Page 23 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

One of the older matrons—her mask a grotesque of green velvet—clicked her tongue. “A widow so young cannot be expected to live like a nun, dear. Grief has its appetites.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

“Indeed. One hears that Lady Pattishall’s appetites are rather…

singular. But that’s none of my affair.” She sipped from her glass, the gesture elegant but weaponized.

“Although I do wonder what your poor husband would think of your shameless pursuit of Baron Teddington, Theodosia. It’s the talk of the county. ”

Theo froze, every muscle in her body turning to ice.

She could feel the eyes of the group—hungry, expectant—waiting for a reaction, a collapse, a scene.

For a moment, she saw herself as they did, a woman too eager, too alive, too visible.

She remembered the last hours with Charles, the whispered promises at his bedside, the way his hand had gone limp in hers.

The memory seared her, and for a moment she could not speak.

She set down her glass. “My husband is beyond such concerns, Lady Whitmore. If he were here, he would scold you for your lack of tact.”

The reply, though steady, cost her, she felt the tremor run up her spine, and knew it would not go unnoticed.

Amelia shrugged, her smile never wavering. “Perhaps. But the living must look to their own reputations. I should hate to see you hurt, my dear.”

The women exchanged a series of glances, each one sharper than the last. The air between them bristled.

It was then that Theo realized she was not the only one listening.

At the edge of the circle, half-concealed by the shadows and a riotous column of gladiolus, stood Teddy.

He had abandoned the pretense of conversation, his entire attention fixed on the tableau before him.

The mask made his expression unreadable, but the way he held himself—tense, dangerous—spoke volumes.

He moved. Not with the lazy arrogance of the earlier hours, but with a purpose so singular it cut through the crowd like a blade.

The revelers seemed to part before him, sensing the approach of something inevitable.

The jeweled hilt of the rapier at his hip caught the light, and the lanterns threw his shadow across the marble, making it seem larger, more animal.

Theo watched him come, heart thundering.

For an instant, she saw not the baron of legend, but the boy she had known at Oxford—the one who had always waded into a fight, not out of bravado, but because he could not tolerate the suffering of others.

She saw him, and she wanted to run, but her feet would not obey.

Teddy reached the group just as Amelia was delivering the next, softer blow. “Of course, the baron is known for collecting widows. He has a particular taste for the melancholy, I’m told.”

The circle of matrons tittered, one or two pursed their lips, scandalized but hungry for more.

“Lady Amelia,” Teddy said, his voice low and cold enough to draw the attention of everyone within earshot. “Your concern for Lady Pattishall is touching. But I find it curious that your advice is always so public.”

Lady Amelia turned, startled. For a moment, the mask slipped, and her mouth tightened in something very close to fear.

“My lord Baron,” she said, “I was only?—”

“Gossiping,” Teddy finished for her. “With a subtlety that would do credit to a Covent Garden bawd.”

A ripple of shock moved through the group. Several women covered their mouths with their gloves, one or two looked away, feigning disinterest.

Lady Amelia tried to rally. “I see I’ve offended you, Baron. But surely even you must admit?—”

“I admit nothing to a slanderer,” Teddy said. His voice did not rise, but it carried, clear as glass, to the farthest edge of the hall. “Lady Pattishall’s conduct is above reproach. I regret that the same cannot be said for all present.”

The air seemed to crystallize. For a long, trembling moment, no one spoke.

Lady Amelia’s cheeks flushed, visible even through the beaded mask. “You take great liberties, Baron.”

“I take nothing that is not freely given,” he replied, his gaze never leaving Theo’s. “And I will not stand by while your spite poisons the air.”

He turned to Theo then, and for the first time all night she saw something real in his eyes—a fury so naked it made her knees go weak. He offered his arm, the gesture both an invitation and a shield.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Pattishall?” he asked.

For a heartbeat, she could not breathe. She was aware of every gaze in the room, every rumor and whisper now focused on this moment.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, the heat of his body radiating through the layers of costume and resolve.

“I would,” she said, her voice small but unbroken.

They left the circle behind, the hush of the crowd following them like an echo.

As they crossed the ballroom, Theo could feel the eyes on her—the curiosity, the judgment, the envy. But with every step, the noise faded, replaced by the steady cadence of Teddy’s heartbeat, the certainty of his grip, the promise of something more than survival.

At the far end of the room, Verity stood with her lieutenant, eyes wide and shining. She gave Theo a nod, small and fierce, and Theo felt a jolt of gratitude so intense it nearly made her weep.

The music was a waltz, lush and hypnotic, its rhythm all slow-burning promise.

The dancers circled the floor in concentric rings, each couple an orbit of secrets and thinly veiled ambitions.

At the edge, Lady Amelia lingered, peacock tail trembling with every motion, her mask tilted just enough to conceal the worst of her expression.

Teddy did not begin the dance at once. Instead, he pivoted, placing himself directly between Lady Amelia and Theo, blocking the former’s line of sight as neatly as a duelist parrying a blade.

“Lady Amelia,” he said, his voice pitched for the distance between them, “your vigilance for the sanctity of English womanhood is admirable. But I wonder if perhaps you have mistaken me for someone who cares about your opinion.”

Lady Amelia stiffened. She clutched her fan so tightly the painted sticks threatened to snap. “You overstep yourself, Baron. I only wish to prevent further embarrassment for Lady Pattishall.”

“On the contrary,” Teddy replied, “I think it is you who embarrasses yourself.”

He took a step forward, so that the circle of matrons and their satellites was forced to widen, creating a space into which every eye in the room now fell.

He turned, so the assembly could hear, though he never raised his voice, “Lady Amelia’s concern for propriety would be more convincing if it were not so transparently motivated by jealousy.

Theo—Lady Pattishall—has been a guest in this house for less than a fortnight and has conducted herself with perfect grace.

I cannot say the same for those who take pleasure in the destruction of a reputation. ”

The words were knives, honed by years of debate and the effortless cruelty of a man who had learned early that words could wound more than weapons. For a moment, the music seemed to recede, replaced by the heartbeat of the crowd.

Theo felt her breath catch. She had never heard Teddy speak like this—so public, so unyielding.

The effect was galvanic. The cold armor around her heart, built up over months of grief and vigilance, began to crack.

She watched as Amelia absorbed the humiliation, her peacock mask suddenly grotesque in its attempt at grandeur.

“Jealousy?” Lady Amelia managed, her voice trembling. “That is rich, coming from a man who collects hearts and discards them like so many calling cards.”

Teddy’s lips curled. “Even the worst card in the deck has its use. But some should be left in the pack entirely.”

A strangled laugh ran through the circle, even the most stolid matrons could not hide their approval at the deftness of the blow.

Lady Amelia’s gaze darted from face to face, searching for an ally, but found only polite distance. Her mouth tightened, she gave a rigid, mechanical bow. “My mistake, Baron. Clearly, the only reputation in danger tonight is my own.”

With that, she melted away, her feathers trailing behind her like a pennant of defeat.

A tension broke, and the dancers resumed their patterns. The waltz’s melody returned, softer now, as if the room itself wished to smooth the wound.

For a moment, Theo could not move. She stood rooted, the sensation in her chest unfamiliar—some mix of gratitude, embarrassment, and a dangerous, melting relief.

Then Verity was at her side, eyes wide and bright, her cheeks flushed above her priestess’s mask.

“He is quite the champion, isn’t he?” she whispered, glancing after Lady Amelia. “I daresay you’ll be the toast of every drawing room by next Tuesday.”

Theo tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her lips numb.

Verity took her by the elbow, gentle but insistent. “Don’t let them win, darling. Not tonight. Come—he’s waiting.”

Theo glanced across the room and found Teddy, now standing at the margin of the dance floor, one hand extended, the mask on his face doing nothing to hide the hunger in his eyes.

She let Verity lead her forward, every step a surrender and a dare.

The music swelled, and the crowd receded.

For the first time in years, Theodosia allowed herself to be seen.

The first measure was all formality, a graceful dip, a careful placement of hands, the geometric progression of steps along the polished floor.

Theo’s mask blurred the edges of the world, reduced every face to a suggestion, every whisper to the hum of bees behind glass.

The only sensation that mattered was the pressure of Teddy’s hand at her waist—gloved, yes, but so hot it seared through the gauze of her gown to the skin beneath.

She tried to keep her gaze elsewhere, to focus on the motion, the music, the heat in her cheeks.

But he drew her closer with every turn, his hand steady at her back, his posture precise and protective.

It was the sort of dance she had only read about, scandalous in its intimacy, a waltz designed not to display virtue but to reveal every shiver, every falter, every secret pulse.

They orbited the other couples, silent at first. When she risked a glance up, she saw his eyes fixed on her, their usual indolence replaced by something fierce. The bronze edge of his mask cast shadows across his cheekbones, he looked both more dangerous and more exposed than ever.

“Why did you defend me?” she whispered, not trusting her voice to carry further.

He held her gaze. “Because you deserved to be defended. And because I could not bear the alternative.”

She tried to laugh, but the sound came out tight, uncertain. “You make a habit of rescuing women in distress, I gather.”

He spun her into a tighter turn, their bodies pressed from shoulder to knee. “No. Only the ones worth ruining.”

Her breath caught. The implication was so bold, so unguarded, that she felt it in the base of her spine. She looked away, the world suddenly molten and unstable.

The music changed, modulating to a minor key.

The other dancers blurred, their forms indistinct behind the fog of candlelight and the gloss of the marble.

It was as if the rest of the room had vanished, leaving only the two of them suspended in a world of scent and heat and the slow, inexorable turning of the dance.

His hand slipped fractionally lower, just above the curve of her hip. Her pulse thudded, wild and ragged. She felt the pressure of his fingers, the latent strength in his arm, the hunger barely veiled in the set of his jaw.

“I thought you hated me,” she murmured, her mouth close to his ear.

He bent his head, and the edge of his mask grazed her cheek. “I tried. It didn’t take.”

She felt herself smile, not out of happiness but out of the relief of finally surrendering. She stopped trying to hold herself at arm’s length, stopped counting the seconds until the dance would end.

Their hands found new ways to touch—his thumb tracing the line of her ribs, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

Each turn tightened the loop of their bodies, each pause filled with the mingled heat of their breath.

The locket at her neck pressed into her collarbone, a small, insistent reminder of everything she had tried to bury. But even that weight felt lighter, now.

They danced, and the rest of the world did not matter.

At the end of the waltz, the music surged, the tempo doubling for a final, triumphant spin. Teddy pulled her close—closer than any rule of propriety allowed—and she did not resist. Her arm slid up to the nape of his neck, their bodies aligned, every plane and hollow finding its match.

The room applauded, a scattered rain of claps and laughter, but for a moment, neither of them moved. Theo’s mask pressed against his, and she felt his breath, tasted the sweet burn of brandy and the salt of her own anticipation.

“Do you want this?” he asked, the words a whisper so soft it might have been a thought.

She answered by tilting her head, just enough to bring their mouths within a whisper of contact. “Yes,” she said, the word a shock in her own ears. “I want this.”

He did not kiss her, not then. Instead, he traced his gloved fingers along her jaw, down her throat, to the hollow at her shoulder. The touch was more intimate than any embrace, more possessive than any claim.

“I will not be the first to let go,” he said.

And she believed him.

The music faded. The spell broke.

They parted, reluctantly, her hand sliding from his arm as if released from a trance.

The room came back into focus, the noise and heat and the flicker of lanterns, the judicious stares of a hundred masked strangers.

Verity caught Theo’s eye, her smile so wide and wicked that it threatened to split her face.

Theo felt exposed, but for once she did not mind.

She found herself laughing—low and shocked and giddy—as Teddy offered his arm again.

They walked from the dance floor, not as predator and prey, not as rival fictions, but as equals. And if the eyes of the world watched, so be it.

Let them.

Tonight, she was alive.