Page 43 of My Lord Rogue
She crawled to where her jewelry bag lay and removed the locket. She opened it, though she did not need to look to see the miniature inside, Charles, painted in the last year of his life, looking out with that faint, knowing smile that had once anchored her to the world. She pressed the image to her lips, trying to remember the warmth of him, the scent, the certainty.
She failed.
The room around her was still in darkness, the curtains drawn only halfway. The morning sun was slicing through thelace, laying patterns of light across the bed and floor. In that light, the room looked almost unreal—more the dream of a room than the thing itself. She focused on the pattern, on the slow movement of the sun across the wallpaper, on the dust motes hanging suspended in their own private galaxy.
She breathed, then again, trying to slow the wild, animal panic that had overtaken her. Each inhale was sharp, almost painful. Her ribcage hurt, her throat was raw. She wanted nothing so much as to dissolve, to turn into water and seep through the floorboards into the oblivion below.
She heard the soft tread outside her door—a maid, perhaps, or one of the women rising early. She wiped her face, scrubbed her hands through her hair, and tried to compose herself.
A knock, gentle as a fingertip on glass.
She said nothing, hoping whoever it was would vanish. The knock came again, more insistent.
“Theo?” Verity’s voice, low, the edge of sleep still in it.
Theo curled into herself, tried to be silent.
Another pause, then, “I know you’re in there. Let me in, darling.”
She considered refusal, but it was impossible. The door opened with a snick, and Verity entered, hair unbraided and flying, wrapper slipping off one shoulder. She carried nothing but a handkerchief and a look of ferocious concern.
“Theodosia,” she said, crossing to the bed. She perched on the edge, careful not to crowd, but close enough that the concern was palpable. “What’s happened?”
Theo tried for composure, but all that came was a choked, mortifying sound. Verity pressed the handkerchief into her hands and waited.
“It’s nothing,” Theo managed. “I only—needed air. It’s—nothing.”
Verity smoothed a strand of hair from Theo’s brow, then settled back, hands folded. “Is it the garden, or the ghosts?”
Theo shut her eyes. “Both.”
“Ah.” Verity leaned forward, voice a hush. “Is it the baron?”
Theo’s eyes snapped open.
Verity smiled, a little sad. “Darling, the entire house saw you last night. I’ve never seen you so… I don’t know if the word is alive or undone, but it was a sight.”
Theo tried to sit up, failed, then pulled the covers up to her chin. “I am sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”
Verity laughed, the sound a balm. “Nothing so melodramatic. But you should know, the talk is already starting. Lady Amelia is telling anyone who’ll listen that the two of you spent half the night in the conservatory.”
Theo felt her face burn. “We didn’t?—”
Verity held up a hand. “I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. I only care that you’re not suffering for it.”
Theo looked at the handkerchief, now sodden. She tried to find words, failed, and tried again. “He asked me to marry him.”
Verity blinked, then whistled low. “That is… unexpected.”
Theo barked a laugh, so sharp it bordered on hysteria. “You see? Even you find it absurd.”
Verity shook her head, took Theo’s hands in hers. “I find it astonishing, not absurd. Did you accept?”
Theo stared at the locket. “I told him I needed time.”
“Of course you do.” Verity squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to decide now.”
“But he took it as refusal,” Theo said, voice smaller than she intended. “He—God, Verity, I think he hates me.”