Page 10 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

Theo was halfway down the west corridor, vision blurred by the desire to nap, when she heard his footfall, measured, soft, and absolutely confident in its purpose.

The sound alone was enough to make her skin prickle in anticipation—whether with dread or longing, she couldn’t have said.

Teddy appeared at the end of the hall, hair just slightly disordered as if he’d only just remembered to brush it back into place.

He paused and let his gaze flick down the length of Theo’s body. For a moment, neither moved.

“Were you fleeing, or merely evaporating?” he asked, his voice pitched to carry but not echo.

She clenched her jaw. “I was seeking air, but it appears there is none to be found.”

He grinned and crossed the intervening space, the wood barely making a sound beneath his boots.

She thought of fleeing, of stepping into the nearest room and slamming the door, but the urge rooted her instead. She was never more still than when she most wanted to move.

He stopped a single pace from her, so close she could feel the warmth that radiated off his body. His eyes searched her, not with feral hunger, but with something far quieter, more dangerous for its restraint.

“You look tired,” he said.

She shook her head. “I think it’s just the heat from the conservatory.”

He nodded, and looked her up and down, and she became suddenly, vividly aware of her state—the dampness of her gown in certain spots, the way her hair had half-fallen from its pins.

He smiled. “You’re beautiful like this, you know.”

She almost laughed. “Like what?”

He lifted his hand, as if he meant to brush the wild strands from her face, but stopped just shy of touching her. “Like you haven’t decided whether to run or to fight.”

She found she could not breathe. He was so close. She could smell him, the brandy on his breath, the faint tang of sweat, the sweetness of shaving soap that clung to his jaw. She felt dizzy, raw. Her skin prickled with an anticipation she didn’t permit herself to name.

He let his hand fall. “I said I wouldn’t bother you. But I can’t help it.”

She tried to step back, but her body wouldn’t move away. “What do you want, Teddy?” she managed.

He grinned, but there was nothing flippant in it. “I want—” He paused, and for a moment she thought he might choke on the word. “I want you to stop pretending.”

She bristled, heat rising to her face. “I’m not?—”

He cut her off, not with a gesture but with the force of his gaze. “You are. You pretend you don’t see the way you undo me every time you look at me.”

This was too much. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” she said, but the words had no force behind them.

“Maybe.” He backed her against the wall, and placed one hand, palm flat, to the wood just beside her head. Their bodies were not quite touching, but closer than anyone had ever dared, save her husband. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

She held his eyes, unwilling to give ground. “What about your reputation? Or mine?”

He scoffed, low and rough. “My reputation is why I spend so much time on the Continent. And yours—” Now his tone softened, as if he were confessing a sin. “I know what they say. I know what it means for a woman to want.”

She bit her lip, anger and longing warring in her chest. “You know nothing about me.”

He laughed, but it was hollow. “I know more than you think. I know you were in love with your husband. I know you have a pale circle on your ring finger, meaning you’ve only recently set him aside.

I know you would rather die than be thought of as ordinary.

And I know—” he drew even closer, until she could feel his breath against her cheek, “—that the thought of being kissed in a hallway, in the light of day, makes your knees go weak.”

She slapped him then—not with force, but with the open hand of a woman who did not know what else to do.

He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he caught her wrist, fingers gentle as a caress.

“I deserved that,” he said, and then, softly added, “but I won’t apologize.”

She tried to pull away. He didn’t let her.

Instead, he leaned in, so slowly she could have stopped him, and pressed his mouth to hers.

It was not like a kiss of seduction. It was patient, almost reverent, a sealing of a wound instead of the opening of one. He tasted of liquor and longing, and when she resisted, he did not push—he waited, letting her decide.

She made a sound—half protest, half surrender—and kissed him back.

He let go of her wrist and cupped her cheek, his thumb running along the line of her jaw. His other arm circled her waist, drawing her flush against him. She felt every inch of him—every pulse, every tremor. Her own body responded in kind, liquid heat flooding her bones.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispered.

She shuddered, but did not pull away.

He kissed her again, harder this time, hands wandering the small of her back, her hips, her ribs. She let herself be taken, let herself be pressed against the cold wood, her hands tangling in the fabric of his coat.

The world reduced to the wet, slick sound of their mouths, the desperate clutch of fingers, the animal urge that had been building since he first appeared in St. Ervan’s study.

She didn’t know how long it lasted—a minute, an hour, a lifetime. When at last he drew away, she was dizzy, her lips bruised and parted.

He studied her, as if trying to memorize every mark he had left.

She stared back, silent, overwhelmed.

He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Theodosia, I won’t apologize for this.”

She tried to speak, but could only nod.

He stepped back, giving her room to breathe. “I should go,” he said, though the words seemed to pain him. “If I stay, I will do something we’ll both regret. Or perhaps just you.”

She shook her head, felt the tears prickling behind her eyes. “I wouldn’t regret it.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “Good. Because I intend to do it again.”

He turned, then, and walked back down the hall.

Theo stayed where she was, back pressed to the wall, heart battering against her ribs. Closing her eyes, she savored the memory of his mouth, the heat of his hands, the impossible, terrible hope that had taken root inside her.

She knew she ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t.

She was alive, and wanting, and for the first time in a year, she let herself hope that she might be wanted in return. “I will see you at supper,” she called after him, her voice almost steady.

He turned back and bowed. “Until then, Lady Pattishall.”

She watched him walk away, her pulse thunderous in her ears, the memory of his scent and his words lingering long after she began to walk to her room. She told herself she could still control the ruse. She told herself she could keep the performance from becoming the reality.

But as she reached the staircase, she realized with a sudden, sick certainty, the line was gone. There was only the hunger, and the knowledge that she was already lost.