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Page 3 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he coach jostled over the last half-mile of rough road.

Theo pressed her gloved hand to the window, the chill of the glass prickling her skin through thin kidskin.

The outer gates of St. Ervan Hall, the country home of the Earl and Countess of St. Ervan, receded behind them, and the carriage began its slow, stately progress up the oak-flanked drive.

The carriage groaned to a stop in front of the large manor house. Footmen materialized instantly to assist her down and collect her trunks. Theo accepted the proffered arm and glanced up at the blazing facade.

The front door stood open, and Verity, Lady St. Ervan, awaited inside, resplendent in a gown of silvery mauve that shimmered with each tiny gesture.

She moved toward Theo in a cloud of lavender perfume and silk, arms outstretched.

Her curly dark hair was twisted into a chignon that threatened collapse at any moment.

She enveloped Theo in a quick, fierce embrace.

“Theodosia, at last!” she said, holding her at arm’s length to inspect her. “You look—well, you look precisely as you always do, though I feared you would fade into some gothic legend, all sorrow and sighs.”

Theo managed a smile, though the familiar pang at the word “sorrow” rippled through her. “You exaggerate, Verity.”

“Only as much as you understate,” Verity replied, looping her arm through Theo’s. “Come, let us rescue you from the outer darkness. You must be tired to the bone!”

“How many are here already?” Theo asked. “Am I the first to arrive?”

“None of the London menagerie just yet.” She patted Theo’s hand, then steered her deftly up the staircase and toward the voices Theo heard from the drawing room.

Two gentlemen conversed near the unlit fireplace, one short and ruddy, the other with the languid grace of a cat, and both turned as Verity approached.

The taller man, clad in evening black with a cravat knotted just so, inclined his head in polite greeting, his eyes flickering over Theo with measured interest.

“Lord Claremont, may I present Theodosia, Lady Pattishall?” Verity said. “Lady Pattishall is a dear friend. She’s the widow of the former earl.”

“Charmed,” said Lord Claremont. His gaze lingered just a hair too long on the flesh exposed by Theo’s low neckline before flitting back to her eyes.

She stopped herself from tugging at the fabric there, suddenly wishing she’d thought to bring her fichu.

She’d forgotten how tempting her fleshy bosom was to men.

When she’d been with Charles, she never paid attention to where other men were looking, and he enjoyed having her display her figure as often as possible.

The shorter man, perhaps thirty and already receding at the temples, offered a courtly bow. “Baxter,” he said, as if the name explained everything.

Theo murmured the requisite pleasantries.

She was acutely aware of every glance, every sidelong look, as though her presence generated a disturbance in the surrounding air.

A pair of women who looked close to her own age of thirty eyed her as though she were competition.

She longed to announce she had no interest in anything the men might offer.

She caught herself smoothing her skirt, then forced her hands still.

As Verity led her away from the two men, she leaned closer and spoke softly. “Lord Claremont is an earl of unimpeachable taste in wine but very little else. The other is Mr. Baxter, an eccentric but harmless sort, devoted to cataloging the mushrooms of Sussex. He writes poetry about them.”

Theo suppressed a smile.

They approached a cluster of young men, still pink from the raw country air and full of competitive vigor.

Their collective attention turned to Theo, their gazes swift and appraising, their words louder and less polite than those of the older generation.

Theo felt her cheeks warm despite the chill from the open door.

“Is that the widow?” someone whispered—not as quietly as he intended.

“Recently gave up her weeds, poor thing,” replied another.

Theo’s heart thumped an erratic beat. She longed for the privacy of her room, but she stood her ground, the picture of composure, her chin lifted just enough to signal that she had heard, and that she would not respond.

Verity’s hand tightened on her arm. “Ignore them. They are boys playing at being men. If you stare at any of them too long, he will believe himself in love for a fortnight.”

“I assure you,” Theo murmured, “my eyes are well-guarded.”

A group of women, their gowns in various gradations of blue and mauve, clustered near the fireplace. One, tall and sharp-featured, regarded Theo with open curiosity. Verity made the introductions.

The tall woman smiled with genuine friendliness. “I confess I have heard much about you. My cousin was acquainted with your late husband—said he was a man of singular virtue.”

Theo blinked, unprepared for the rawness of the memory. “He was,” she said, and could think of nothing else to add.

The tall woman seemed satisfied, and the conversation turned to the subject of upcoming card games. Theo let the talk swirl around her, taking part only as much as required, her gaze darting to the clock on the mantel as if she might be allowed to escape at a certain time.

“They will all be in awe of you by the end of the night,” Verity murmured. “You carry your grief like a queen’s crown.”

Theo nearly laughed at that, but something in Verity’s tone—serious, almost reverent—made her pause. She took a slow breath and let herself relax by the smallest degree.

Beyond the doors, the sounds of the house grew wilder, the guests now emboldened by drink and darkness.

Theo endured a few more rounds of verbal fencing before Verity suggested seemed to notice her fading stamina.

“You look tired. That journey here likely wore you out. Let me show you to your room.”

Gratefully, Theo said her goodnights to all and followed her hostess toward the staircase. She knew where the room was, but didn’t mind the company.

The corridor leading to Theo’s room was dim and cool, the hush of the house at odds with the fevered activity below.

A fire had been laid in the grate, her trunks sat neatly at the end of the bed, a servant’s efficiency already at work.

Theo was almost grateful to find herself alone at last, with no one to appraise or compare her.

She pulled off her gloves with trembling fingers.

Her heart still raced from the gauntlet of introductions, but worse than the discomfort was the sense of being hunted.

Every man at the party would now measure her—her fortune, her favor, her fitness for second marriage. The thought filled her with exhaustion.

She sat at the dressing table, staring at the reflection in the gilt-framed mirror, a young widow with too-bright eyes, a touch of pink still high in her cheeks, and every inch of her clothing calculated to display her beauty.

She reached for her locket, thumb tracing the raised edge to comfort herself.

Suddenly, she noticed the absence of her wedding band, which she’d left at home.

The skin of her finger held a slight indentation where the ring normally sat, and she had to fight not to run a fingertip over it.

She could wear the ring again when she returned to Town, but for now, the empty ring finger was part of her costume.

The widow who was ready to consider finding love again, or at least companionship.

A knock at the door startled her.

Verity entered without waiting for a response. “Well?” she asked. “How did you find our eligible bachelors?”

Theo hesitated, unwilling to confess her aversion or her discomfort. Instead, she offered the least committal answer she could muster. “They were… attentive.”

“Attentive!” Verity hooted. “You are a marvel of understatement. Sir Hugo looked ready to devour you whole, and the captain has been dying for a proper conversation with someone not made of salt pork and hardtack.”

Theo’s gaze dropped to her lap. In a moment of desperation, she blurted, “I mentioned I’ve been corresponding with someone, didn’t I?”

“You did, but I admit I wasn’t certain if I believed you.”

Laughing in pretend surprise, Theo said, “Why would I lie about something like that?”

Verity waved a hand. “To discourage my matchmaking, of course. I’ve had other friends try various ways to stop me. One even brought a gentleman friend of her own to my party. I’m not a madam, you know. I don’t require my guests to participate in any…activities they don’t wish to.”

“Of course not. I never felt that way.”

“I know my parties are more scandalous than many, but I only want my friends to be happy. Are you happy, Theo?” Verity sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her friend in the mirror.

“I’m content. I still don’t believe I’ll ever be as happy as I was before Charles took ill.”

Smiling softly, Verity said, “I remember feeling that way. And look at me now. St. Ervan is nothing like my Levi was, so I’m not the same person I was with him. But I am happy, and so grateful St. Ervan had his way with me.” She laughed boldly.

Seeing the emotions on Verity’s face, Theo sighed.

She would love to feel any of the feelings she saw, love, happiness, and a hint of satisfaction like she’d felt after she and Charles had made love.

She envied her friend. Yet, to experience those bits of life again meant she needed to let go of Charles’ memory, and she just couldn’t do that.

Remembering her ploy, she forced herself to look chipper. “Perhaps I’ll feel that soon with my dear Teddy.”

“Ah, yes, Baron Teddington. I believe St. Ervan knows him. If you’d written me sooner about him, I could have invited him.”

Theo’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”

How well did St. Ervan know the man? Theo needed to speak as vaguely as possible about her supposed beau to avoid being caught in a lie.

Verity’s gaze grew distracted, already spinning plans. “We must write to him at once. Invite him to stay. I shall make it my mission to ensure he cannot resist the trip.”

Theo’s stomach lurched. “Please, Verity, I would be mortified if you did. I prefer to meet with him in more private circumstances.”

“Nonsense! When he sees how other men are lusting after you, he’ll stake his claim. Leave it to me.” She gave Theo a look equal parts affection and mischief. “I cannot believe you have kept this from me for so long.”

Theo clenched her hands. She could see the trap lying in wait, the baron either writing back to say he knew no such person as Lady Pattishall. Or worse, he’d come here and say it to her face.

“Truly, there is nothing official between us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yet,” Verity corrected. She rose, smoothing the folds of her gown. “Sleep well, my darling. Tomorrow will be… interesting.”

When Verity had gone, the silence in the room surrounded Theo. She moved to the window, parting the curtains to gaze out at the moonlit parkland. Somewhere below, laughter rolled across the lawns, voices rising and falling in a rhythm as old as the stones of the house.

She pressed the locket between her fingers, feeling the chill of the metal and the warmth of memory. The false Baron Teddington loomed in her imagination, as real to her now as the men she’d just met—and, in some ways, far less terrifying.

A distant footfall sounded in the corridor. Theo snuffed the candle, undressed with shaking hands, and slipped into bed, where she lay awake for a long time, counting the heartbeats that separated her from discovery.

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