Page 3 of My Lord Rogue
A memory surfaced—a village near her childhood home, a small, picturesque place where the river bent gently around willow trees and stone cottages. Teddington. She had visited it only a handful of times, accompanying her father on parish business, but she remembered the name and the peaceful setting.
“Baron Teddington,” she said aloud, testing the sound of it. The title had a pleasant ring—aristocratic without being ostentatious, distinctive without drawing undue attention.
She picked up the quill again, this time with more purpose. The man took shape in her mind—a dear friend of Charles from his university days, someone who had been abroad during their marriage but had recently returned to England. Someone who had written to offer condolences upon learning of Charles’s death, and whose correspondence had gradually grown into something more meaningful.
“I am pleased to accept your kind invitation,” she wrote. “The prospect of country air is indeed appealing after so long in town. I must warn you, however, if your hope is to have the correct number of ladies to gentlemen in attendance. I have recentlybeen in correspondence with Baron Teddington, an old friend of Charles’ from his Oxford days. He has been most attentive, and while nothing is formally arranged between us, I believe he may call upon me soon to discuss the possibility of a more permanent attachment. So you see, your guests would only find disappointment if they wished for a dalliance with me.”
The lie flowed from her pen with surprising ease. She paused, considering what physical attributes to give her fictional baron. He should be handsome enough to be plausible as a suitor, but not so striking as to invite too much curiosity.
“Baron Teddington, my dear Teddy, stands rather tall, with a slender build. His hair is brown—not the dull shade of bark, but the rich color of polished walnut—and his eyes are a most unusual hazel that appears almost amber in certain lights.”
A smile played at the corners of her lips as she crafted him further. “He possesses a quiet dignity that I find refreshing after the excessive gallantry of other gentlemen. His letters reveal a thoughtful mind and a surprising wit that emerges when one least expects it.”
She sat back, surveying her creation with a mixture of amusement and pride. The baron was taking shape nicely—a gentleman of good breeding but not ostentatious wealth, educated but not pedantic, attentive but not smothering. The perfect fictional suitor to keep real ones at bay.
Returning to her letter to Verity, she added, “I tell you this in confidence, dear friend, to explain why I might seem distracted at times during your lovely party. My heart, which I once thought permanently closed, has considered the possibility of opening once more. It is a frightening prospect, as I’m sure you remember.”
That last part, at least, contained a grain of truth. The prospect of rejoining society, even under the protection of a fictional attachment, was indeed frightening.
She read over the letter, adding flourishes and details where needed, embellishing the baron’s recent return from the Continent, his estate in Northumberland, his fondness for literature, much like Charles.
With each stroke of her quill, Baron Teddington became more real, a shield fashioned from ink and imagination, designed to protect her vulnerable heart from those who might try to claim it.
Finally satisfied, she set the finished letter aside. Her gaze lifted to the portrait above the mantel. Charles looked down at her from the gilt frame, his expression serious but with that hint of warmth in his eyes that the artist had captured so perfectly.
“Forgive me this small deception, my love. It is only to keep others at bay, to preserve what we had.”
The portrait, of course, made no reply. But as she extinguished the candles, Theo could almost imagine that the subtle play of shadows across his painted features suggested understanding, perhaps even amusement at her clever ruse.
CHAPTER TWO
The coach jostled over the last half-mile of rough road. Theo pressed her gloved hand to the window, the chill of the glass prickling her skin through thin kidskin. The outer gates of St. Ervan Hall, the country home of the Earl and Countess of St. Ervan, receded behind them, and the carriage began its slow, stately progress up the oak-flanked drive.
The carriage groaned to a stop in front of the large manor house. Footmen materialized instantly to assist her down and collect her trunks. Theo accepted the proffered arm and glanced up at the blazing façade.
The front door stood open, and Verity, Lady St. Ervan, awaited inside, resplendent in a gown of silvery mauve that shimmered with each tiny gesture. She moved toward Theo in a cloud of lavender perfume and silk, arms outstretched. Her curly dark hair was twisted into a chignon that threatened collapse at any moment. She enveloped Theo in a quick, fierce embrace.
“Theodosia, at last!” she said, holding her at arm’s length to inspect her. “You look—well, you look precisely as you always do, though I feared you would fade into some gothic legend, all sorrow and sighs.”
Theo managed a smile, though the familiar pang at the word “sorrow” rippled through her. “You exaggerate, Verity.”
“Only as much as you understate,” Verity replied, looping her arm through Theo’s. “Come, let us rescue you from the outer darkness. You must be tired to the bone!”
“How many are here already?” Theo asked. “Am I the first to arrive?”
“None of the London menagerie just yet.” She patted Theo’s hand, then steered her deftly up the staircase and toward the voices Theo heard from the drawing room.
Two gentlemen conversed near the unlit fireplace, one short and ruddy, the other with the languid grace of a cat, and both turned as Verity approached. The taller man, clad in evening black with a cravat knotted just so, inclined his head in polite greeting, his eyes flickering over Theo with measured interest.
“Lord Claremont, may I present Theodosia, Lady Pattishall?” Verity said. “Lady Pattishall is a dear friend. She’s the widow of the former earl.”
“Charmed,” said Lord Claremont. His gaze lingered just a hair too long on the flesh exposed by Theo’s low neckline before flitting back to her eyes.
She stopped herself from tugging at the fabric there, suddenly wishing she’d thought to bring her fichu. She’d forgotten how tempting her fleshy bosom was to men. When she’d been with Charles, she never paid attention to where other men were looking, and he enjoyed having her display her figure as often as possible.
The shorter man, perhaps thirty and already receding at the temples, offered a courtly bow. “Baxter,” he said, as if the name explained everything.
Theo murmured the requisite pleasantries. She was acutely aware of every glance, every sidelong look, as though her presence generated a disturbance in the surrounding air. A pairof women who looked close to her own age of thirty eyed her as though she were competition. She longed to announce she had no interest in anything the men might offer. She caught herself smoothing her skirt, then forced her hands still.