” he called out.
She stopped and turned, her expression guarded.
He rose, tugging down his waistcoat as though to steady himself. “I’m sorry. I had no right to speak to you in that manner.”
“It’s all right,” she said quietly and moved to leave again.
“No, it isn’t,” he said, stopping her once more. “You did nothing wrong. I—” He faltered, ashamed. “I was taking out my frustrations on you.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Dare I ask what has you so vexed?”
His pride warred with his honesty, but in the end, honesty won. “I struggle with numbers,” he admitted, his voice low. “Always have. My mind switches them around somehow. It’s like chasing smoke trying to get them to line up properly. I’ve had this issue since I was a boy.”
He braced himself for ridicule or condescension. Instead, her eyes softened with something dangerously close to understanding.
“My dearest friend, Penelope, is the same way,” she said. “Arithmetic was always a struggle for her. Her mother used to say she had a mind built for stories, not sums.”
He gave a humorless chuckle. “Yes, well, I’m expected to manage an estate. What use is a lord who cannot even read the blasted ledger?”
“There is no shame in that,” she said simply.
He frowned. Was that pity he heard in her tone? He couldn’t abide that. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” she asked, appearing genuinely puzzled.
