Page 16 of My Lord Rogue
“Then what does he speak of?” Verity pressed, shifting closer on the settee, her silk sleeve nearly brushing Theo’s. “You must give us something delicious, or we’ll be forced to invent it ourselves.”
Theo looked away, watching the slow drip of a tiny fountain into the stone bowl at the foot of a banana tree. The rhythm washypnotic, a steady tap-tap-tap that threatened to drown out her thoughts.
“He writes of longing,” she said finally, the words an exhalation. “Of wanting to be elsewhere. Of the strangeness of being neither here nor there—always the outsider, even in his own home.” She realized, as she spoke, that she was quoting from memory—her own, not his.
Verity softened, just a little. “You see? That is exactly the kind of thing that makes women lose their heads. It is almost a crime to keep it to yourself.”
Miss Fox nodded, eyes wide with sympathy. “He sounds lonely.”
Theo pressed her fingers to her temple, willing the migraine away. “Most people are.”
Lady Jennington downed her tea and reached for the sherry. “I suppose the next question is when he means to declare himself, and whether the local clergy is prepared for the scandal.”
Theo nearly choked. “There is no question of it. Nothing is arranged. We are barely acquaintances.”
Verity’s eyes sparkled. “That isn’t what the Captain says. He claims the baron could not take his eyes off you at breakfast. And that you returned the favor, despite your best efforts.”
The chorus of laughter was instantaneous, ringing out over the hiss of the foliage and the damp click of the cooling pipes overhead. Theo’s cheeks burned, her breath suddenly shallow.
She seized her cup, drained it, and set it down with a clatter. “I think the baron is in love with himself, not with anyone else,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut. “He enjoys the idea of being in love. The rest is performance.”
Verity reached over and laid her hand atop Theo’s. The gesture was meant to soothe, but the pressure of her palm only made the trembling worse.
“You’re afraid,” Verity murmured, low enough that the others could not hear. “But you need not be, darling. He’s only a man. Men are easy enough to manage, once you stop imagining they’re made of different stuff.”
Theo almost laughed. She wanted to tell Verity that this was precisely her problem—she could not stop imagining, not even to save her own life. The lies came too easily, because they were not truly lies, they were what she wished the world could be, if only she were someone else.
But instead, she smiled—weak, but credible. “You’re right,” she said, and squeezed Verity’s hand back, because it was easier than explaining.
The talk drifted on. Lady Jennington recollected her second husband’s proposal that he’d written on a handkerchief, but forgot to sign his name. Miss Fox expressed her theory that tulips and women both thrived best with a little benign neglect. Lady Amelia gave an icy prediction that men who came in from the cold too suddenly were bound to leave frostbite behind.
When the tea ended and the company dispersed, Theo was last to leave. She stood for a moment in the center of the conservatory, shoulders slumped, head bowed. Her skin glistened, her lungs ached with the effort of keeping so much air inside them, and the memory of the baron—his voice, his smile, the echo of her own words twisted back at her—clung to her with the ferocity of a burr.
She looked up at the glass ceiling, the world outside rendered diffuse, almost merciful in its vagueness. She told herself she could survive anything, as long as the walls held. But she already knew they were paper thin, and that every word she had spoken this afternoon was another fissure running straight through to the heart.
Theo was halfway down the west corridor, vision blurred by the desire to nap, when she heard his footfall, measured, soft,and absolutely confident in its purpose. The sound alone was enough to make her skin prickle in anticipation—whether with dread or longing, she couldn’t have said. Teddy appeared at the end of the hall, hair just slightly disordered as if he’d only just remembered to brush it back into place.
He paused and let his gaze flick down the length of Theo’s body. For a moment, neither moved.
“Were you fleeing, or merely evaporating?” he asked, his voice pitched to carry but not echo.
She clenched her jaw. “I was seeking air, but it appears there is none to be found.”
He grinned and crossed the intervening space, the wood barely making a sound beneath his boots.
She thought of fleeing, of stepping into the nearest room and slamming the door, but the urge rooted her instead. She was never more still than when she most wanted to move.
He stopped a single pace from her, so close she could feel the warmth that radiated off his body. His eyes searched her, not with feral hunger, but with something far quieter, more dangerous for its restraint.
“You look tired,” he said.
She shook her head. “I think it’s just the heat from the conservatory.”
He nodded, and looked her up and down, and she became suddenly, vividly aware of her state—the dampness of her gown in certain spots, the way her hair had half-fallen from its pins.
He smiled. “You’re beautiful like this, you know.”
She almost laughed. “Like what?”