If Duchess Ashford had been stunned by my question before, she now looked ready to faint outright when Theodore agreed.
Her fingers slammed against the dining table with a sharp bang that made the crystal glasses rattle.
“That is simply impossible,” she declared, her voice tight with barely contained horror. “He is a man.”
“Mother.”
I raised my eyebrows slowly, folding my hands primly in my lap with exaggerated innocence. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”
Oh, I knew exactly what she meant.
So unheard of. So scandalous. So deeply, profoundly inappropriate by 1940s aristocratic standards.
How could a man—the future Duke of Ashford, a decorated war hero, and most importantly, a man—possibly cook for a woman? It was beneath him. Undignified. The kind of thing that would have society matrons clutching their pearls until they shattered.
“Mother, enough,” Theodore said firmly, rising to his feet with the kind of decisive movement that made people instinctively straighten their spines.
Lady Ashford’s face turned a dangerous shade of red, humiliation tightening every line of her expression. Her jaw clenched so hard I thought her teeth might crack.
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Plus two thousand Hatred Points, Duchess Ashford: Maternal Humiliation Maximum
Current Balance: eighteen thousand four hundred and ten pounds}
Oh. Wow.
Two thousand points from a single moment. That was… that was actually incredible. My plan to be boring had completely backfired, but at least the hatred points were thriving.
Before anyone could recover from the shock, the head server—a middle-aged woman in pristine uniform—rushed forward, nearly tripping over her own skirts as she bowed repeatedly in front of me.
“I’m so sorry, Lady Cruelton,” she said, her hands visibly shaking. “Please, please tell me what would be to your liking, and I’ll go beyond my ability to make it perfect. Whatever you want—anything at all—”
“Moria, that’s enough.” Lady Ashford’s voice could have cut glass. “Please, everyone, calm down. We wouldn’t want to embarrass ourselves further in front of our guest.”
She sat back down with stiff, controlled grace, glancing pointedly at her daughter and the two remaining relatives who looked like they wanted to dissolve into their chairs.
Then she sighed—a long, weary sound that carried the weight of centuries of aristocratic disappointment.
“I apologize for my outburst, Lady Cruelton.”
I blinked.
…Okay. No jokes now.
What was wrong with this family?
I had half-expected to be escorted out by now, tossed beyond the gates with insults hurled after me like rotten vegetables. Instead, they were actually considering this. Actually apologizing to me.
The awkwardness was suffocating. Painfully, deliciously awkward.
But this was for my survival. For the points. For the plan.
I smiled widely—the kind of smile that suggested I was doing someone an enormous favor out of the goodness of my heart. “I’ll let this go just once, Your Grace. Because it’s you.”
Her eye twitched.
Just once. A tiny, involuntary spasm at the corner of her left eye that she couldn’t quite suppress.
“How gracious,” she murmured through gritted teeth.
A low chuckle escaped from somewhere down the table.
I turned toward the sound in mock concern, already knowing who it was.
Elizabeth’s eyes were sparkling with barely restrained mirth, her hand pressed delicately to her mouth as if that could contain her amusement. When everyone turned to stare at her in confusion and varying degrees of horror, she cleared her throat with impressive composure.
“Forgive me, Mother,” she said smoothly. “I simply find Lady Beatrice… entertaining.”
Lady Ashford closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingers to her temple like she was developing a migraine in real-time.
“Lady Beatrice.”
I looked up obediently, blinking with false innocence.
“I understand where you’re coming from,” she continued in a tone that absolutely, categorically did not understand where I was coming from, “but my son has never entered the kitchen in his life. Not once. It simply isn’t done.”
“Oh,” I said immediately, injecting just the right amount of concern into my voice. “That is terrible.”
Theodore sighed—a long, resigned sound. He looked like a man already regretting every decision that had led him to this exact moment in his life.
“Mother does enjoy embarrassing me,” he said calmly, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced ease. “Pay her no mind, Lady Beatrice. I’ll prepare something now.”
Another collective gasp swept through the room like a wave.
“Brother?” Elizabeth’s composure finally cracked, genuine surprise breaking through her amusement.
The remaining relatives exchanged looks—the kind people shared when collectively deciding whether to stay and witness history or flee before they became part of it.
“I’m not as hopeless in the kitchen as everyone believes,” Theodore added thoughtfully, almost to himself. “I’m quite good, actually… I think.” He paused, tilting his head as if genuinely considering the question. “I’m sure I am?”
Was he… was he asking me?
How would I know? I’d never seen him cook! I’d barely seen him do anything except stand around being unsettlingly perceptive!
Duchess Ashford shook her head slowly, disbelief written across every feature. “But son, that simply isn’t possible. You’ve never done such menial work. You’ve never had to. Why would you even—”
My jaw tightened.
Menial work.
I reminded myself—firmly—of the era and the setting. Of aristocratic values and class structures and all the historical context that made her statement normal for this world.
Still. If she said one more word about cooking being “beneath” people—
Theodore removed his coat in one smooth, practiced motion, revealing a crisp white shirt beneath.
Oh .
I watched completely unashamed as a maid rushed forward to tie an apron around his waist. The fabric pulled snug, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean lines of his torso. Muscles flexed as he rolled up his sleeves with efficient precision. Calm confidence radiated from him like it had always been there, simply waiting for the right moment to be noticed.
This was unfair. Deeply, cosmically unfair.
“What would you like to eat, Lady Beatrice?”
Truly. God had favorites. And I was not one of them.
“Lady Beatrice?”
My eyes snapped upward, colliding directly with his green, amused, almost smug own.
He’d caught me staring.
Heat flooded my face.
“Urgh, whatever,” I said quickly, waving a dismissive hand and looking anywhere except at him. “Amaze me with whatever you do best.”
A maid immediately began fanning Lady Ashford, who looked ready to expire from sheer mortification.
Elizabeth was watching me with an unreadable expression—something between amusement and assessment, like she was solving a particularly interesting puzzle.
The relatives looked like they wished the floor would open and swallow them whole, dinner party and all.
Theodore nodded once, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and turned away, moving toward the kitchens with several staff members trailing behind him like nervous ducklings.
“Oh—wait.”
He paused mid-step and turned back slowly, one eyebrow raised in question.
I smiled sweetly, folding my hands in my lap with exaggerated innocence. “I’d like something with fish.”
His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or recognition of the game I was playing.
He inclined his head. “Of course, my lady.”
Then he left, disappearing through the doorway that led to the kitchens.
I giggled.
Possibly playing with fire, yes—but it was strangely, deeply satisfying sending such a man on an errand. Like making a lion fetch a stick. Wrong on multiple levels, but undeniably entertaining.
Lady Ashford coughed sharply—a pointed, aggressive sound that clearly meant I am still sitting right here and can hear you.
Right. I was still at the dinner table. With his mother. Who definitely hated me.
Time to deploy Phase Two of Operation: Be Insufferable.
I immediately arranged my face into the vapid expression I’d practiced in the mirror—eyes wide and empty, smile bright and meaningless, the perfect mask of aristocratic airheadedness.
“Everyone,” I said, clasping my hands together with enthusiasm that bordered on manic, “while we wait, may I interest you in discussing this new ribbon I acquired? It matches my gloves perfectly. Shockingly so. You truly won’t believe the level of coordination. The shade—”
Lady Ashford’s eye twitched again.
Elizabeth looked like she was trying very, very hard not to laugh.
One of the relatives made a small whimpering sound.
“—and the texture,” I continued relentlessly, pulling off one glove to display my wrist like it was the Mona Lisa. “Feel this fabric. Just feel it. Isn’t it extraordinary? The shop owner said it came all the way from—”
“Lady Beatrice,” Lady Ashford interrupted, her voice strained. “That’s… very nice.”
“Oh, but I haven’t even told you about the price—”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth cut in smoothly, her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth, “we should discuss something else while we wait for Theodore. Lady Beatrice, tell me—have you been to the theater recently?”
I opened my mouth to launch into an equally vapid discussion about theater seating and programs and—
The kitchen door swung open.
Theodore emerged, somehow looking even more unfairly attractive with flour dusted across one cheek and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Lady Beatrice,” he said, his voice carrying that same calm confidence. “I’ll need about twenty minutes. I hope that’s acceptable.”
Twenty minutes. He was actually doing this. Actually cooking for me.
The System chimed:
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: WARNING: Romantic subplot accelerating
Interest Level: 87% CRITICAL Your “boring plan” has catastrophically failed
Current Survival Probability: forty three point two percent…we tried to warn you}
I stared at the notification, my internal panic rising.
Forty-three percent? I’d dropped survival probability?