Page 8 of My Lord Rogue
He offered his arm—mock-chivalrous, but with a dignity that almost seemed real. She took it, and her warmth radiated through the fine wool of his coat.
“Do you know what I enjoy most about country house parties?” he asked as they paused before entering.
She shook her head.
“The inevitability,” he said. “No matter what masks we wear, or what games we play, sooner or later the truth always forces its way to the surface. Sometimes with spectacular violence.” He smiled down at her.
Her eyes glanced back and forth between his as if searching for something.
The doors stood open, and they stepped into the full blaze of the dining hall together. The assembled company—lords and ladies, squires and cousins, all with their petty jealousies and sharper ambitions—turned as one to take in the sight.
He felt her stumble, but only tightened his arm beneath hers. He leaned down, lips close to her ear. “I am your dear Teddy, for tonight. Perhaps for all the nights you require.”
A delicate flush swept over the exposed tops of her bosom and up her neck. She whispered, “You call me Theo, as my friends do.”
“Let the games begin,” he whispered, and led her to the open seat beside St. Ervan.
Theo satin the chair the footman held for her, her pulse thudding in her ears. At once the conversation, which had been bubbling with gossip and anticipation, dipped and then surged, redirecting its current to the newcomers. Verity, at the head of the table, gave a knowing little nod. The Captain, mid-pour, set down his decanter with a thunk, Sir Hugo arched his eyebrows in a semaphore of curiosity.
Theo’s place card was set opposite Teddy’s, ensuring that every glance would find his eyes waiting. Teddy rounded the end of the table and took his seat, folding his long frame with theease of a man completely at home in any room, no matter how hostile.
“Lady Pattishall, you have stolen the thunder of our entire assembly,” Verity called down the table, the tiniest spark of mischief in her voice. “We are all on tenterhooks to hear your guest’s stories from abroad.”
Theo managed a thin smile. “The baron is an expert at storytelling.”
Teddy’s eyes flicked over her, then returned to his cutlery. “The best stories, Lady Pattishall, are those told in confidence. But I am at your disposal, should you wish to recount any of our old favorites.” He turned to the rest of the table, his smile suddenly warm and public. “Of course, discretion forbids me from sharing the most scandalous details.”
A ripple of laughter. Someone—one of the cousins, dressed in an overly ambitious shade of emerald—said, “Were you truly abroad all these months, Baron Teddington? We heard you lived entirely off olives and bad poetry.”
“Worse than bad poetry,” he replied, “I lived off Parisian wit. It is even less nourishing, but far more addictive.”
The table lapped it up, but Theo felt her insides twist. It was the sort of performance she’d feared—the way he could slip into the role she’d invented for him, then embroider it with his own thread until she no longer controlled the pattern.
The first course arrived—consommé, shimmering gold and ringed with parsley. Josiah sipped, then, as if on cue, turned back to Theo. “I cannot say how pleased I am to finally see you in person. Correspondence is a poor substitute for true conversation, is it not?”
The words were pitched just loud enough for the adjacent guests to hear. Lord Claremont, seated to Theo’s right, perked up.
“I should like to know what subjects occupy the best minds of the Continent,” Claremont interjected, “apart from war and revolution, of course.”
Theo hesitated, her spoon suspended in midair. “The baron and I mostly discussed literature,” she managed.
Josiah’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Lady Pattishall’s critique of Byron was especially memorable. You have a rare capacity for dissecting a poet’s failings, madam.”
Claremont looked impressed, the cousin less so, perhaps having hoped for something more licentious.
Theo felt her hands grow clammy. She reached for her wine, grateful for the cool solidity of the glass. “The baron flatters me,” she said, willing the tremor from her voice.
“Nonsense. You said—and I quote—‘No man who loves himself so unreservedly can ever truly understand another’s heart.’” His voice was silk, but underneath it was steel. “I still have the letter somewhere among my papers.”
A few of the women down the table exchanged glances. Verity beamed, radiant with vindication. Theo thought she might die on the spot.
The meal progressed—fish, then game, then the tenderest beef. Teddy kept up a steady barrage, weaving in snippets from their fictional correspondence. Each time, his gaze met hers, daring her to contradict him.
“You must tell them about the winter roses,” he said during the pheasant course, his tone so intimate it might have been meant for her alone. “At Pattishall Park, you wrote me pages describing their bloom against the snow.”
Theo felt herself flush, a deep, mortifying heat spreading up her throat. “You mean the hellebores. There is nothing remarkable about them,” she said.
“I disagree,” he replied, softer now. “Your words made them seem immortal.”