Page 14 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)
T he hour was well past two, according to the small clock on the nightstand.
Theo lay in her unfamiliar guest bed, limbs hot and twitching under the stifling weight of the counterpane.
She’d slept briefly, but awakened, and now her mind would not rest. Every time she closed her eyes, the corridors of her memory twisted open, and Teddy waited in each of them, smiling, beckoning, hand reaching for her with the certainty of possession.
The house slept around her, creaking and settling, its nocturnal silence thick and slow as syrup. The rest of the guests would be insensible, scattered in their bedrooms, dreaming in peace or drooling into their pillows. But for her, there was no oblivion.
When at last she gave up on sleep, she did so with a sudden, ferocious energy—kicking off the covers and sliding her bare feet into the waiting slippers, not bothering with a candle as she drew on her dressing gown.
She drifted through the hall like a wraith, the hem of her wrapper whispering on the stone floor, her hands folded tight across her middle.
She did not have a plan, only a direction, away from her bed, away from the memory of his touch and the echo of his challenge.
She moved through the corridor, past the heads of long-dead deer, the portraits of St. Ervan ancestors staring down with unamused, coal-dark eyes, all mere shadows in the darkness.
The air was cold enough to prickle her skin, but she welcomed the chill, it made her feel sharp, present, real.
She paused once in the main hall, half-expecting to see Teddy’s silhouette at the window or hear his laugh—low and cruel—from the next room. But the silence held. She kept moving.
The library was on the ground floor, its entrance marked by an oak door heavy enough to crush a grown man’s hand.
Theo pressed her palm to its ancient panel, feeling the ridges and knots like the veins of a living thing.
She eased it open, careful to avoid the betraying shriek of the hinge, and slipped inside.
The room was cathedral-dark, the only illumination a faint golden puddle from the embers of the fire and the weak, persistent glow of a single lamp on the far desk.
The air smelled of dust, leather, and the afterlife of cigars—some lingering aftereffect of St. Ervan’s habitual evening excess.
The shelves rose straight to the ceiling, stacked with books that looked as though they had been bound from the skins of extinct animals.
She closed the door behind her, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. The hush of the library was different from the hush of the corridor, here it pressed in, intimate and confidential, as if the books themselves were holding their breath, waiting for her to speak.
She reached for a volume at random, its spine cracked but gilded, and was about to pull it free when she heard it, a faint clink of glass, the almost imperceptible creak of leather shifting under weight. She froze.
“Can’t sleep?” The voice came from the shadowed alcove near the fire. In the ember’s glow, Teddy was more shape than man, a watercolor flickering in and out of focus.
Theo’s hand flew to her throat. She could not have said why she was startled, she should have expected this, should have known he would be here, like a fox in the larder.
She found her own voice, brittle and high. “Do you always haunt the library at this hour, my lord?”
He lounged in an armchair, one long leg crossed over the other, coat unbuttoned, cravat loosened to a dangerous degree. In his hand was a short tumbler of something, on his face, an expression of deliberate and cultivated amusement.
“I like the quiet,” he said. “It’s the only time a man can read without someone trying to marry him off or challenge him to a wager.”
“I didn’t know anyone was awake,” she managed. “And you can’t read in the dark.”
He tilted his head. “I’m not sure we qualify as ‘anyone’ at this hour. More like two ghosts, rattling about in a house that’s too old for either of us.”
She stepped toward him, unwilling to be cowed, but clutching her wrapper tighter. “I suppose it’s better to be a ghost than a scandal.”
He laughed, the sound rougher than usual, as if it cost him something. “You think you can still avoid that? After tonight’s exhibition?”
She flushed, biting the inside of her cheek. “I don’t see how it could be helped. Verity will have told the entire county by morning.”
He gestured to the fire, to the other chair. “You might as well sit. It’s too late for dignity.”
She hesitated, then obeyed, lowering herself into the armchair opposite him. The leather was cold and slow to yield. She set the book—still unopened—in her lap and ran her fingers along the embossed letters.
He studied her, eyes half-lidded. “What did you choose?” he asked, nodding to the volume.
She glanced down. “Ovid.”
He smiled, lazy and wicked. “Of course. ‘Ut ameris, amabilis esto.’”
She managed a smile in return, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “‘If you want to be loved, be lovable.’ I always thought that was a dangerous line.”
“Dangerous,” he agreed, “and true. Most truths are.”
She opened the book to its flyleaf, but the print blurred. She looked up again, catching him watching her in the reflective way a cat watches a bird—uncertain if he meant to pounce or only to observe the tremor.
They sat in silence, broken only by the hiss and snap of the dying fire. Every now and then Teddy sipped from his glass, the crystal making a soft, conspiratorial noise as it met his teeth.
Theo turned a page, then another, but the words refused to anchor. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could recall it.
He shrugged, a bare flex of his shoulders. “I do.”
She waited, but he let the silence stretch, as if daring her to demand the answer.
“Why, then?” she asked, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, glass dangling from two fingers. “Because neither of us wants to be alone, but neither of us can stand to be seen in daylight.”
The sentence hung between them, trembling like a glass about to shatter.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said, though it was not a criticism.
“I’m sure of nothing,” he replied. “But I know how to read the room. Even when it’s empty.”
She shivered, but not from cold. The wrapper did nothing to hide the sudden, physical awareness of her own skin, the way it felt too tight, too raw.
“Is this another game?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “If it is, we’re both losing.”
She exhaled, a breath she had not realized she’d been holding.
He looked away then, into the fire, and for a moment the bravado dropped from his face. She saw the line of fatigue at his jaw, the delicate bruise-colored shadow under his eye.
“I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said so quietly she almost missed it.
She shook her head. “You didn’t. Or if you did, it was my own fault for thinking I could win.”
He smiled at that, but it was a tired smile. “You strike me as the type who hates to lose.”
“I hate being predictable,” she said.
“That, too.”
She found herself smiling, this time for real.
They fell silent again, both of them staring into the hearth as if it might reveal the future in the arrangement of its embers. She flexed her toes, feeling the blood return, and let her hand drop from the lapel of her wrapper.
In a low voice, Teddy said, “What will you do when the house wakes up tomorrow?”
She considered. “The same thing as always. Pretend nothing has happened.”
He drained the rest of his glass and set it aside. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words landed, sharp and intimate, and Theo felt a new ache—deep, embarrassing, but not entirely unpleasant.
She stood, clutching the Ovid, uncertain whether she was running away or only retreating for tactical advantage.
“I should go,” she said.
He did not move, only watched her with that infuriating calm. “If you ever need a partner for late-night reading, you know where to find me.”
She nodded, and this time she did not look away. “Good night, Teddy.”
He inclined his head, a bow that was both mock and genuine.
She slipped from the library, shutting the door behind her. The darkness of the corridor felt warmer, less threatening, as if the house itself had witnessed the exchange and decided, just this once, to keep her secrets.
She returned to her room and lay down atop the covers, the Ovid pressed to her chest, her heart thudding not from fear but from something she dared not name.
She stared at the ceiling, counting cracks again, but this time she did not mind if she lost track.
Tomorrow would come. For now, she let herself drift, carried by the memory of his voice and the echo of her own.