Page 15 of My Lord Rogue
Theo lasted only until the first luncheon bell before surrendering to the certainty that the house—its corridors, its guests, its ambient scrutiny—was intent on breaking her. She escaped as soon as etiquette permitted, crossed two wings and a gallery, and found herself at the door of the conservatory, the hothouse cathedral Verity’s father had built to coddle pineapples and cultivate rare camellias. The glass panes had gone milk white with condensation.
As she entered, heat and moisture rose in a wave and flattened her, sticky on the back of the neck, heavy through the chest. Every living thing in the place seemed to exhale, the glossy banana trees, the monstrous philodendrons, the crowding ferns. Even the air tasted overripe, sweet with crushed petals and the green bitterness of sap. Theo lingered by the entrance, letting her eyes adjust, her body already starting to bead with perspiration beneath the high collar of the gown she’d changed into after their ride.
Verity’s voice drew her deeper. “Darling, you must not hover by the door like a governess awaiting inspection! Come, I’ve saved you the best seat.”
Theo followed the sound past an explosion of hibiscus and a spindly orange tree bowed under its own weight. At the center of the conservatory, beneath a trailing canopy of bougainvillea, Verity had established her citadel, a curved white settee, its cane back softened with faded silk cushions, a round table already set with a full tea service and a pyramid of seed cakes. Three other women completed the tableau, their postures too decorous for true relaxation.
Verity made a show of rising, arms open wide. She wore a gown of pale peach, filmy and close-fitting, and her cheeks glowed with a carnation flush that no doubt owed as much to the heat as to the prospect of gossip. “Theodosia, we have been on pins and needles for your arrival.”
The others murmured their greetings. Lady Jennington, with the implacable calm of a woman who had buried three husbands and enjoyed the process, Miss Fox, a local squire’s daughter with an addiction to puns and an unshakable smile, and Lady Amelia appeared happy to see her.
Theo perched at the end of the settee, arranging her skirts to insulate herself from the clammy surface.
“Goodness, it is like the Amazon in here,” Miss Fox said, fanning herself with her hand. “Is it intended as a sort of prelude to the equator?”
Lady Jenningtontsked. “If you can’t tolerate a little heat, you will never survive marriage, my dear.”
Verity poured Theo a cup of tea with the solemnity of a priestess. “A little adversity builds character, don’t you agree, Theo?”
Theo’s laugh sounded brittle, even to herself. “Or at least exposes its absence.”
Verity grinned and handed Theo the cup and saucer. “Did the ride fortify you for the evening’s onslaught, or do you find yourself already in need of rescue?”
Theo sipped. The tea was scalding, almost medicinal in its intensity. “The company was…lively,” she managed, eyes flicking to the others.
Lady Amelia bared her teeth in a smile. “We saw the finish at the ridge. Quite the spectacle, was it not?” She looked to Lady Jennington as if she expected her to comment on how unladylike Theo’s ride had been.
Theo set her cup down, careful not to betray the tremor in her hand. “I find the countryside improves everything, even the most tedious conversations.”
“Not everyone finds Baron Teddington tedious,” Lady Amelia purred, watching Theo with predatory interest. “He seems to have rather a talent for enlivening a party. They say his wit is as sharp as his horsemanship.”
Miss Fox giggled, then faked a swoon behind her fan. “He is very handsome, is he not?”
Theo summoned her most aloof smile. “His looks are tolerable, I suppose.”
Verity clapped her hands in delight. “We must have every detail, Theo. It is your moral obligation to your friends. You cannot keep such a man to yourself—not after teasing us with your mysterious correspondence.”
Theo felt the walls close in—the humid press of the air, the opacity of the windows, the way the orchids on the table leered at her with lurid tongues. “There is little to tell. He wrote out of courtesy, being Charles’s friend. He is a man of…letters. Not much else.”
Lady Jennington sniffed. “Men of letters are rarely men of action. But I suppose the world needs both, though never in the same sitting room.”
“On the contrary,” Verity said, “it is precisely the combination that makes a man irresistible. Now, tell us about the letters. Did he quote Latin? Or was it all scandal and poetry?”
Theo shifted her weight, feeling the damp spread under her arms. She reached for a seed cake, simply for the excuse to look down. “He wrote about his travels. The melancholy of Paris. The fog in Vienna. I imagine he feared I was lonely with Charles’ passing and he sought to liven my days.”
Miss Fox gasped, the sound genuine. “How romantic. I should die of happiness if a man wrote to me like that.”
Theo looked at the surrounding plants, searching for more to say. “He is obsessed with horticulture. There is a greenhouse on his estate in Northumberland that rivals the Royal Botanic. He claims he bred a blue hyacinth last year, but I suspect it’s merely a trick of the light.”
Verity arched a brow. “You sound positively intimate with his domestic arrangements, Theo. Have you visited Teddington Hall?”
Theo swallowed hard. The words caught at the back of her tongue. “No, of course not. He describes it in such detail that I feel as if I have.”
“Is it true,” Lady Amelia interjected, “that he was a favorite of Byron’s during his Oxford years? My cousin insists they once shared a mistress.”
Theo hesitated, feeling the sweat pool at the nape of her neck. She glanced at Verity, who was watching her with the avid curiosity of a scientist dissecting a rare specimen.
“He doesn’t speak of Oxford,” Theo said, voice gone small. “Or of Byron. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared a mistress with other men, from the gossip I heard.”