Page 17 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he next night, the house was colder. The rain had set in sometime before supper and drummed against the windows with an insistent, animal persistence, as if the world outside wished to break in and root out every secret within these walls.

Theo sat at supper, silent and preoccupied, while the other guests gossiped about the weather and the prospect of tomorrow’s hunt.

Verity, as always, sparkled—her laughter filling the air, her gaze flicking between Theo and Teddy like a chess player calculating the endgame.

When the meal was over, the guests drifted to the drawing room for sherry and games.

Teddy vanished, and Theo felt the loss of him as an ache, a deprivation as intimate as thirst. She endured an hour of parlor amusements, her body present but her mind half-gone, distracted by the memory of the night before and the knowledge that he would be waiting for her.

At midnight, she excused herself, pleading a headache.

The lie tasted bitter, but it was necessary.

She climbed the stairs slowly, feigning fatigue in case any of the servants lingered in the hall.

At the landing, she paused, listening, the low hum of conversation from below, the rattle of rain at the glass, the steady, seductive beat of her own heart.

She did not hesitate at the door this time. The library was as she remembered it, though now the fire had burned down to a bed of coals and the lamp on the desk glowed with a pale, dreamlike clarity. The air was warm, but the shadows were colder, pooling in the corners and beneath the shelves.

Teddy was waiting, of course. He sat in the high-backed armchair by the hearth, a book in his lap, though his attention was wholly on her. He had changed into a dark dressing gown, and the sight of him—barely formal, entirely at ease—set a new, more dangerous pulse thudding in her throat.

“You came,” he said, a statement more than a question.

Theo closed the door behind her and leaned against it, as if the wood might anchor her. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He stood, crossed to the drinks table, and poured two glasses of brandy. The ritual was slow and deliberate, each movement measured, as though to remind her that in this room, time obeyed a different law.

He handed her a glass, his fingers grazing hers. The touch was thrilling—her nerves flared, skin prickling under the thin shield of her wrapper.

She sipped, the brandy burning its way down. “I’ve been thinking about our situation,” she said, hoping to steady herself with the sound of her own voice.

“And?” he prompted, settling back into his chair.

Theo circled the room, letting her fingertips brush the spines of the books as she passed. “We will maintain appearances in public,” she said, “for as long as it suits us both. But nothing more.”

His smile was pure mischief. “Nothing more?”

She turned, facing him, chin lifted. “We must be careful, Teddy. We are being watched.”

He nodded, but the set of his mouth was unconvinced. “You know, for a woman so skilled at invention, you are remarkably bad at lying.”

She blushed, angry at herself for being so transparent. “It’s not a lie. I just?—”

He interrupted, voice low and liquid. “You just want to be in control.”

She crossed her arms, the glass of brandy trembling slightly in her hand. “Is that so terrible?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But I want to know what you’re really afraid of.”

The question hovered in the air. She did not answer, but instead drank again, the heat of the spirit making her bold.

“Fine,” she said. “What are you getting out of this, then? Why not expose me? Why play along?”

He stood, closing the distance between them with three careful steps. “Because, you’re the only person here who sees me as I am, not as I pretend to be.” He took the glass from her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She felt the words in her gut, a rush that made her knees threaten to buckle.

He set both glasses on the mantle, then turned to face her, hands loose at his sides. “We can keep up the charade as long as you like. But you should know I’m not very good at playing safe.”

She laughed, the sound escaping her before she could swallow it. “You think I am?”

He shook his head. “I think you want to be. But I think you’re just as reckless as I am.”

There was no more distance left between them.

She could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the dark sweep of his lashes, the shadow of an indentation where he had pressed his thumb too hard against his own palm.

She felt an urge to touch that bruise, to smooth it with her own thumb, to leave a mark just as real.

He reached out, his fingers hovering over her jaw, not quite touching. “May I?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

His hand cupped her cheek, warm and sure, and she let herself lean into it, let herself close her eyes and remember how it felt to be wanted.

When he kissed her, it was nothing like the tentative, polite kisses of her past life.

It was fire, all tongue and teeth and a hungry, desperate need.

She gasped, her lips parting under the assault, and he took full advantage, pulling her closer, his other arm snaking around her waist.

She resisted, briefly, out of habit or fear or some battered sense of decorum. But the fight went out of her almost at once. Her hands found his shoulders—broad, hot through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat—and she gripped them as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling.

When they broke apart, both were breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, the moment thick with shared air and the unspoken admission that there was no going back.

She was the first to speak. “This changes nothing,” she whispered, though it was a lie and they both knew it.

He smiled, lips grazing her temple. “No. Of course not.”

She stepped away, collecting herself, wrapping her arms around her chest. Her heart was hammering so loudly she thought it might shatter the glass in the windows.

“I should go,” she said, but her feet refused to move.

He didn’t stop her, only watched, his expression inscrutable.

She lingered at the threshold, hand on the knob, and looked back at him. He was standing by the fire, the light painting him in gold and shadow, utterly unrepentant.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, Lady Pattishall,” he said, and the use of her name was a benediction, a dare, a promise.

She left, shutting the door with a quiet, deliberate click.

The corridor was silent, save for the storm outside, but inside her head it was anything but. Her lips still tingled. Her hands trembled, and she had to pause at the top of the stairs, clutching the banister, waiting for the world to right itself.

She returned to her room and undressed in the dark, letting the garments fall to the floor.

She should have felt shame, or at least guilt, for what they’d done the other night.

Instead, she felt something wilder, a sense of liberation, of hunger, of possibility.

She climbed into bed and lay awake for hours, replaying the kiss again and again, each time letting herself want more.

She knew the story she had written was now beyond her control, that the characters were running wild in the margins, laughing at her, daring her to turn the next page.

And so she would.

She slept, eventually, and in her dreams the storm outside finally broke, and she found herself standing in the library, the fire blazing, and Teddy waiting for her, his arms wide, his smile a little wicked but also, just possibly, kind.