Strike three?
“Did you cut my hair?” She quickly reached for her ponytail.
He let the hair slip from his hand onto the ground.
“I told you I would… and now I have.” There was a sparkle in his eyes as the flame of the candle caught on it.
“You were serious about it?” He moved past her and strode to the large mahogany desk.
As he settled down on the intimidating chair, he said, “I warned you once about daring a soldier.” She touched the tip of her pony tail again to be certain.
“How could you!” He picked up a quill and dipped it into an inkwell.
Then he retrieved a fresh parchment and began to write on it.
Everetta could not help but notice how regal he looked seated there.
It just suited him… Then he glanced up as if suddenly remembering that she was still standing where he had left her.
“Do have a seat, Lady Whitmore.
Pardon my lacking manners.” Despite herself, she bit her lower lip and took the seat he offered.
“To what do I owe the pleasure.” Her eyes widened slightly.
“The pleasure?
You just cut my precious hair and have the audacity to act as if you did nothing wrong?” He leaned back against his chair and clasped his hands.
“I have limited time, so, I would advise that you state your purpose here and leave… lest I throw you out.” Throw her out?
Where his manners flushed down a latrine?
“I would love to see you throw me out.” The left side of his lips quirked upwards slightly as he met her gaze.
“I will not patronise you this time, Lady Whitmore.
What is it exactly that you came to see me about that Bartwick cannot handle?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I have finished my work for today in case you might want to see it.” She searched his face but found nothing.
“Did Bartwick see it?” Was all he asked.
Silence.
Then she nodded.
“Well, did he approve of it?” The corners of her lips curled downwards.
“He did say it was lovely.” “Then there is no need for me to see it.” What?
“You entrust so much to your steward?” “Why, yes.
Do you have a problem with that?” She pursed her lips.
“No… as a matter of fact, I do.
I laboured all day… and the least you could do is look at it and tell me what you think.” He leaned forward slowly and placed his palms on the surface of the table.
“That means you have very little confidence in your work.” She parted her lips to speak but closed it back.
“But, if it is what you want, I would see it at my leisure.” She rose from her chair.
“You would see it now… or, forget about any further assistance from me.” His brow arched up at her words.
“You seem to forget that you willingly agreed to help me… and now with my hands being damaged, you have to do all the work yourself with minimal assistance from my end.” If it was possible, her eyes would have bulged out of their sockets.
“You conniving…” He held up a hand to silence her.
And for some odd reason, she obeyed the gesture and fell silent.
“Consider it as you doing me a favour which I would have to return unfailingly.” A favour.
What could she possibly ask of him?
“I will only accept under the agreement that you would be sure to oblige my request regardless of what it is.” He picked up the quill and assumed his writing once more.
“Fine.
No matter what it will be.” He repeated.
Her eyes brightened instantly.
He was a man of his word, was he not?
“Now, to the ballroom.” She said firmly, placing her hands on her hips.
He twirled the quill between his fingers and gave her a cool stare.
“You are quite relentless.
Even the Queen’s ball planner has his limits, Lady Whitmore.” Sighing, he rose from the chair.
“I wonder what magnificence you expect me to see in the dark.” She beamed a small smile at him.
“I asked the servants to keep the candles lit in the ballroom.” “Why am I not surprised?” He leaned down and fished something from the bottom drawer.
In the dim light of the candle, she could see that it was a vile.
He popped the lid and took a scanty sip from it before closing it back and inserting it into the drawer.
The urge to ask what he was drinking hovered on her tongue but she swallowed it.
She would discover it in due time, she told herself.
“Famished can barely describe how I feel at the moment.” He muttered, sliding his coat off the chair on which it rested and draping it over his broad shoulders.
“Shall we?” He asked her when he was done.
Eve sheepishly waited for him to extend an arm until it finally dawned on her that such chivalrous gestures were never forthcoming from Theodore Von Virchow.
Catching herself just in time, she proceeded him to the door and held it open for him instead.
He walked to the door and stopped just before the threshold.
Meeting her gaze and holding it, he mouthed, “Thank you.” Then he crossed the threshold and disappeared into the hallway.
Everetta paused for a minute to put her thoughts in order.
Did he just tell her ‘thank you’?
She had sincerely expected him to scorn her in some way for opening the door for him when she, as a spoiled lady as he constantly reminded her, knew it ought to have been the other way around.
His footsteps were growing faint, snapping her out of her rambling thoughts.
There was no single person who could understand such a man without having lost their sanity.
Dragging in a deep breath, she rushed out of the room and closed the door behind her.
Everetta battled to keep an unhurried pace lest he think she was so eager that she had to trot.
On getting there, she found him standing in the center of the ballroom with his hands clasped behind his back in the solid military pose she often saw.
“You keep surprising me.
Where did you learn to do all this?
The last I heard, you stopped attending social functions around the time I joined the army, so how did you become this… efficient?” She stopped at the door.
Before she could think better of it, she asked, “Have you ever asked yourself why I stopped attending social functions?” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Maestrofunzi_07 Good question…
Heyyy, darlings, leave a comment if you want to have a Theo chapter before chapter 50.