Page 21 of My Lord Rogue

He shook his head, a short, savage motion. “I think you do. I think you know exactly what you’re doing, and I think you want me to call you out on it.”

She flushed, all the way from her collarbone to her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.

“I made up a story,” she admitted, the words forced from her like a confession. “It was supposed to be harmless. No one was meant to—” She stopped, realizing the futility of explanation.

He angled his body, trapping her in the narrow space between sideboard and wall. His height was a wall of shadow, his coat brushing her shoulder, his voice a shiver against her ear.

“You invented me,” he said, and the words had a weight she could not bear.

She shook her head, desperation blooming in her chest. “I had no choice. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“And now?” he asked, his lips curving. “Am I to leave you alone, or are you hoping for something else?”

She looked at him, really looked—at the sharp, hungry line of his mouth, the fine bones of his hands, the unmistakable intentin his eyes. For a moment she felt the world tip, all logic and propriety draining away, replaced by the gravity of want.

“I want you to stop,” she said, but her voice was a tremor, not a command.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “Liar.”

He moved then, one hand coming to rest on the wall beside her head, the other tracing the edge of her jaw with a tenderness that bordered on cruelty. He leaned in, and she felt the scrape of his breath against her cheek, the heat of him crowding out the rest of the air.

“Why did you choose me?” he whispered, the question so intimate it seared.

She swallowed, tried to find purchase in the smooth, papered wall behind her. “I simply made up a name at random. Because I thought it was safe.”

He let out a breath, half a laugh and half a growl. “It’s never safe, Theo.”

She closed her eyes, bracing for a touch that never came.

Instead, he drew back, his hand sliding from the wall to the line of her shoulder, fingers pressing into the flesh just hard enough to indent. She shivered, and the motion set every nerve in her body alight.

He stepped back, just enough to let her breathe, but not enough to offer escape.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t invent a ghost unless you want it to haunt you.”

She nodded, unable to speak.

He brushed past, his coat grazing her hip, and disappeared into the shadowed corridor.

She stood, stunned and shaking, the cold from the glass now a fever in her palm. The scent of him lingered, the memory of his presence a wound she could not staunch.

She made her way to the stairs, climbing blindly, her feet numb on the runner. The house was silent, every guest retired, every lamp turned down low. At her chamber door, she fumbled with the latch, nearly dropping her reticule in her haste.

Inside, the room was a sanctuary of blue shadows and white linen, untouched by the excitement of the evening below. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, heart hammering in her chest.

For a long time she sat there, shivering, the world narrowing to the circle of light cast by the single candle on her nightstand.

Eventually, her pulse slowed. The memory of his body—his hand, his voice, the promise of what might follow—settled into her bones, a sweetness that was also a curse.

She lay down, staring at the ceiling until her eyes burned. In the silence, she heard the echo of his words.

It’s never safe.

Rising, she removed her gown and pulled on the nightgown Annie had laid out for her. The fabric slid over her skin, clinging for a moment before falling away, its friction a sweet ache that ran from nipple to knee. She shivered, though the room was not cold.

There was no need for the bed curtain, but she drew it half-shut, regardless. She liked the way it obscured the world, the way it turned the bed into a room inside a room. She doused the candle, let her eyes adjust to the half-light. The moon was high enough now to cast the entire foot of the bed in silver, highlighting the curve of her shin, the pale luminescence of thigh beneath the bunched nightdress. The rest of her was shadow, and in the shadow she felt almost safe.

Theo slid under the covers, sighing as the crisp linen enveloped her. She turned onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other pressed between her knees—a childhood posture, half-defensive, half-conspiratorial. She laythere, unmoving, and let the events of the night drift behind her eyelids.