Page 13 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)
T heo made it as far as the refreshment table in the dining room before she felt him behind her—a disturbance in the air, a gravitational shift, the near-silent certainty of pursuit.
Laughter echoed down the corridor, the candles flickered in their sconces.
Still, it was not safe. It was never safe.
Theo reached for a glass of water, her hands unsteady.
The carafe trembled against the crystal lip, and a drop splashed onto her wrist, cold and clarifying.
She steadied herself, tried to collect her breath, but the warmth of the game—the pressure and the humiliation and the exquisite, excruciating pleasure of it—hung around her like the steam in a Roman bath.
She did not turn when Teddy spoke. His voice was pitched low, and there was no gentleness in it now, only hunger.
“Running away, Lady Pattishall?” he murmured, his words barely more than the motion of air against her skin.
She tried to compose a response, but the syllables tangled on her tongue. Instead, she closed her eyes and willed herself to calm to a composure she no longer owned.
He stepped closer. She could sense the heat of him, could taste the faintest trace of tobacco and something darker, muskier, like the earth after rain.
“I think it’s time you told me the truth,” he said, his tone sharp. “What game are you playing with my name?”
She opened her eyes and met his. In the dim light, his irises seemed almost gold, the edges dissolving into shadow.
He was so close that she could see the pulse at his temple, the line of stubble along his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline.
His hand braced the sideboard behind her, blocking any hope of retreat.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, but the words were breathless, unconvincing.
He shook his head, a short, savage motion. “I think you do. I think you know exactly what you’re doing, and I think you want me to call you out on it.”
She flushed, all the way from her collarbone to her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.
“I made up a story,” she admitted, the words forced from her like a confession. “It was supposed to be harmless. No one was meant to—” She stopped, realizing the futility of explanation.
He angled his body, trapping her in the narrow space between sideboard and wall. His height was a wall of shadow, his coat brushing her shoulder, his voice a shiver against her ear.
“You invented me,” he said, and the words had a weight she could not bear.
She shook her head, desperation blooming in her chest. “I had no choice. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“And now?” he asked, his lips curving. “Am I to leave you alone, or are you hoping for something else?”
She looked at him, really looked—at the sharp, hungry line of his mouth, the fine bones of his hands, the unmistakable intent in his eyes. For a moment she felt the world tip, all logic and propriety draining away, replaced by the gravity of want.
“I want you to stop,” she said, but her voice was a tremor, not a command.
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Liar.”
He moved then, one hand coming to rest on the wall beside her head, the other tracing the edge of her jaw with a tenderness that bordered on cruelty. He leaned in, and she felt the scrape of his breath against her cheek, the heat of him crowding out the rest of the air.
“Why did you choose me?” he whispered, the question so intimate it seared.
She swallowed, tried to find purchase in the smooth, papered wall behind her. “I simply made up a name at random. Because I thought it was safe.”
He let out a breath, half a laugh and half a growl. “It’s never safe, Theo.”
She closed her eyes, bracing for a touch that never came.
Instead, he drew back, his hand sliding from the wall to the line of her shoulder, fingers pressing into the flesh just hard enough to indent. She shivered, and the motion set every nerve in her body alight.
He stepped back, just enough to let her breathe, but not enough to offer escape.
“Next time,” he said, “don’t invent a ghost unless you want it to haunt you.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He brushed past, his coat grazing her hip, and disappeared into the shadowed corridor.
She stood, stunned and shaking, the cold from the glass now a fever in her palm. The scent of him lingered, the memory of his presence a wound she could not staunch.
She made her way to the stairs, climbing blindly, her feet numb on the runner. The house was silent, every guest retired, every lamp turned down low. At her chamber door, she fumbled with the latch, nearly dropping her reticule in her haste.
Inside, the room was a sanctuary of blue shadows and white linen, untouched by the excitement of the evening below. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, heart hammering in her chest.
For a long time she sat there, shivering, the world narrowing to the circle of light cast by the single candle on her nightstand.
Eventually, her pulse slowed. The memory of his body—his hand, his voice, the promise of what might follow—settled into her bones, a sweetness that was also a curse.
She lay down, staring at the ceiling until her eyes burned. In the silence, she heard the echo of his words.
It’s never safe.
Rising, she removed her gown and pulled on the nightgown Annie had laid out for her. The fabric slid over her skin, clinging for a moment before falling away, its friction a sweet ache that ran from nipple to knee. She shivered, though the room was not cold.
There was no need for the bed curtain, but she drew it half-shut, regardless.
She liked the way it obscured the world, the way it turned the bed into a room inside a room.
She doused the candle, let her eyes adjust to the half-light.
The moon was high enough now to cast the entire foot of the bed in silver, highlighting the curve of her shin, the pale luminescence of thigh beneath the bunched nightdress.
The rest of her was shadow, and in the shadow she felt almost safe.
Theo slid under the covers, sighing as the crisp linen enveloped her.
She turned onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other pressed between her knees—a childhood posture, half-defensive, half-conspiratorial.
She lay there, unmoving, and let the events of the night drift behind her eyelids.
The card game, the flirtation. Teddy’s foot slipping between her legs beneath the table, the slow escalation as he brushed his instep against her stocking, then higher, until she could barely hold her cards steady.
The way he had looked at her when she threatened, in a low whisper, to ruin him on the next hand.
The way he had smiled, lazy and triumphant, knowing she would not—could not—follow through.
And later, in the hallway, the brief violence of his hand at her waist, when his breath found the tender space behind her ear, sending a tremor through her entire frame. The words he had not spoken, the words she would have permitted—wanted—if only she were brave enough.
She let her knees draw up tighter, felt the silk stretch across her hips, the throb at her temple now mirrored by a deeper pulse between her legs.
She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing.
But nothing had never been Theo’s specialty.
Instead, she catalogued every sensation: the brush of her own hair against her breast, the heat pooling low in her belly, the tingling ghost of Teddy’s foot beneath the table, his mouth at her neck, the grip of his hand on her hip, the reckless, hungry way he had looked at her—as if he would devour her, if only she gave the word.
Her body ached with memory, and with something more, a hunger that was not only physical, but existential. The sense that she had, at last, become real, and that the price of reality was desire, sharp and ceaseless as a thorn.
She rolled onto her back, stared up at the canopy, let her hand drift to where the locket normally lay, between her breasts. Its absence filled her with guilt, but somewhere in the back of her thoughts it became permission.
She exhaled, slow and deliberate, and let her body sink into the bed. She waited for sleep, eyes open in the dark, listening to her own pulse.
It was not long before her hand began to move again, almost of its own accord. In the shadow-world of her mind, the scene in the hallway played out differently.
This time, when Teddy closed the distance, he did not ask permission.
His hands found her waist and pulled her to him, and his mouth—hungry, insistent—came down on hers.
She tasted brandy and want, the velvet scrape of his tongue at the seam of her lips, and when she opened for him, the kiss was a claim, a devastation.
His hands slid upward, tracing the line of her ribs, and found the curve of her breast beneath the fine batiste of her gown.
He cupped it, gently at first, then with the pressure of a man who knew the value of what he held.
She felt the rasp of his palm, the heat of his skin even through the fabric, and a shiver shot through her that left her gasping.
In the bed, her own hand mirrored his imagined touch, drifting down from her throat to the rise of her breast. Her nipple, already taut beneath the silk, strained into the cup of her palm, and she pressed there, savoring the jolt of sensation.
A low, involuntary noise escaped her lips, a whimper, barely more than a breath, but enough to shatter the pretense of self-control.
He had her pressed against the wall now, one knee wedged between her thighs, forcing her open.
His mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, her ear, the vulnerable hollow at the side of her neck.
He bit there, softly, then soothed the mark with his tongue.
She arched into him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, the ridges of bone beneath his shirt.
She wanted—God, how she wanted—to feel his skin against hers, the feverish heat of him, the impossible, solid weight.
Her hand moved again, this time down her belly, fingers splaying across the tautness of flesh, the silk nightgown rucked up to her hips. The sheets were cool, but her skin burned. She parted her knees, just enough, and let her palm settle between her thighs.
The touch startled her, as if it were not her own.
She traced the outline of herself, first tentative, then bolder, finding the slickness there, the proof of her desire.
The motion was half-familiar, half-strange—she had done this before, of course, in the long loneliness after Charles, but never with this urgency, this sense of imminent dissolution.
She let her mind run wild.
In the fantasy, Teddy tore at her gown, the fabric giving way easily.
He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth scraping at her collarbone.
He found her breast again, this time without the barrier of fabric, and took the nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to bruise.
The sensation shot straight to the center of her, and her hips rocked forward, grinding against his thigh.
In the bed, she pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it until the pain crested and gave way to pleasure. Her other hand moved with a rhythm she had not intended, pressing and circling, chasing the pulse that thudded in time with her heart.
Her dream Teddy lifted her, braced her against the wall, his hands beneath her thighs, holding her open for him.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue invading, possessing, promising things she had never dared to ask for.
He pressed his hand between her legs, found the wetness there, and groaned—a sound of pure, animal satisfaction.
He stroked her, slow at first, then harder, faster, his fingers relentless, his mouth at her ear whispering filth and praise in equal measure.
She matched the pace, her own fingers slick and sure, circling and pressing, building the tension until it was almost unbearable.
She wanted him inside her. She wanted to be filled, claimed, made new. The thought alone was enough to send her over.
When the release came, it was a silent, shuddering thing, more shock than sound, more surrender than victory.
She bit down on the edge of her pillow, afraid she might cry out, afraid she might never stop.
Her hips bucked, her thighs clamped tight around her hand, the sheets twisted and damp beneath her.
The pleasure crashed over her in waves, each one sharper, sweeter, more annihilating than the last. She rode them, eyes squeezed shut, the world reduced to the thundering of her heart and the afterglow of sensation rippling through every nerve.
When it was over, she lay still, panting, the nightgown rucked up, her body limp and spent.
She stared at the canopy above, not thinking, not feeling, only being. After a time, she drew the covers up and rolled to her side, curling into herself, letting the last shivers of pleasure fade into exhaustion.