Page 24 of My Lord Rogue
The sentence hung between them, trembling like a glass about to shatter.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said, though it was not a criticism.
“I’m sure of nothing,” he replied. “But I know how to read the room. Even when it’s empty.”
She shivered, but not from cold. The wrapper did nothing to hide the sudden, physical awareness of her own skin, the way it felt too tight, too raw.
“Is this another game?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “If it is, we’re both losing.”
She exhaled, a breath she had not realized she’d been holding.
He looked away then, into the fire, and for a moment the bravado dropped from his face. She saw the line of fatigue at his jaw, the delicate bruise-colored shadow under his eye.
“I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said so quietly she almost missed it.
She shook her head. “You didn’t. Or if you did, it was my own fault for thinking I could win.”
He smiled at that, but it was a tired smile. “You strike me as the type who hates to lose.”
“I hate being predictable,” she said.
“That, too.”
She found herself smiling, this time for real.
They fell silent again, both of them staring into the hearth as if it might reveal the future in the arrangement of its embers. She flexed her toes, feeling the blood return, and let her hand drop from the lapel of her wrapper.
In a low voice, Teddy said, “What will you do when the house wakes up tomorrow?”
She considered. “The same thing as always. Pretend nothing has happened.”
He drained the rest of his glass and set it aside. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words landed, sharp and intimate, and Theo felt a new ache—deep, embarrassing, but not entirely unpleasant.
She stood, clutching the Ovid, uncertain whether she was running away or only retreating for tactical advantage.
“I should go,” she said.
He did not move, only watched her with that infuriating calm. “If you ever need a partner for late-night reading, you know where to find me.”
She nodded, and this time she did not look away. “Good night, Teddy.”
He inclined his head, a bow that was both mock and genuine.
She slipped from the library, shutting the door behind her. The darkness of the corridor felt warmer, less threatening, as if the house itself had witnessed the exchange and decided, just this once, to keep her secrets.
She returned to her room and lay down atop the covers, the Ovid pressed to her chest, her heart thudding not from fear but from something she dared not name.
She stared at the ceiling, counting cracks again, but this time she did not mind if she lost track.
Tomorrow would come. For now, she let herself drift, carried by the memory of his voice and the echo of her own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Theo made it through the next day by a series of tiny survivals. Breakfast, which she took alone in her room, was little more than a dish of cold fruit and the dregs of last night’s dreams. After, she read from Ovid for a bit, and then spent an hour staring into the fire, watching each log collapse and blacken.