Page 12 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)
Verity watched the exchange with open glee. “I must confess, Theo, you are not your usual self tonight,” she said, tallying another mark on the scorepad. “Normally you’d have us all begging for mercy by now. Has the baron put you off your game?”
Theo tried to smile. “I think I’m simply tired,” she lied, but even as she said it, Teddy’s foot pressed more firmly against her leg, the pressure both anchoring and illicit.
“Tired, or distracted?” Verity countered. “There is a difference, you know.”
“Perhaps both,” Theo conceded, voice small. She refused to meet anyone’s eyes, instead focusing on her hand—four diamonds, a queen and two jacks, nothing she could use.
Teddy leaned in, his voice low and velvet-edged.
“I was just about to remind you, Lady Pattishall, of that hand you once described in your letter from Venice. The one where you reversed a hopeless game with a single, inspired play.” He allowed a beat, then added, “I wonder if you have such a trick prepared for me tonight.”
Theo’s breath hitched. For a moment she forgot that the story was a fabrication, that she had invented it wholesale for the sake of her correspondence. Now it lived between them, animated and threatening, as if one more word might break the boundary between game and reality.
She tried to steady herself, but his foot slid higher, toes searching for the hollow at the back of her knee. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and forced her attention back to the cards.
The hand went poorly. Teddy played with ruthless precision, and every time Theo thought to outmaneuver him, he countered with a devastating bid or an unexpected discard.
She could not concentrate, could not even pretend to be in control.
The cards blurred in her hand, numbers and suits dissolving into a meaningless haze.
Halfway through the game, Verity paused to pour more wine. She filled Theo’s glass nearly to the rim, her eyes glinting. “Drink, darling. It will steady your nerves.”
Theo obeyed, though the wine did nothing to blunt the edge of her anxiety. If anything, it made the room seem brighter, the voices louder, the heat at her legs more urgent.
Another hand, another defeat. Teddy’s touch grew bolder, now resting his foot entirely on hers, pinning her in place. The pressure was so intense it left her dizzy, but above the table his expression never wavered from polite engagement.
Verity set down her glass and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I am losing all faith in your abilities, Theo. If this is how you play in the city, I shall have to warn Lady Jennington not to invite you to her next salon.”
Theo heard the taunt but could not respond.
Her heart was hammering in her chest, her body thrumming with a tension that bordered on pain.
She dropped her eyes to the table and tried to count the number of tricks remaining, but Teddy’s foot flexed, a slow, deliberate stroke that left her mind blank.
St. Ervan finally weighed in, voice dry as dust. “I believe Lady Pattishall is at a disadvantage. Perhaps we ought to allow her a partner swap.”
“Unthinkable,” Verity replied, “when the contest is so deliciously matched.”
The last hand came and went. Theo made a last, desperate bid, but Teddy trumped it with a flourish. He laid down his cards, spread them for all to see, and offered a bow of his head so slight it was almost an insult. “Well played,” he said.
Theo could barely move. She clutched at her reticule, hands shaking so badly she nearly overturned her wine glass.
Verity was relentless. “You seem rather flushed, my dear Theo,” she observed, arching an eyebrow. “Are you quite well?”
Theo opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment Teddy pressed his foot hard against her calf—hard enough to make her gasp, the sound sharp and impossible to disguise.
Verity’s smile widened. “Perhaps the baron ought to take you outside for some fresh air,” she suggested, barely containing her laughter.
Theo shot out of her seat, nearly knocking over the chair.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she managed, her composure in tatters.
She made for the corridor, the room behind her alive with the sound of Verity’s delighted cackle and the distant, echoing laughter of other guests.
Her legs felt like water, she half-collapsed against the wall, pressing her palm to her chest.
Back in the drawing room, the games continued without her. The laughter grew, and she could imagine the stories that would already be in circulation by morning, the cool, untouchable Lady Pattishall, undone by a single night’s play.
She drew a shuddering breath and told herself she did not care. She told herself she could bear any defeat, as long as she retained some part of her dignity.
But as she listened to the voices rising and falling behind the heavy doors, she understood the truth. Dignity was a brittle thing, easily broken and rarely mourned.
She would have to find something stronger, if she meant to survive the season.