Page 11 of My Lord Rogue
He pressed his hand to his lips, stifling a laugh. He had watched her for the rest of the meal, not bothering to mask his interest, and had seen when she surrendered to the inevitability of it all. Her eyes, so blue they bordered on unnatural, had flickered to him again and again, as if daring him to expose her, to tear the mask away.
He would oblige her. Oh, he would.
He tapped his fingers against the rim of the glass, a rhythm of anticipation. He had come to St. Ervan out of necessity, not pleasure. the Continental escapade had grown stale, the debts at home had grown impatient, and his mother’s letters—from whatever dreary rectory she currently haunted—had grown shrill with her customary refrain, “Find a wife. Any wife. But for God’s sake, do it quickly.”
He had no intention of obliging her in that, either. But if he must marry, it would be a matter of strategy, not sentiment. A quiet woman, preferably one with means, who would keep to herself in the country while he pursued his amusements elsewhere. Someone too invested in her own hobbies to mind his constant absences, or the rumors that would inevitably follow.
He considered Lady Pattishall in this light, weighing her as he might weigh a precious stone, value versus volatility, brilliance versus brittleness. She was still in mourning—though more so than society required, which in itself was telling. She had invented a lover to protect herself from the men who circled her, and now the lover had appeared, breathing and insolent.
It was, in its way, perfect.
He wondered what she would do next. Would she retreat further into her lies, or would she dare to play the game with him in earnest? He almost hoped for the latter. He could think of nothing more diverting than a contest of wits played out in the drawing rooms and corridors of this house, with every guest complicit and every interaction a new front in the war.
He set the glass down, careful not to spill, and ran his hands through his hair. The candle guttered, then brightened as if in sympathy.
Tomorrow, then. He would seek her out—not in public, but in some shadowed corner where the real conversations happened. He would force her hand, see if she blushed or bit, if she ran or if she pressed back. And if she proved as clever as he suspected, he would give her a choice, keep up the pretense, or join him in crafting a new, more interesting one.
He stripped off his waistcoat, tossing it onto the bed with the rest of his clothing. For a moment, he stood in his shirtsleeves, staring at the untidy reflection in the window. He was not a beautiful man—never had been—but his mother used to say he could charm the feathers off an angel if he set his mind to it. She was wrong about most things, but in this she was correct.
He drained the last of the brandy, savoring the final, warming bite. Then he returned to the window, gaze sweeping the silent lawns and the cold, blind face of the moon.
Josiah wondered if she was awake, reading a book, or composing another letter to her ghostly baron. He wondered ifshe was thinking of him—if the lie she had conjured had, by some alchemy, become more real than the life she had before.
He doubted she would sleep. He doubted, if he was honest, that he would, either.
Leaving the curtain open, he let the night into his room. He shed the rest of his clothes and crawled into the unmade bed, stretching out full length. The sheets were cool, the mattress unfamiliar. He closed his eyes, but he did not expect to dream.
Instead, he let his mind build a future, a life in his country house, a wife who did not care if he vanished for weeks at a time, an endless series of parties, and the entertainments of the beautiful, blue-eyed widow who would forever keep his secrets, because she had so many of her own.
He slept at last, with a smile curled on his lips, and a plan taking shape in the dark behind his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
The morning after the supper played itself out in blurred increments, first the scrape and clang of chambermaids at the corridor’s end, then the thin light bleeding through a slit in the drapes, and finally the inexorable progression of the house staff, preparing for the riding party with a fervor bordering on the ecclesiastic. By the time Theo allowed Annie to fasten the last button of her grey-trimmed habit, the lawns below were already spotted with clusters of horses and riders, voices carrying with the high pitch of anticipation.
Annie produced the requisite blue sash, the color a shade deeper than cornflower and the closest thing to an impertinence the day permitted. “If I may say, my lady, it brings out your eyes,” she offered, voice neutral.
“That’s precisely what I wish to avoid,” Theo replied, but she let Annie fasten the sash with its silver pin, a tiny, half-hearted rebellion against the blandness of her riding gown. “Do you see him?” she asked, and they both glanced out the window toward the lawn, where the first of the guests were mounting up.
Annie’s mouth twitched. “He’s already out, my lady. I think he was the first to arrive at the stables. I saw him leave before I came in here.”
Theo gripped her gloves and strode out, her boots tapping in the hallway with deliberate precision.
The air outside was cold enough to sting the lungs. The ancient oaks—so taciturn in sunlight—seemed to glisten. Theo breathed in the smell of damp earth and horseflesh and something less nameable, the tension of being watched, studied, measured.
Her mount awaited at the edge of the circle, a dapple-grey mare whose white forelock had been plaited with the obsessive care of a bored groom. The animal blinked, patient and disinterested, as Theo mounted up and settled the skirts of her habit over the pommel. She scanned the crowd. The older men had already begun the competitive ritual of adjusting stirrups and recounting ancient riding wounds. The young women gathered in a knot of pastel and ribbons, waiting to be assisted onto their mares.
And there, set apart from the swirl, was Teddy.
He rode a tall bay, restless and muscle-thick, its ears twitching at every sound. Teddy himself was dressed impeccably, but there was something off about the way he sat the horse—too relaxed, almost insolent. He did not look at her directly, not at first, but the set of his mouth suggested a smile held in reserve.
Theo felt her pulse begin its small, familiar thunder. She urged her mare to the right, hoping to anchor herself in the company of the two eldest gentlemen, solid, unromantic types, both likely to spend the morning discussing the price of sheep and the sorry state of Parliament. She had almost made it into their orbit when Teddy wheeled his bay around, neatly inserting himself at her left.
“My lady,” he said, bowing low in the saddle. His voice, pitched for her alone, still carried a few yards. “I hope you slept well, though I suspect you’re more at home on horseback than at a crowded table.”
She gave him her coldest look. “You’re mistaken, sir. I find both equally diverting.”
He grinned, unconvinced. “Then I trust the company was to your liking?”