Theodosia sat near the window as she gazed out over the gardens below. The early morning sun hovered just above the horizon, casting a soft golden light across the dew-laced hedges and waking blossoms. The air was still, hushed, and it suited her unsettled thoughts.
She had slept more soundly than she had in weeks, her rest untroubled but for the one persistent thread of memory thattugged at her consciousness the moment she opened her eyes:Lord Wilton.
What had nearly happened between them last night?
Whatever it was must not happen again. She was Olivia’s companion, a position of trust and propriety, and she had no business entertaining any sort of entanglement with her employer’s brother. Certainly not with a man as infuriating, arrogant, and utterly exasperating as the Marquess of Wilton.
And yet…
She had seen something in him the night before. A glimpse of the man beneath the title. His usual shields—his pride, his aloofness—had slipped for just a moment, revealing someone unexpectedly vulnerable. A man who, despite his wealth and status, seemed to hunger for acceptance—not for what he represented, but for who he was.
It had stirred something in her. Something foolish and inconvenient.
Drat.
She’d done it. She’d gone and developed the tiniest, most inconvenient affection for a man she had no intention of ever loving.
Theodosia huffed softly and turned her face from the sun. She was being utterly ridiculous.
A firm knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
“Enter,” she called, her voice composed.
Mary stepped inside with her usual brisk cheer. “Good, you’re awake. Shall we ready you for the day, Miss?”
With a nod, Theodosia rose and moved to the dressing table. As Mary began brushing and pinning up her hair, she allowed her mind to drift again—though now she kept her thoughts carefully guarded, even from herself.
Once she was dressed in a soft morning gown of lavender muslin, she made her way down the staircase and towards the dining room. With every step, her heart seemed to knock a littleharder against her ribs. She had no desire to see Lord Wilton this morning. Or… perhaps she had too much desire, which was the greater danger.
She stepped into the dining room and found him precisely as she had expected—seated at the head of the table, newssheets in hand, his expression as unreadable as always.
Theodosia hesitated for only a moment before squaring her shoulders and crossing the room with practiced composure.
Lord Wilton immediately started to rise at her entrance.
“There’s no need to stand, my lord,” she said quickly, lifting a hand to forestall him.
He inclined his head and resumed his seat, offering her a folded section of the newssheets. “It seems your juggling display yesterday has garnered you a mention. Mr. Fairchild has written a short article about it.”
She blinked in surprise as she accepted the page, her eyes scanning the neat columns of print. “I’ve never appeared in the Society pages before.”
“It’s rather less exciting than one imagines,” he said dryly.
Theodosia laughed under her breath and set the newssheets down. “I can only imagine Penelope’s reaction when she reads this in a few days. The newssheets always arrive late in the village, but we devour them the moment they come—every article, every ridiculous rumor.”
Lord Wilton leaned back slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes. “And what will Penelope say when she learns you’ve been publicly juggling in front of Gunter’s?”
“She won’t be surprised in the least,” Theodosia replied with a shrug. “She’s seen me juggle many times.”
“Well, I found it rather impressive,” he admitted. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered another young woman who could juggle with such confidence.”
“I also possess the rare talent of skipping stones across a lake with near-perfect accuracy,” she added with mock pride.
He chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that made her stomach flip in the most inconvenient way. “A woman of many talents, indeed.”
Theodosia smiled and looked down at her plate, hiding the blush that was threatening to warm her cheeks. This version of Lord Wilton—this easier, smiling man—was far too dangerous. He made her feel at ease. He made her laugh. He made her wonder if perhaps… just perhaps… there was something real beneath all the propriety and posture.
And that, above all, was what worried her most.
