Page 29 of My Lord Rogue
“And?” he prompted, settling back into his chair.
Theo circled the room, letting her fingertips brush the spines of the books as she passed. “We will maintain appearances in public,” she said, “for as long as it suits us both. But nothing more.”
His smile was pure mischief. “Nothing more?”
She turned, facing him, chin lifted. “We must be careful, Teddy. We are being watched.”
He nodded, but the set of his mouth was unconvinced. “You know, for a woman so skilled at invention, you are remarkably bad at lying.”
She blushed, angry at herself for being so transparent. “It’s not a lie. I just?—”
He interrupted, voice low and liquid. “You just want to be in control.”
She crossed her arms, the glass of brandy trembling slightly in her hand. “Is that so terrible?”
“Not at all,” he said. “But I want to know what you’re really afraid of.”
The question hovered in the air. She did not answer, but instead drank again, the heat of the spirit making her bold.
“Fine,” she said. “What are you getting out of this, then? Why not expose me? Why play along?”
He stood, closing the distance between them with three careful steps. “Because, you’re the only person here who sees me as I am, not as I pretend to be.” He took the glass from her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She felt the words in her gut, a rush that made her knees threaten to buckle.
He set both glasses on the mantle, then turned to face her, hands loose at his sides. “We can keep up the charade as long as you like. But you should know I’m not very good at playing safe.”
She laughed, the sound escaping her before she could swallow it. “You think I am?”
He shook his head. “I think you want to be. But I think you’re just as reckless as I am.”
There was no more distance left between them. She could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the dark sweep of his lashes, the shadow of an indentation where he had pressed his thumb toohard against his own palm. She felt an urge to touch that bruise, to smooth it with her own thumb, to leave a mark just as real.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over her jaw, not quite touching. “May I?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
His hand cupped her cheek, warm and sure, and she let herself lean into it, let herself close her eyes and remember how it felt to be wanted. When he kissed her, it was nothing like the tentative, polite kisses of her past life. It was fire, all tongue and teeth and a hungry, desperate need. She gasped, her lips parting under the assault, and he took full advantage, pulling her closer, his other arm snaking around her waist.
She resisted, briefly, out of habit or fear or some battered sense of decorum. But the fight went out of her almost at once. Her hands found his shoulders—broad, hot through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat—and she gripped them as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling.
When they broke apart, both were breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, the moment thick with shared air and the unspoken admission that there was no going back.
She was the first to speak. “This changes nothing,” she whispered, though it was a lie and they both knew it.
He smiled, lips grazing her temple. “No. Of course not.”
She stepped away, collecting herself, wrapping her arms around her chest. Her heart was hammering so loudly she thought it might shatter the glass in the windows.
“I should go,” she said, but her feet refused to move.
He didn’t stop her, only watched, his expression inscrutable.
She lingered at the threshold, hand on the knob, and looked back at him. He was standing by the fire, the light painting him in gold and shadow, utterly unrepentant.
“I’ll see you at breakfast, Lady Pattishall,” he said, and the use of her name was a benediction, a dare, a promise.
She left, shutting the door with a quiet, deliberate click.