“Like I’m broken.”
Her expression turned solemn. “I don’t pity you, if that’s what you’re implying.”
His brow furrowed. “You don’t?”
She stepped closer to the desk. “Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, my lord. Some are merely more visible than others. Struggling with something doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “I shouldn’t have weaknesses. Not ones that matter.”
“‘To err is human,’” she quoted. “There’s no disgrace in it.”
He stared at her, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. “Surely, you are mocking me,” he said. “Just as the boys did at Eton when they learned of my so-called limitations. Theymimicked my struggles, laughed behind my back and sometimes to my face.”
Her eyes did not waver from his. “I am truly sorry they treated you so cruelly. But I assure you, I am in earnest. They had no right.”
Richard exhaled and sank back down into his chair, the strength seeming to drain from him. He dragged a hand down his face, as though wearied by years rather than minutes. “My father tried everything,” he murmured. “Tutor after tutor. Each promising miracles, each failing. None of it made any difference. You cannot mend something that is fundamentally broken.”
Miss Theodosia stepped closer, her expression firm. “You must stop saying that you are broken. You are not. Struggling with one task does not render you less capable, less worthy, or less whole. So what if you cannot read a ledger? That does not prevent you from managing your estate or leading your household with competence and wisdom.”
He let out a frustrated breath. “You don’t understand.”
“You are right—I don’t,” she said with unflinching honesty. “Because I see a man who has every advantage, every resource, and yet insists on wallowing in his sense of inadequacy instead of doing something about it. You’re not a failure. You’re simply too determined to feel sorry for yourself to see the truth.”
He shoved back his chair again and rose. He crossed the room with quick, agitated strides and stared out into the darkened night beyond the window.
“I am a marquess,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Men look to me—to guide, to inspire. To lead by example. And I—I cannot even read a blasted column of numbers.”
A silence stretched between them before she asked, “Why do you believe that disqualifies you from leading them?”
“Miss Theodosia—” he started.
She cut him off. “Enough of the excuses. There is nothingwrong with you, save for the fact that you insist on seeing yourself through the lens of childhood shame. If your brain scrambles numbers, then hire someone who can read them clearly. Delegate that task and focus on the many duties only you can fulfill. That, my lord, is what a wise leader does.”
He stood there for a long moment in the flickering lamplight. Then, slowly, he swallowed, his throat working. “You truly don’t think less of me? Not even a little?”
“Of course not,” she said without hesitation. “Why would I? You’ve entrusted me with a truth most men would never dare voice aloud. That takes courage, not weakness.”
Richard’s chest felt tight, not with embarrassment, but something dangerously close to relief. For so long, he had lived with the fear of exposure, of being seen and judged. Yet now, standing before this woman who met his flaws with strength instead of scorn, he felt… lighter.
Miss Theodosia regarded him with a quiet intensity. She said nothing further, but something shifted in the space between them—something fragile and profound.
He didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.
For the first time in what felt like years, he felt trulyseen—not as a title, or an obligation, or a disappointment—but as a man. Someone understood him. Someoneheardhim. It was a startling sensation, one he had not experienced since his father had been alive.
Miss Theodosia glanced at his cluttered desk. “If you’d like,” she began, “I would be happy to help you review your accounts tomorrow.”
“You would?”
A soft smile curved her lips. “As I’ve said before, I am quite good with numbers. I find it rather satisfying to bring order to a chaotic ledger.”
He chuckled. “You are rather peculiar, but in the most agreeable way.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.
Without meaning to, he stepped towards her. One step, then another, until only a breath separated them. She looked up at him, her chin lifting to meet his gaze, and her expression a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.
A stray tendril had escaped her otherwise neat chignon, curling against her cheek. His fingers itched with the urge to reach out, to tuck it gently behind her ear. It was a ridiculous impulse—intimate and absurd—but he couldn’t shake it.
