"You're welcome."
There was a pause. Not tense, not hesitant, just unspoken. Then he added, quieter this time, "You're remarkable, Theo."
She looked up at him. He rarely used her name, but he did now, and it settled between them like something real, something heavier than admiration, lighter than affection, but true. She set down her pen and smiled.
By the time the Standish carriage rolled up the gravel drive, the rose drawing room had been polished to a quiet perfection. The Wedgwood china gleamed on the table. The currant scones were warm beneath a linen coverlet, their orange glaze catching the light. Theo stood beside the hearth in a primrose day dress, her hair styled in a neat braided twist, not a wisp out of place. Calm, prepared, and altogether untouchable.
Poppy peeked into the room. "They've arrived, my lady."
Theo gave a single nod. "Let them in."
Lady Standish swept in with the ease of a woman accustomed to being feared. She wore a gown of dove gray taffeta, trimmed with tasteful lilac. Her daughters trailed behind—Miss Eleanor, thin-lipped and sharp-eyed, and Miss Harriet, who blinked like a sparrow and wore too much ribbon in her hair. All three wore expressions of polite dismay disguised as interest.
"Theodosia," Lady Standish purred, removing her gloves with the drama of a bishop disrobing. "How very charming it is to finally see you in your new role."
Theo gestured to the settee. "Do sit. Tea?"
"Of course," Lady Standish said, as though tea had never once been optional in her life.
Theo poured with steady hands. She moved with the same grace she had used at the assembly—dignified but not haughty, engaged but not eager. She offered no apology for the modest room or the faded roses on the carpet. The Harkort estate was in progress, and she had no intention of disguising it.
"Currant scone?" she asked.
Lady Standish's eyebrows flicked upward. "Oh, how lovely! These remind me of my mother's table. She was particular about citrus."
"Mine too," Theo said smoothly. "And Cook was proud of these."
Lady Standish bit delicately into the scone, chewed, swallowed. "Very spirited." There was a pause. "You must be very busy," she said. "Settling in, reorganizing, that sort of thing."
"There's much to be done," Theo said. "But I like knowing where things stand."
Eleanor spoke for the first time, her voice as thin as her frame. "Some things are best left untouched. The old families... well, there's history there."
Theodore met her gaze directly. "And dust. But both are manageable with the right tools."
The room cooled, but Theo didn't waver. She refilled Harriet's cup, nodded once, and returned to her seat as though she had not just issued a gentle declaration of war.
By the time the second pot of tea was half drunk, Lady Standish had shifted tactics. She asked after the renovations, the health of the tenants, the quality of the stables. She listened carefully when Theo described the new oil lamps being installed in the east wing.
"It's quite something," Lady Standish said, dabbing her lips with a rose-edged napkin. "To take on a house of this size, and a title, and a husband all at once."
"I like challenges," Theo said.
"Then you've married the right man," Eleanor murmured.
Lady Standish cast her daughter a warning glance. Theo didn't rise to it. "Indeed," she said simply. "He's full of potential."
When the visit ended, there was no overt skirmish, only a slow curtsy, a promise to call again, and the lingering scent of lavender and judgment left on the cushions. Theo waited until the door closed behind them. Then she exhaled, long and slow. She looked down at the tea tray. Three scones remained, a smear of marmalade on one plate. She rang for Poppy, then turned toward the window. Outside, the mist had cleared, and the drive was once again quiet. It was a small victory, but a meaningful one. She hadn't needed to impress them. She had held her ground.
That evening, Nate found her by the hearth in the drawing room, a book open in her lap. He didn't say anything right away, just poured himself a glass of port and sat beside her.
"Three scones survived," she said without looking up.
"Is that a measure of success?"
"It is today."
He leaned back, legs stretched toward the fire. "I saw the carriage leave. They were very proper, very polite. It was exhausting."
He smiled faintly. "You're not tired."
"No," she admitted. "Not really."
There was a pause. The fire crackled. Her book remained open but unread.
"You know," he said quietly. "You terrify them."
"I'm aware."
"They'll still come back."
"Good," she said. "Let them."
He tilted his head toward her. "What about me?"
She turned a page without reading it. "What about you? Do I terrify you?"
She hesitated, but didn't pretend to think. "No," she said. "Not yet."
That evening the rain eased into a fine mist, and the household gathered itself into its usual rhythm of supper preparation. Or it tried to. Theo descended the stairs to find chaos—discrete chaos, but chaos nonetheless. One footman, clearly unused to his stiff new livery, had stumbled and knocked a silver platter off the sideboard. A maid was near tears trying to starch a footman's cravat, while the butler, who'd once served quite happily in shirtsleeves, now wore the look of a man being slowly throttled by his collar and a misplaced sense of ceremony.
She blinked. Poppy stood beside her, entirely unbothered. "The new uniforms arrived early, my lady."