“Olivia,” she called softly. “It’s me.”
There was a brief silence, followed by the soft scrape of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened, and Olivia appeared, her face pale and her eyes rimmed with red. It was clear she had been crying, though she made no attempt to conceal it.
“I’m about to lie down,” she said quietly, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I don’t feel much like talking.”
Theodosia’s heart ached at the sight of her friend’s pain. “Of course,” she replied. “We can speak later, if you feel up to it.”
Olivia gave her a faint, grateful smile before slowly closing the door again.
The latch clicked softly into place, and Theodosia continued down the corridor, feeling unusually helpless. If there were something she could do—something to ease Olivia’s heartache—she would do it without hesitation. But heartbreak was not a wound easily tended, and words were a poor balm for betrayal.
And worse still, her mind was anything but steady. For no matter how hard she tried to focus on Olivia, Lord Wilton’s voice continued to echo in her memory. His sharp words. His narrowed gaze. That flash of something she hadn’t quite dared to name.
It was exasperating. Infuriating.
And far too telling.
She pressed a hand to her temple, determined to master her thoughts—particularly those that revolved around one infuriating marquess who, despite all logic, had found a way to occupy far too much space in her heart.
