Page 42 of My Lord Rogue
She stiffened. “Lord Teddington.”
He did not smile, nor move. For a long time, the only sound was the drip of water off the arbor and the slow, grinding pace of her own heartbeat.
“You’re up early,” he said at last.
“So are you.”
He looked down at his hands, as if surprised to find them still attached. “I haven’t been to bed.”
She could think of nothing to say to that.
He stepped off the path, shoes sinking in mud, and closed the distance between them. She felt the air shift, the molecules compress, her entire self bracing for impact.
“I need to say something,” he said. “It will not take long.”
She nodded, wordless.
He searched her face, as if looking for an exit he already knew did not exist.
“I know what last night was supposed to be,” he said, his voice hoarse. “A jest, a spectacle, a bit of misdirection. But I have never—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “God help me, I have never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
He glanced at the sky as if his words waited there. “I am not a good man, and I do not deserve you. But I would marry you. Today, if you wished, if I could procure a special license.”
She stared at him, unable to process the words. The garden spun, the world shrank to the four inches between his hand and her own.
He waited, not moving. Not breathing.
At last, she managed, “You don’t mean that.”
His eyes were fever-bright. “I have never meant anything more.”
Her hands flew to her neck.
He saw her searching for the locket and something in his face shifted—a terrible, beautiful vulnerability, so raw she could barely stand to see it.
“I don’t know what it is to love the dead,” he said. “But I am here. I am flesh, and I want you.”
She felt her heart clench. She had sworn never to remarry. Never to betray the memory. Never to be less than faithful, even when alone. This man deserved so much more than she could give. She shook her head. “I need time.”
He nodded, slowly. “Of course,” he said, and in his voice she heard the end of things. “Take all the time you like.”
She reached for him, not sure what she meant to do—touch his sleeve, his hand, anything to soften the blow—but he stepped back. His face had gone blank, masklike.
“Shall we continue the game, then?” he said, his voice suddenly cold. “The house expects it.”
She flinched, the words landing hard. “That isn’t?—”
“Isn’t what you want?” His mouth twisted. “Forgive me, I thought I understood the rules.”
He bowed, not mockingly, but with the formality of a man closing a door behind him. “Good morning, Lady Pattishall.”
He turned, shoes squelching in the mud, and was gone before she could summon any reply.
She stood in the garden, hands trembling. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry—not here, not yet, not for him. Then she rushed inside.
She made it to her room before the tears could win. She barely managed to shut the door, to kick off her muddied slippers, before the weight of it all dropped her to the floor at the end of the bed. There was no dignity left, no posturing, her body was a ruined thing, a bundle of nerves and raw skin. She crawled up onto the counterpane and pressed her face into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sobs that erupted, violent and without warning.
She was not a woman who cried. She did not believe in the utility of it. But now the pressure was too much, and the tears came in ugly, breathless gulps, soaking the linen and leaving her hair matted to her scalp.