Page 33 of My Lord Rogue
“Shall we walk by the water?” he asked, dropping his voice.
She hesitated, then nodded. Her hand trembled as she accepted the crook of his arm. The gesture was so practiced, so perfectly staged, that it should have felt like another move in their ongoing masquerade. But it didn’t. Not entirely.
They set off along the shore, leaving behind the murmurs and watchful eyes.
A few heads turned, but no one followed. The hush of the lake swallowed their footsteps. Theo tried to focus on the path, on the flicker of sunlight through the reeds, but every cell in her body was tuned to the man beside her—the heat of his skin, the pressure of his hand over hers, the subtle torque of his muscles as they moved in tandem.
She knew they were still performing, still playing to the crowd. But in that moment, the act felt almost indistinguishable from the thing itself.
They walked on, past the ancient willow that marked the estate’s boundary, and for a while neither said a word. The silence was companionable, unhurried, a mutual recognition that the game could pause without either of them losing ground.
Eventually, the sounds of the picnic faded, replaced by the hush of wind and water.
For the first time all day, Theo felt herself breathe.
She risked a glance at Teddy, and was startled to find him already watching her. His gaze was searching, not predatory. There was a question there, unspoken and urgent.
She looked away, suddenly shy, and squeezed his arm. He squeezed back, a promise, or perhaps a warning.
The path curved ahead, hidden by wild roses and a stand of reeds. Theo found herself wondering what it would be like to walk with him like this forever—what it would mean to belong, even in pretense, to a man who saw her not as a prize, but as an adversary worth winning.
She didn’t know the answer, but for the moment, she didn’t have to.
They kept walking, their shadows merged on the grass, and the whole world narrowed to the space between their joined arms.
Theo clung to the crook of Teddy’s arm as if it might keep her upright, but the sensation was less like steadiness and more like vertigo. Each time her skirts brushed his leg, each time he slowed to match her pace, she felt a pulse of something sharp and dangerous—an excitement with no name, the promise of either disaster or deliverance. It was as if they were actors in a dream of someone else’s making, but the script had run out and now anything could happen.
When the reeds at last parted, they found themselves at a small promontory where the water licked against a heap of stones. A willow arched overhead, trailing its fingers into the current. Here, the noises of the party were almost gone, reduced to an occasional peal of laughter or the thin, metallic call of a trumpet. Theo let go of Teddy’s arm, but only to steady herself on the low stone wall at the water’s edge.
He watched her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he bent down and picked up a flat pebble, weighing it in his hand like a coin. “Did you know that the world’s greatest tragedy is the inability of one thing to become another?”
She looked at him, caught off guard by the abrupt turn in tone. “Is that Ovid again, or are you improvising?”
“Does it matter?” He bent and tossed the stone. It skimmed the water four times before vanishing. “I suppose what matters is whether you believe it.”
Theo traced the rim of her locket, the old gesture of worry made new by his scrutiny. “I’ve tried not to think about what matters. It’s easier just to… keep moving.”
Teddy nodded, then kneeled to select another stone, his fingers moving with the idle care of someone who has done this a thousand times. “I was like that once. A man in motion. London to Paris, Paris to Vienna, then back again. Every city a chance to start over, or at least to forget the last mistake.”
She watched the muscles shift in his arm as he straightened. “Is that why you’re here now? To forget?”
He skipped the stone, watching its progress as if it had a bearing on his fate. “I came back to England because the Continent was no longer safe. I’d made… an error of judgment. Several, if we’re being honest. Ironic, considering that’s what led me to leave England.”
She waited, the water’s hush a goad to confession.
He looked over, his eyes suddenly dark, the flecks of gold gone to earth. “Vienna, for instance. There was a woman—Countess Lenka. Beautiful, married, fond of riding at dawn. Her husband was less fond of me. It nearly ended in a duel, and I would have been cut down, except—” He shrugged. “I ran. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.”
He laughed, a bitter sound. “Paris was worse. The father of a girl I’d never even kissed insisted on satisfaction. The police were involved. I spent a night in the Conciergerie, which I do not recommend, even to my enemies.”
Theo wanted to ask if the stories were true—if every rumor, every whispered sin, belonged to him—but her tongue was thick and numb.
There was a silence, long and tense. Theo felt herself poised on a knife-edge, her body cold and hot in turns. She understood now why he had seemed familiar the moment she saw him—because he was the embodiment of every story she’d ever feared or desired, every warning her mother had whispered in the half-light.
He looked at her, and the careful mask fell away.
“I’m not the man you invented,” he said, the words as stark as stone. “I’m worse. I have lied, and stolen, and seduced where I ought to have walked away. I would ruin you, if you let me.”
The words should have scared her. They did, but not in the way she expected. She felt a thrill so intense it bordered on pain—a compulsion to step forward, to close the distance, to dare him to follow through.