Page 40 of My Lord Rogue
Teddy did not begin the dance at once. Instead, he pivoted, placing himself directly between Lady Amelia and Theo, blocking the former’s line of sight as neatly as a duelist parrying a blade.
“Lady Amelia,” he said, his voice pitched for the distance between them, “your vigilance for the sanctity of Englishwomanhood is admirable. But I wonder if perhaps you have mistaken me for someone who cares about your opinion.”
Lady Amelia stiffened. She clutched her fan so tightly the painted sticks threatened to snap. “You overstep yourself, Baron. I only wish to prevent further embarrassment for Lady Pattishall.”
“On the contrary,” Teddy replied, “I think it is you who embarrasses yourself.”
He took a step forward, so that the circle of matrons and their satellites was forced to widen, creating a space into which every eye in the room now fell.
He turned, so the assembly could hear, though he never raised his voice, “Lady Amelia’s concern for propriety would be more convincing if it were not so transparently motivated by jealousy. Theo—Lady Pattishall—has been a guest in this house for less than a fortnight and has conducted herself with perfect grace. I cannot say the same for those who take pleasure in the destruction of a reputation.”
The words were knives, honed by years of debate and the effortless cruelty of a man who had learned early that words could wound more than weapons. For a moment, the music seemed to recede, replaced by the heartbeat of the crowd.
Theo felt her breath catch. She had never heard Teddy speak like this—so public, so unyielding. The effect was galvanic. The cold armor around her heart, built up over months of grief and vigilance, began to crack. She watched as Amelia absorbed the humiliation, her peacock mask suddenly grotesque in its attempt at grandeur.
“Jealousy?” Lady Amelia managed, her voice trembling. “That is rich, coming from a man who collects hearts and discards them like so many calling cards.”
Teddy’s lips curled. “Even the worst card in the deck has its use. But some should be left in the pack entirely.”
A strangled laugh ran through the circle, even the most stolid matrons could not hide their approval at the deftness of the blow.
Lady Amelia’s gaze darted from face to face, searching for an ally, but found only polite distance. Her mouth tightened, she gave a rigid, mechanical bow. “My mistake, Baron. Clearly, the only reputation in danger tonight is my own.”
With that, she melted away, her feathers trailing behind her like a pennant of defeat.
A tension broke, and the dancers resumed their patterns. The waltz’s melody returned, softer now, as if the room itself wished to smooth the wound.
For a moment, Theo could not move. She stood rooted, the sensation in her chest unfamiliar—some mix of gratitude, embarrassment, and a dangerous, melting relief.
Then Verity was at her side, eyes wide and bright, her cheeks flushed above her priestess’s mask.
“He is quite the champion, isn’t he?” she whispered, glancing after Lady Amelia. “I daresay you’ll be the toast of every drawing room by next Tuesday.”
Theo tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her lips numb.
Verity took her by the elbow, gentle but insistent. “Don’t let them win, darling. Not tonight. Come—he’s waiting.”
Theo glanced across the room and found Teddy, now standing at the margin of the dance floor, one hand extended, the mask on his face doing nothing to hide the hunger in his eyes.
She let Verity lead her forward, every step a surrender and a dare.
The music swelled, and the crowd receded.
For the first time in years, Theodosia allowed herself to be seen.
The first measure was all formality, a graceful dip, a careful placement of hands, the geometric progression of steps along the polished floor. Theo’s mask blurred the edges of the world, reduced every face to a suggestion, every whisper to the hum of bees behind glass. The only sensation that mattered was the pressure of Teddy’s hand at her waist—gloved, yes, but so hot it seared through the gauze of her gown to the skin beneath.
She tried to keep her gaze elsewhere, to focus on the motion, the music, the heat in her cheeks. But he drew her closer with every turn, his hand steady at her back, his posture precise and protective. It was the sort of dance she had only read about, scandalous in its intimacy, a waltz designed not to display virtue but to reveal every shiver, every falter, every secret pulse.
They orbited the other couples, silent at first. When she risked a glance up, she saw his eyes fixed on her, their usual indolence replaced by something fierce. The bronze edge of his mask cast shadows across his cheekbones, he looked both more dangerous and more exposed than ever.
“Why did you defend me?” she whispered, not trusting her voice to carry further.
He held her gaze. “Because you deserved to be defended. And because I could not bear the alternative.”
She tried to laugh, but the sound came out tight, uncertain. “You make a habit of rescuing women in distress, I gather.”
He spun her into a tighter turn, their bodies pressed from shoulder to knee. “No. Only the ones worth ruining.”