Page 6 of My Lord Rogue
Theo’s heart began to pound, thudding in her ears like the slow roll of artillery. She was not ready for another parade of eligible men, not after last night. She thought of her invented Baron Teddington, with his elegant, wholly imaginary letters, the way she’d embroidered his features, his habits, his wit, and felt a sudden surge of panic. She had woven the fantasy so tightly that she sometimes forgot he was imaginary.
Verity paused at the threshold, pressed her lips together as if suppressing laughter, and flung open the doors with a theatrical flourish. “Lady Pattishall, you will be so excited to see who’s just arrived from the Continent. Your dear friend, Baron Teddington. Or Teddy, as you called him in your letter. Teddington, look who’s here!”
Theo stepped into the room, her senses overwhelmed. Lord St. Ervan sat behind his desk looking finer than any man had a right to at such an early hour. He smiled and nodded in greeting. Opposite him, a stranger rose and bowed to the women. “Good morning.”
He was tall, as if created in Theo’s imagination. His coat, deep blue, fit perfectly to a frame that seemed both delicate and whiplash-strong. His posture was at once lazy and alert, as if he’d only just woken from a nap and expected to be called to battle at any instant. He stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his head cocked in mild amusement at the tableau before him.
The light caught his hair, which was brown, yes, but not the muddied brown of English dirt—rather the rich shade she’d imagined. His face was narrow, with a pointed chin and a long, elegant nose. His lips were thin and slightly upturned at the corners, as if mocking some private joke. His eyes regarded Theo with the sharp interest of a scientist who has just discovered a rare, possibly dangerous species, but he wasn’t close enough for her to discover their color.
Theo froze. Her breath caught in her chest. A cold sweat beaded at her hairline.
“Lady Pattishall,” he said, and his voice was a surprise, lower than she’d expected, with a faint abrasion at its edges, as if he’d spent years shouting into the wind and now chose every word carefully. “What a pleasure to finally see you in person after our lengthy correspondence.”
She did not move, did not breathe. The world spun with an absurd, sickly weight of dream logic. How could he exist—how could he be standing there, flesh and bone and so very real? It was impossible. Yet he advanced, closing the distance with a languorous, predatory grace.
Her mind scrambled for reason, for safety. This was surely a prank, a cruel, elaborate jest on Verity’s part. Or perhaps the man had only taken the title Teddington, seeking to profit from her story. But how would he have learned of it? None of this made sense, and it all threatened to expose her ruse.
But when he bowed over her hand, she saw the play of muscle and tendon at his wrist, felt the gentle press of his fingers, precise and warm, against the back of her glove. His cologne—sandalwood and some sharper, spicier note she couldn’t name—enveloped her.
“I trust the journey was not too taxing,” she heard herself say, but the words came from far away, as if some other, braver version of herself had spoken them.
He smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Not at all, my lady. The anticipation of seeing you sustained me across the channel and a thousand dreary miles of French mud.”
Theo felt her knees threaten to buckle. She could not pull her gaze from his face. He looked nothing like Charles. He looked, in fact, like everything her mother had warned her against, sharp, clever, and more than a little dangerous.
Verity beamed at them, her joy uncontainable. She turned to her newest guest. “You must regale us with stories of your travels. Especially Lady Pattishall. She was quite disconsolate to think she must go without your letters while she was here.”
Theo’s skin prickled. She felt exposed, as if she were on display at a museum.
Lord Teddington let his gaze linger on her for a beat too long, then turned to Verity with an elegant shrug. “I have little to offer that is not already known. The French are impossible, the Germans, worse. And Italy is a chaos of poetry and corruption.” His smile returned, softer this time. “But I am delighted to have returned, if only to see Lady Pattishall again.”
Verity’s satisfaction was palpable. “I shall leave you two to catch up, then. I have an infernal number of letters to answer before luncheon. Come, St. Ervan. I’m certain at least one letter needs your hand.” She offered Theo an encouraging squeeze of the elbow, then swept from the room, closing the doors with a discreet but significant click.
Silence fell. The air thrummed with possibility.
Theo pressed her palm to the back of a chair, the steadiness grounding her. She fixed her gaze pile of papers on the desk. Anything to avoid looking at Lord Teddington.
He broke the silence. “You are a marvel, Lady Pattishall. I expected to be surprised when I met you, but you exceed even my wildest imaginings.”
She found her voice, thin and brittle. “What game are you playing, sir?”
He lifted a hand. “No game, I assure you. I was as shocked as you to hear of our apparent… acquaintance. Lady St. Ervan greeted me with such effusion, I could hardly gainsay her.”
Theo’s stomach dropped. She whispered, “You’re not—you’re not Baron Teddington.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed in sly understanding. “I am Josiah Cooke, late of Florence, sometimes London, occasionally even Northumberland. I have been known as Baron Teddington since my uncle’s unfortunate demise. It seems you have been making very creative use of my reputation, Lady Pattishall.”
She blanched. The room tilted, and only the anchor of the iron railing kept her upright. “It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.”
He leaned closer, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes catching the light. “You invented me,” he said quietly. “How delicious. I’ve been longing for a new scandal.”
She tried to pull back, but her hand trembled. He caught her wrist, not unkindly, and guided her to sit in the chair she stood behind. His touch was gentle, but there was no mistaking the latent strength there.
She perched, rigid, on the edge of the seat.
He sat beside her, folding himself elegantly. For a moment, neither spoke.
Theo wet her lips. “I never thought you would actually?—”