Page 24 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he rose garden at St. Ervan Hall was not a garden at all, not really.

It was an empire of thorns, a massing of blush and blood-velvet, every bloom set on the verge of explosion.

At dawn, the hedges held their breath in a haze of wet light, the beds overflowed with old English hybrids, the kind that tore at the skin and left secrets embedded beneath the nail.

Theo walked among them, skirts heavy with dew, hands sticky from tracing the ruptured hearts of the blossoms. She had come to escape the house, the eyes, the replay of last night’s fever-dream, but the silence was too dense, and she could not escape the sound of her own breathing.

Her gown dragged behind her, picking up mud and lost petals as it went.

She made a study of not thinking, not feeling.

She catalogued the lemony tang of rose leaves, the bruised sweetness of earth, the sensation of dawn wind licking water from her bare shoulders.

When her thoughts wandered back to the ballroom, she disciplined them with a prick of thorn, a sharp jolt to the pad of her thumb.

She wondered if anyone else was awake. She wondered, too, how much of the previous night had been real, and how much only a product of masks, wine, and the lunatic pulse of the quartet.

The dance, the touch of his hands, the murmur of his voice at her ear—she tried to tell herself it was nothing, or at least nothing new.

But the memory of him pressed close, a ghost that refused to fade with daylight.

She turned down a side path, shoes sinking into loam, and found herself at the arbor.

Here, the roses had been trained for decades, centuries, into an arch of impossible density.

The overhead lattice dripped with rainwater, every leaf was tipped with light.

She drew her fingertips along the wet wood, the chill piercing her skin in a way that felt almost holy.

She let her eyes drift shut, only for a moment. When she opened them, he was standing on the path.

He was not meant to be there. He had always come from the side, the back, never the direct approach. He was still in his ball attire—cravat askew, shirt half-untucked. His hair was damp and wild, and his eyes had the flat, bottomless look of a man who had not slept.

“Lady Pattishall,” he said. Not Theo, never Theo, not in the open.

She stiffened. “Lord Teddington.”

He did not smile, nor move. For a long time, the only sound was the drip of water off the arbor and the slow, grinding pace of her own heartbeat.

“You’re up early,” he said at last.

“So are you.”

He looked down at his hands, as if surprised to find them still attached. “I haven’t been to bed.”

She could think of nothing to say to that.

He stepped off the path, shoes sinking in mud, and closed the distance between them. She felt the air shift, the molecules compress, her entire self bracing for impact.

“I need to say something,” he said. “It will not take long.”

She nodded, wordless.

He searched her face, as if looking for an exit he already knew did not exist.

“I know what last night was supposed to be,” he said, his voice hoarse. “A jest, a spectacle, a bit of misdirection. But I have never—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “God help me, I have never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

He glanced at the sky as if his words waited there. “I am not a good man, and I do not deserve you. But I would marry you. Today, if you wished, if I could procure a special license.”

She stared at him, unable to process the words. The garden spun, the world shrank to the four inches between his hand and her own.

He waited, not moving. Not breathing.

At last, she managed, “You don’t mean that.”

His eyes were fever-bright. “I have never meant anything more.”

Her hands flew to her neck.

He saw her searching for the locket and something in his face shifted—a terrible, beautiful vulnerability, so raw she could barely stand to see it.

“I don’t know what it is to love the dead,” he said. “But I am here. I am flesh, and I want you.”

She felt her heart clench. She had sworn never to remarry. Never to betray the memory. Never to be less than faithful, even when alone. This man deserved so much more than she could give. She shook her head. “I need time.”

He nodded, slowly. “Of course,” he said, and in his voice she heard the end of things. “Take all the time you like.”

She reached for him, not sure what she meant to do—touch his sleeve, his hand, anything to soften the blow—but he stepped back. His face had gone blank, masklike.

“Shall we continue the game, then?” he said, his voice suddenly cold. “The house expects it.”

She flinched, the words landing hard. “That isn’t?—”

“Isn’t what you want?” His mouth twisted. “Forgive me, I thought I understood the rules.”

He bowed, not mockingly, but with the formality of a man closing a door behind him. “Good morning, Lady Pattishall.”

He turned, shoes squelching in the mud, and was gone before she could summon any reply.

She stood in the garden, hands trembling. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry—not here, not yet, not for him. Then she rushed inside.

She made it to her room before the tears could win.

She barely managed to shut the door, to kick off her muddied slippers, before the weight of it all dropped her to the floor at the end of the bed.

There was no dignity left, no posturing, her body was a ruined thing, a bundle of nerves and raw skin.

She crawled up onto the counterpane and pressed her face into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sobs that erupted, violent and without warning.

She was not a woman who cried. She did not believe in the utility of it. But now the pressure was too much, and the tears came in ugly, breathless gulps, soaking the linen and leaving her hair matted to her scalp.

She crawled to where her jewelry bag lay and removed the locket.

She opened it, though she did not need to look to see the miniature inside, Charles, painted in the last year of his life, looking out with that faint, knowing smile that had once anchored her to the world.

She pressed the image to her lips, trying to remember the warmth of him, the scent, the certainty.

She failed.

The room around her was still in darkness, the curtains drawn only halfway.

The morning sun was slicing through the lace, laying patterns of light across the bed and floor.

In that light, the room looked almost unreal—more the dream of a room than the thing itself.

She focused on the pattern, on the slow movement of the sun across the wallpaper, on the dust motes hanging suspended in their own private galaxy.

She breathed, then again, trying to slow the wild, animal panic that had overtaken her. Each inhale was sharp, almost painful. Her ribcage hurt, her throat was raw. She wanted nothing so much as to dissolve, to turn into water and seep through the floorboards into the oblivion below.

She heard the soft tread outside her door—a maid, perhaps, or one of the women rising early. She wiped her face, scrubbed her hands through her hair, and tried to compose herself.

A knock, gentle as a fingertip on glass.

She said nothing, hoping whoever it was would vanish. The knock came again, more insistent.

“Theo?” Verity’s voice, low, the edge of sleep still in it.

Theo curled into herself, tried to be silent.

Another pause, then, “I know you’re in there. Let me in, darling.”

She considered refusal, but it was impossible. The door opened with a snick, and Verity entered, hair unbraided and flying, wrapper slipping off one shoulder. She carried nothing but a handkerchief and a look of ferocious concern.

“Theodosia,” she said, crossing to the bed. She perched on the edge, careful not to crowd, but close enough that the concern was palpable. “What’s happened?”

Theo tried for composure, but all that came was a choked, mortifying sound. Verity pressed the handkerchief into her hands and waited.

“It’s nothing,” Theo managed. “I only—needed air. It’s—nothing.”

Verity smoothed a strand of hair from Theo’s brow, then settled back, hands folded. “Is it the garden, or the ghosts?”

Theo shut her eyes. “Both.”

“Ah.” Verity leaned forward, voice a hush. “Is it the baron?”

Theo’s eyes snapped open.

Verity smiled, a little sad. “Darling, the entire house saw you last night. I’ve never seen you so… I don’t know if the word is alive or undone, but it was a sight.”

Theo tried to sit up, failed, then pulled the covers up to her chin. “I am sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”

Verity laughed, the sound a balm. “Nothing so melodramatic. But you should know, the talk is already starting. Lady Amelia is telling anyone who’ll listen that the two of you spent half the night in the conservatory.”

Theo felt her face burn. “We didn’t?—”

Verity held up a hand. “I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. I only care that you’re not suffering for it.”

Theo looked at the handkerchief, now sodden. She tried to find words, failed, and tried again. “He asked me to marry him.”

Verity blinked, then whistled low. “That is… unexpected.”

Theo barked a laugh, so sharp it bordered on hysteria. “You see? Even you find it absurd.”

Verity shook her head, took Theo’s hands in hers. “I find it astonishing, not absurd. Did you accept?”

Theo stared at the locket. “I told him I needed time.”

“Of course you do.” Verity squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“But he took it as refusal,” Theo said, voice smaller than she intended. “He—God, Verity, I think he hates me.”

Verity looked at her with a new gravity. “He does not hate you. No man who looks at you like that could.”

“I’ve been unkind,” Theo said, “and I’ve lied to him. To everyone.”

Verity cocked an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Theo tried to smile, failed. “I invented the baron months ago as a shield. So people would stop pressing me to remarry. So I could just—breathe.”

Verity’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing. “That’s the most Theo thing I’ve ever heard. And then he showed up?”

“Yes. In person. And he agreed to go along with it, just until the house party ended. But last night he—” She broke off, the tears threatening again. “Last night, he made it clear that the charade is no longer a charade for him.”

Verity was silent for a long moment, weighing the words. “Did you want it to be a charade?”

Theo’s throat hurt. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I want nothing more than to disappear into the past. Sometimes I think—” She pressed the locket to her lips, eyes squeezed shut.

“I still wear Charles’s locket every day, or I did until I came here.

How can I accept another man when I promised to love only him? ”

Verity’s voice was soft, but adamant. “You don’t have to stop loving Charles. You can’t. But you are not dead, Theo, and he would not want you to live like you are.”

“I’m afraid,” Theo said. “Of what it will mean. Of what I’ll lose.”

Verity reached across the bed, gathered her close, and let her cry against her shoulder. “You’ll lose the illusion that you can remain unchanged. That’s all.”

They sat in silence, the morning sun creeping slowly across the counterpane, the dust swirling in lazy, indifferent orbits.

At last, Verity said, “So what will you do about the baron?”

Theo wiped her eyes, the handkerchief now a sodden knot. “I don’t know. What should I do?”

Verity smiled, brushed a tear from Theo’s cheek. “I think you should decide what you want, and then go take it. The rest—” she shrugged, “—will sort itself.”

Theo lay back, the words echoing in her mind. She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks and the slow drift of sunlight. For the first time in a year, she considered that there might be a future. That it might even belong to her.

She held the locket, but she did not close it.

She breathed, just once, and let herself want.