Page 11 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he drawing room glowed, ready for the evening’s entertainment of cards and games.

The paneling drank in the light and returned it, dark and gleaming, so every surface took on the quality of polished bone.

Lady St. Ervan’s guests filtered in by slow degrees, talking in pairs or threesomes, laughing at ribald remarks.

Theo lingered at the threshold. She could have turned aside, claimed a headache or a pressing letter, but the expectation of the house was a living thing, it caught her by the sleeve and propelled her forward.

She crossed the carpet and took her seat at the card table, directly opposite Teddy.

Verity and St. Ervan completed the square, the former with a glimmer in her eye and the latter with a look of resigned amusement.

The whist table was laid with a cloth of maroon felt, scalloped at the edges, a faint powdering of chalk along one side where a nervous predecessor had dusted his fingers.

The cards themselves were new, the backs stamped with gold, and the candlesticks on various furniture around the walls lent a kind of merciless intimacy to the proceedings.

For the first few hands, Theo managed well enough.

She found safety in the repetition, shuffle, deal, bid, play, the rituals of the table as comforting as any nursery rhyme.

She kept her eyes on her cards, her chin up, and her back straight, the textbook image of composure.

When she spoke, it was only to offer a precise, bloodless observation about the game’s progress or to politely deflect Verity’s needling.

“Theo, dear, you are formidable,” Verity observed, drawing her own cards with a flourish. “I should warn my husband now that your reputation at cards exceeds your reputation at the pianoforte, and that is already the subject of legend.”

Theo forced her mouth to move in what could pass for a smile. “The game is not won until the last trick is played, Verity. You taught me that.”

Teddy, seated beside her, watched the play with a mannered detachment.

When he dealt, his hands were sure and unhurried, each card flicking from the pack with a soft, deliberate snap.

Above the table, he was all manners, the casual flex of his wrist as he set down a trump, the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth when he took a trick from Verity, the half-sigh, half-laugh when Lord St. Ervan countered his bid.

It was what happened under the table that undid her.

At the turn of the second hand, as Theo reached to arrange her cards, she felt a deliberate, insistent pressure at her ankle.

Not an accidental brush, but the measured application of a foot, its owner unhurried and entirely in control.

She glanced up, pulse skipping, Teddy’s face betrayed nothing.

He continued a discourse on the merits of whist versus piquet, his gaze on the diamond in the trick pile.

His foot, meanwhile, remained exactly where it was, warm through the thin leather of her slippers, and just insistent enough to remind her of every word, every breath, every lie she had ever told.

She hesitated. Her left hand faltered, and the jack of hearts slipped, landing face up on the cloth for all to see. A novice’s error. The table’s conversation paused, Verity’s gaze sharpened, then softened into something suspiciously like delight.

“Is the room too warm for you, Theo?” Verity inquired, voice syrupy. “You’ve gone rather pink.”

Theo found her voice, brittle as old lace. “Perhaps it is the candles. Or the company.” She shot a look at Teddy, who bowed his head, the picture of wounded innocence.

“Shall we open a window?” St. Ervan asked, half-rising from his seat. His voice was that of a man who has spent decades negotiating the boundaries of his own household and knows better than to challenge either his wife or her friend directly.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Teddy said with the barest flicker of a smile in his eyes. “A bit of warmth never hurt anyone, and Lady Pattishall is as steady as they come.”

The next deal passed in a haze. Theo tried to focus on her cards, but the pressure at her ankle grew, spreading a heat up her leg that made concentration impossible.

Every time she shifted in her seat, Teddy’s foot adjusted, keeping pace, the contact now a secret handshake, now a declaration of war.

Her fingers trembled, she fumbled a play, misjudged a bid, and saw her points evaporate with humiliating speed.

Verity watched, fascinated. “How curious. I would never have expected you to be so easily unseated, Theo. Is it the game, or the company, that unsettles you?”

Theo felt her face flame. She wanted to look away, but Verity’s eyes pinned her. “Perhaps I am simply out of practice,” she said, but even to her own ears the excuse sounded paltry.

“I doubt that,” Verity said, grinning. “You always struck me as someone who rehearses even her improvisations.”

Teddy’s foot withdrew briefly and then, with calculated indolence, reappeared, this time sliding between her ankles and settling in the hollow behind her right knee.

Above the table, his hand played an ace, below, his boot gave a gentle, infuriating caress.

She could not move, could not breathe, could only pray that the tablecloth concealed enough of her shame.

She played a queen, and Teddy trumped it with a king.

“Well done,” he murmured.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

It became a kind of duel. Each hand escalated the stakes, the cards sharper, the glances more pointed, the touches more daring.

Once, Teddy let his foot rest against her calf for a full minute before withdrawing.

The exchange was invisible to the rest of the table, but its intensity made the air between them thick as treacle.

Conversation drifted around them like smoke, Verity recounting the misdeeds of mutual acquaintances, St. Ervan offering dry asides about the unpredictability of country weather and the hazards of unpaved roads.

Theo participated only as much as required, her attention divided between the surface game and the deeper, more perilous contest playing out in the shadows.

At one point, Verity reached for her glass of wine and let her fingers linger over Theo’s wrist. “Do be careful, darling. You’re playing with fire.”

Theo smiled. “I don’t mind a little heat, Verity.”

“Nor do I,” Verity replied, and the two women shared a look of such naked complicity that even St. Ervan seemed to register it, blinking as if a mote had entered his eye.

The last hand was a rout. Theo could not remember the sequence of plays, she could only recall the slow, relentless build of sensation as Teddy’s foot found its way higher, testing the boundaries of the possible.

By the time Verity announced the score—her side victorious by an embarrassing margin—Theo’s hand shook so badly she had to set her cards down and push her chair back, claiming a need to stretch her legs.

“Shall we have another round?” Teddy asked, but his voice was gentle, not mocking.

“Perhaps later,” Theo managed, already halfway to the door. The room seemed to tilt and waver, the candlelight now a hostile glare.

Verity caught up, wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding her to the sideboard, where cut-glass decanters of every stripe awaited. “You were marvelous,” Verity hissed, eyes bright. “I’ve never seen him so off-balance.”

“I lost,” Theo said, barely able to form the words.

“That’s not the point, darling. He thinks he’s hunting you, but you have already set the snare. I could almost pity him.”

Theo managed a laugh, though it was little more than a gasp.

Across the room, Teddy leaned against the mantel, one arm draped over the marble like a conquering general. His eyes found hers, and though he said nothing, the promise was clear. The game was not over. The real game had just begun.

Theo let herself drift, pulse still hammering, and tried to remember how it felt to be in control of her life.

But every time she closed her eyes, she felt the imprint of Teddy’s foot, the heat of his gaze, and the certainty that she would not sleep until the next round was played.

And they played a second round not long after she’d steadied her pulse.

Verity insisted on keeping score herself, declaring that her “mathematical gifts” would ensure fairness.

The remark drew a snort from St. Ervan, but he relinquished the tally book with good grace, leaning back to observe the action with the air of a man who prefers the theatre to the stage.

Theo tried to steel herself. She pressed her knees together under the table and sat on her hands, as if physical stillness might inoculate her against Teddy’s encroachments. It was a hopeless gambit.

He waited until the second trick before resuming his siege, the side of his boot grazing her calf, then inching upward until the fabric of her stocking was all that separated skin from leather.

His gaze was fixed on his cards, but every so often he would risk a glance over the top of his hand, the movement so languid and unapologetic that it left Theo dizzy.

She could feel the blood thumping in her throat, every word, every gesture became a battle between composure and collapse.

She dropped a card, her hands trembling now, despite her best efforts, and it fluttered to the floor.

Teddy kneeled to retrieve it, the motion so smooth and immediate that it seemed almost practiced.

He handed it back with a half-smile, brushing her palm as he did.

His fingers lingered, just for a heartbeat, before withdrawing.

“Thank you,” she murmured, but the words caught and tangled.

“My pleasure,” he replied, and though his tone was perfectly bland, the heat of his eyes burned her to the core.