Page 4 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he morning unfurled itself slowly, reluctant to dissipate the thick residue of last night’s revelations.

A heavy English mist pressed itself against the diamond-pane windows, muting the lawns and hedges to pale watercolor washes.

Even the servants, so brisk the evening before, moved through the halls with a hush, as if the house itself conspired to keep its secrets until the sun broke through.

In the dining room, Theo sat at the end of the long table, picking at her food.

Her appetite, never robust, had evaporated completely.

She toyed with a poached egg until it collapsed, pale yolk leaking like a wound across her plate.

Her mind still circled last night’s introduction to the other guests, and how every man in the room had measured her with glances, some calculating, some hungry, but all intrusive.

Even in her blue silk, even with the pearls—Charles’s favorite—she had felt as fragile and transparent as spun sugar.

At the opposite end of the table, Verity presided over her own tea, stacking correspondence in a little fortress against the world.

She wore a morning gown the color of faded violets, her dark hair tousled with intentional carelessness.

Now and then she looked up, as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

Theo pressed her napkin to her lips, trying to steady her breathing. Her fingers trembled. She sipped her tea, the heat an unpleasant rasp against her tongue.

Finally, Verity cleared her throat. “You seem rather pale this morning. Were you kept awake by the captain’s tales of Turkish pirates?”

Theo managed a small smile. “Only by the quantity of brandy he consumed while telling them.”

Verity laughed—a throaty, delighted sound. “Yes, he does drink with the abandon of a man who expects to drown at any moment. But let’s not start the day so bleakly. I have a tonic that will revive you.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Something stronger than tea?”

“Much stronger. I have a surprise for you.” Verity pushed away from the table, all at once lively with purpose. “Come, I will show you.”

Theo barely had time to set down her cup before Verity was at her elbow, propelling her out of the breakfast room and down the main corridor. The air was chill, the marble floor cold even through the soles of her shoes.

Verity’s grip was unyielding, her excitement barely contained. “You remember I mentioned a guest who might join us?” she asked, leading Theo past an arrangement of flowers from the greenhouse.

Theo nodded, her throat too tight for speech. There were so many guests, so many names—she could not recall half of them from the flurry of introductions the night before.

Verity steered her toward a tall set of doors flanked by palms, which Theo remembered as St. Ervan’s study. “He arrived only moments ago. From the Continent, directly. I dare say his boots are still dusted with French road.”

Theo’s heart began to pound, thudding in her ears like the slow roll of artillery.

She was not ready for another parade of eligible men, not after last night.

She thought of her invented Baron Teddington, with his elegant, wholly imaginary letters, the way she’d embroidered his features, his habits, his wit, and felt a sudden surge of panic.

She had woven the fantasy so tightly that she sometimes forgot he was imaginary.

Verity paused at the threshold, pressed her lips together as if suppressing laughter, and flung open the doors with a theatrical flourish.

“Lady Pattishall, you will be so excited to see who’s just arrived from the Continent.

Your dear friend, Baron Teddington. Or Teddy, as you called him in your letter. Teddington, look who’s here!”

Theo stepped into the room, her senses overwhelmed. Lord St. Ervan sat behind his desk looking finer than any man had a right to at such an early hour. He smiled and nodded in greeting. Opposite him, a stranger rose and bowed to the women. “Good morning.”

He was tall, as if created in Theo’s imagination.

His coat, deep blue, fit perfectly to a frame that seemed both delicate and whiplash-strong.

His posture was at once lazy and alert, as if he’d only just woken from a nap and expected to be called to battle at any instant.

He stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his head cocked in mild amusement at the tableau before him.

The light caught his hair, which was brown, yes, but not the muddied brown of English dirt—rather the rich shade she’d imagined.

His face was narrow, with a pointed chin and a long, elegant nose.

His lips were thin and slightly upturned at the corners, as if mocking some private joke.

His eyes regarded Theo with the sharp interest of a scientist who has just discovered a rare, possibly dangerous species, but he wasn’t close enough for her to discover their color.

Theo froze. Her breath caught in her chest. A cold sweat beaded at her hairline.

“Lady Pattishall,” he said, and his voice was a surprise, lower than she’d expected, with a faint abrasion at its edges, as if he’d spent years shouting into the wind and now chose every word carefully. “What a pleasure to finally see you in person after our lengthy correspondence.”

She did not move, did not breathe. The world spun with an absurd, sickly weight of dream logic. How could he exist—how could he be standing there, flesh and bone and so very real? It was impossible. Yet he advanced, closing the distance with a languorous, predatory grace.

Her mind scrambled for reason, for safety.

This was surely a prank, a cruel, elaborate jest on Verity’s part.

Or perhaps the man had only taken the title Teddington, seeking to profit from her story.

But how would he have learned of it? None of this made sense, and it all threatened to expose her ruse.

But when he bowed over her hand, she saw the play of muscle and tendon at his wrist, felt the gentle press of his fingers, precise and warm, against the back of her glove. His cologne—sandalwood and some sharper, spicier note she couldn’t name—enveloped her.

“I trust the journey was not too taxing,” she heard herself say, but the words came from far away, as if some other, braver version of herself had spoken them.

He smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Not at all, my lady. The anticipation of seeing you sustained me across the channel and a thousand dreary miles of French mud.”

Theo felt her knees threaten to buckle. She could not pull her gaze from his face. He looked nothing like Charles. He looked, in fact, like everything her mother had warned her against, sharp, clever, and more than a little dangerous.

Verity beamed at them, her joy uncontainable. She turned to her newest guest. “You must regale us with stories of your travels. Especially Lady Pattishall. She was quite disconsolate to think she must go without your letters while she was here.”

Theo’s skin prickled. She felt exposed, as if she were on display at a museum.

Lord Teddington let his gaze linger on her for a beat too long, then turned to Verity with an elegant shrug.

“I have little to offer that is not already known. The French are impossible, the Germans, worse. And Italy is a chaos of poetry and corruption.” His smile returned, softer this time.

“But I am delighted to have returned, if only to see Lady Pattishall again.”

Verity’s satisfaction was palpable. “I shall leave you two to catch up, then. I have an infernal number of letters to answer before luncheon. Come, St. Ervan. I’m certain at least one letter needs your hand.

” She offered Theo an encouraging squeeze of the elbow, then swept from the room, closing the doors with a discreet but significant click.

Silence fell. The air thrummed with possibility.

Theo pressed her palm to the back of a chair, the steadiness grounding her. She fixed her gaze pile of papers on the desk. Anything to avoid looking at Lord Teddington.

He broke the silence. “You are a marvel, Lady Pattishall. I expected to be surprised when I met you, but you exceed even my wildest imaginings.”

She found her voice, thin and brittle. “What game are you playing, sir?”

He lifted a hand. “No game, I assure you. I was as shocked as you to hear of our apparent… acquaintance. Lady St. Ervan greeted me with such effusion, I could hardly gainsay her.”

Theo’s stomach dropped. She whispered, “You’re not—you’re not Baron Teddington.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed in sly understanding.

“I am Josiah Cooke, late of Florence, sometimes London, occasionally even Northumberland. I have been known as Baron Teddington since my uncle’s unfortunate demise.

It seems you have been making very creative use of my reputation, Lady Pattishall. ”

She blanched. The room tilted, and only the anchor of the iron railing kept her upright. “It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.”

He leaned closer, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes catching the light. “You invented me,” he said quietly. “How delicious. I’ve been longing for a new scandal.”

She tried to pull back, but her hand trembled. He caught her wrist, not unkindly, and guided her to sit in the chair she stood behind. His touch was gentle, but there was no mistaking the latent strength there.

She perched, rigid, on the edge of the seat.

He sat beside her, folding himself elegantly. For a moment, neither spoke.

Theo wet her lips. “I never thought you would actually?—”

“Exist?” he supplied, grinning. “It’s a common fault of men like me. We tend to turn up at the worst possible moments.”

His candor disarmed her. She looked at him, really looked. The rakish set of his mouth, the hint of vulnerability at the base of his throat where his cravat sat just a fraction askew, the faint shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes.

He regarded her in return, not with the leering hunger of the supper guests but with a kind of detached interest. “Your hands are shaking,” he observed softly.

She curled them into fists. “Are you here to ruin me?”

He laughed—quiet, genuine. “Only if you ask very nicely. Why did you choose me, Lady Pattishall? Out of all the men in England?”

She looked away, humiliated. “I needed a shield. Someone plausible but unreachable. An imaginary man who would protect me from the real ones. I thought I made up the title.”

He digested this, then said, “You could not have chosen better. Though I would have been flattered if you’d made me a bit taller.”

She barked a laugh despite herself, the sound cracking through the tension.

He smiled, pleased. “I will play along, if you wish. I can be anything you need me to be. The question is, what do you need, Lady Pattishall?”

Theo stared at him, stunned by the gravity in his tone, the way it contrasted with the levity of his words. She did not know what she needed—except, at this moment, to escape.

She rose. “I need to think,” she said, voice shaking.

He stood too, his expression unfathomable. “Of course. I am at your service in every possible way.” He executed a bow so precise it bordered on parody, but his eyes never left her face.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Panic was overwhelming her, her stomach knotting and her skin growing warm. She couldn’t continue this game, she needed to be alone. “I must go,” she said, her voice quavering.

Turning away, she rushed out the door and upstairs to the safety and privacy of her room. Throwing herself onto her bed, which a maid had so carefully made while she’d been eating, she broke into tears.

How she missed Charles. Missed being a married woman with a real husband, a living man whose life she knew, whose mannerisms were a comfort, and who knew what pleased her. She knew her Teddy only needed to appear to be her lover for a short time, but was she up to the task of the pretense?

The very idea was exhausting, no matter how handsome and charming he was.