Page 15 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T heo made it through the next day by a series of tiny survivals.

Breakfast, which she took alone in her room, was little more than a dish of cold fruit and the dregs of last night’s dreams. After, she read from Ovid for a bit, and then spent an hour staring into the fire, watching each log collapse and blacken.

She avoided the public rooms and the company of Verity, who was consumed with orchestrating a croquet match for the afternoon.

Theo had become, over the course of years, an expert at hiding in plain sight, and it was with this expertise that she managed to pass the day, a ghost at the luncheon table, a whisper in the corridor, an absence so perfectly rendered that not even the house staff remarked upon it.

But when night came, the mask began to slip.

She did not intend to seek out the library again.

She had convinced herself that it was merely coincidence, that Teddy would not return to the same well two nights running.

Yet as the lamps were dimmed and the last of the laughter receded up the staircase, Theo found herself at her door, hand on the knob, uncertain whether she was escaping or inviting pursuit.

The hallway was silent, a single candle left burning for late-night stragglers.

She moved with caution, hugging the wall as if the paneling might swallow her up.

At the base of the stairs, she paused, heart pounding at a mad tempo.

A shadow flitted across the landing, a footman, perhaps, or only the play of light on old glass. She pressed on.

The library door stood open a crack, a wedge of golden lamplight spilling into the hall.

She should have turned back. Instead, she pushed the door wider, its weight familiar now, almost welcome.

Inside, the fire was banked higher than before, its warmth spilling into the farthest corners.

Teddy was there, of course, exactly as she knew he would be.

This time, he had abandoned the pretense of reading altogether. The book in his lap was open to the title page, its text obscured by the shadow of his hand. His coat was off, his shirt open at the throat, a softness at the line of his jaw that spoke of fatigue—or something more dangerous.

He did not speak at first, only watched her with an expression unreadable and unguarded. She closed the door behind her, the sound loud as a gunshot.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, voice low.

Theo crossed to the fireplace, clutching her arms around herself. “Neither was I.”

He gestured to the same chair as before. “Please.”

She sat, folding herself small, knees drawn up so her slippers barely touched the rug. The wrapper she wore was even thinner tonight, and she could feel the heat of the flames on her bare ankles.

They waited, letting the silence have its moment.

At length, Teddy set his book aside and leaned in, elbows on knees. “You must know,” he said, “that everyone in this house is trying to decide whether to believe the story.”

Theo stared at her hands, the fingers white and restless. “Which story?”

“That we are lovers.”

Her laugh was brief, an exhalation of disbelief. “Are we?”

“I think that depends on you,” he replied. “You are the one who wrote me into being.”

She risked a glance at him, but the firelight made his eyes impossible to read. “Is that what you think? That this is my invention?”

He shrugged, a motion that was both surrender and invitation. “I am nothing if not a willing accomplice.”

For a moment, she thought to lie again. To double down, to insist that nothing had happened, that it was all a misunderstanding. But the memory of last night—the ease with which he had dismantled her defenses, the hunger in his voice—made such a tactic seem not only futile, but childish.

She reached for the locket at her throat, again forgetting she didn’t wear it. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said, and the confession came out small, barely more than a whisper.

He waited, patient.

“It started as a joke,” she said. “Verity would not leave off her matchmaking, and I—” She trailed off, the truth suddenly enormous and unmanageable.

“You invented a suitor,” Teddy supplied, his voice gentler now.

She nodded. “It seemed easier than explaining that I didn’t want one.”

He smiled, but there was no mockery in it. “You chose a title at random?”

She closed her eyes, ashamed. “I liked the sound of it. Teddington. It sounded safe. Distant. I didn’t know it was real.”

He laughed then, a quiet, genuine laugh that made the fire pop in sympathy. “Nothing in my life has ever been safe, Lady Pattishall. Least of all me.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. I am honored, in a way. Not every man is lucky enough to be invented by a woman like you.”

She looked away, staring into the flames, feeling the locket burn cold against her throat.

“You could expose me,” she said. “Tell them all the truth.”

He considered this, then smiled, wicked and sly. “But where would be the fun in that?”

She watched him, uncertain.

He stood, crossing the small gap between their chairs in two steps. He kneeled, balancing on the balls of his feet, so that their faces were nearly level. The lamp behind him cast half his face in shadow, but his eyes glittered with an energy that made her shiver.

“Let’s continue the game,” he said. “You play the besotted widow. I’ll play the dangerous rake. We’ll give them exactly what they expect.”

She could not breathe for a moment. “And then what?”

He shrugged again, but this time there was something predatory in the motion. “We see who blinks first.”

Her hand flattened across her chest. “What’s in it for you?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

He leaned in, his face so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “Isn’t it obvious? I get to be your Teddy. The most enviable post in England, I should think.”

Her cheeks burned. She tried to pull away, but his hand found her wrist—gentle, but inescapable.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his tone suddenly very serious.

She should have said yes. She should have left, right then, before the game became real, before the line between fiction and truth disappeared entirely.

But she did not say yes.

Instead, she let her hand relax in his. She closed her eyes and let the heat of the fire and the press of his fingers drown out the cold, the guilt, the fear.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He released her then, but the imprint of his touch remained, a phantom sensation that traveled up her arm and settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Let’s find out,” he said, softer than ever.

She stood, as did he, and she braced herself on the arm of the chair. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the past and the future suspended in the air between them.

“I’m not who you think I am,” she said.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “You’re more, not less. That’s what frightens you.”

She laughed, a sound that surprised her with its lack of bitterness. “You are a dangerous man, Baron Teddington.”

“And you are the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met.”

Josiah was past the point of playing games.

He reached for her. Not the gentle touch of the drawing room, not the careful clasp of waltz partners, but the grip of a man who had been denied too long.

His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the silk, pulling her against him with a force that bordered on violence.

She gasped, the sound half protest, half plea, and clutched at his arms.

He his head—not for her lips, but for the line of her throat, the exposed arc of her collarbone. He bit her there, gently at first, then harder, marking her as his. She made a sound, muffled and feral, and arched into him.

He moved lower, his mouth tracing the edge of her gown, tongue flicking against the pulse at her neck. He wanted to consume her, to strip away every layer until there was nothing left but the raw, unprotected fact of her.

Her hands found his hair, fisting in the thick waves, dragging him closer. She smelled of flowers, of something sweet and ruined. He let his teeth graze her skin, felt her shiver.

She pushed him back—not to escape, but to see his face. Her eyes were wide, fevered. “I should hate you for making me want this.”

He smiled, or tried to. His face felt like it might shatter. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know what you want.”

She said nothing, but her nails scored his shoulders, the pain blooming exquisite in his flesh.

He let go of her hips, hands sliding up her sides, the silk wrapper bunching beneath his palms. She was trembling, but so was he. He had not realized how close he was to the brink. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest, could taste the salt of her sweat at the hollow of her neck.

Her mouth found his at last, lips parting, tongue seeking his. The kiss was messy, desperate, nothing like the rehearsed pecks of the ballroom. She bit his lower lip, drew blood. He tasted iron and her, and he wanted more.

He crushed her against him, every inch of her body mapped to his. The silk was an insult, a barrier, and he wanted to tear it off. But not yet. Not until she begged for it.

She broke the kiss, panting, her cheeks flushed. “If you stop now, I will murder you.”

He laughed, the sound hoarse. “I would deserve it.”

He shifted his grip, hoisted her up and carried her to the desk, her legs parting to bracket his waist. Her wrapper slipped, exposing the pale flesh of her thigh. He ran his hands up, trailing slow, deliberate circles, watching the way her breath hitched with each inch.

He kissed her again, softer this time, letting the anticipation coil between them. The world had shrunk to this—her, him, the fire, the books. Nothing else existed.

He broke the kiss, lips lingering at her ear. “Tell me to stop,” he dared, voice rough with need.

She shook her head, eyes burning. “I want you to ruin me,” she said, and the words hit him like a blow.