Page 7 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)

T he morning after the supper played itself out in blurred increments, first the scrape and clang of chambermaids at the corridor’s end, then the thin light bleeding through a slit in the drapes, and finally the inexorable progression of the house staff, preparing for the riding party with a fervor bordering on the ecclesiastic.

By the time Theo allowed Annie to fasten the last button of her grey-trimmed habit, the lawns below were already spotted with clusters of horses and riders, voices carrying with the high pitch of anticipation.

Annie produced the requisite blue sash, the color a shade deeper than cornflower and the closest thing to an impertinence the day permitted. “If I may say, my lady, it brings out your eyes,” she offered, voice neutral.

“That’s precisely what I wish to avoid,” Theo replied, but she let Annie fasten the sash with its silver pin, a tiny, half-hearted rebellion against the blandness of her riding gown.

“Do you see him?” she asked, and they both glanced out the window toward the lawn, where the first of the guests were mounting up.

Annie’s mouth twitched. “He’s already out, my lady. I think he was the first to arrive at the stables. I saw him leave before I came in here.”

Theo gripped her gloves and strode out, her boots tapping in the hallway with deliberate precision.

The air outside was cold enough to sting the lungs. The ancient oaks—so taciturn in sunlight—seemed to glisten. Theo breathed in the smell of damp earth and horseflesh and something less nameable, the tension of being watched, studied, measured.

Her mount awaited at the edge of the circle, a dapple-grey mare whose white forelock had been plaited with the obsessive care of a bored groom.

The animal blinked, patient and disinterested, as Theo mounted up and settled the skirts of her habit over the pommel.

She scanned the crowd. The older men had already begun the competitive ritual of adjusting stirrups and recounting ancient riding wounds.

The young women gathered in a knot of pastel and ribbons, waiting to be assisted onto their mares.

And there, set apart from the swirl, was Teddy.

He rode a tall bay, restless and muscle-thick, its ears twitching at every sound.

Teddy himself was dressed impeccably, but there was something off about the way he sat the horse—too relaxed, almost insolent.

He did not look at her directly, not at first, but the set of his mouth suggested a smile held in reserve.

Theo felt her pulse begin its small, familiar thunder.

She urged her mare to the right, hoping to anchor herself in the company of the two eldest gentlemen, solid, unromantic types, both likely to spend the morning discussing the price of sheep and the sorry state of Parliament.

She had almost made it into their orbit when Teddy wheeled his bay around, neatly inserting himself at her left.

“My lady,” he said, bowing low in the saddle. His voice, pitched for her alone, still carried a few yards. “I hope you slept well, though I suspect you’re more at home on horseback than at a crowded table.”

She gave him her coldest look. “You’re mistaken, sir. I find both equally diverting.”

He grinned, unconvinced. “Then I trust the company was to your liking?”

She did not answer, instead fixing her gaze on the avenue of ancient yews that marked the start of the ride.

Ahead, Verity was calling out instructions, her voice carrying over the assembled guests.

“We’ll take the long path through the woods and circle round the east paddock.

No racing until the second gate—remember last year’s disaster, and try not to repeat it. ”

Teddy’s bay sidled closer, its flank brushing Theo’s boot. She tensed, but the mare seemed indifferent, content to keep her place.

“Do you remember,” Teddy began, just loud enough to be caught by the men to Theo’s right, “that picnic by Lake Geneva I promised you, my dear Theo? I was half-certain you’d run away with the basket before I arrived.”

Theo’s fingers tightened on the reins. “Perhaps your memory is as unreliable as your schedule, Baron. I distinctly recall being left waiting, with only stale bread and the local cats for company.”

The older men made appreciative noises at the repartee.

Teddy feigned a wince. “You wound me, madam. But if I recall, you preferred the cats’ company to mine.”

“Quite,” she said, and though her lips barely moved, the word was sharp enough to draw blood.

A third voice cut in, high and clear. “I should dearly love to see Lake Geneva.” Lady Amelia Whitmore, not yet out for two seasons and already the subject of a dozen social duels, eased her chestnut mare up to Theo’s right.

Her habit was a confection of midnight velvet with intricate soutache braid, the hat, worn at a reckless angle, suggested both innocence and threat.

Her gaze flicked from Teddy to Theo and back again, hunting for advantage.

“You must be so fortunate, Lady Pattishall, to have traveled so widely,” Lady Amelia said. Her smile was brittle, precise. “I have not been further than the Isle of Wight, myself. Did you see many exotic things on the Continent, Baron?”

Teddy, unperturbed, answered with a laugh. “More than I could hope to recount before luncheon. But Lady Pattishall and I have made a study of exchanging travel notes. Perhaps we could all compare journals later?”

Lady Amelia’s mouth twisted at the corners, but she pressed on. “I’ve heard that the Italian lakes are even more romantic than Geneva, though perhaps I am mistaken?”

“Only in the sense that every place is improved by the company one keeps,” Teddy said, and this time the look he gave Theo was unmistakable—a dare in broad daylight.

Theo felt heat rise to her cheeks, and she cursed her fair skin.

She forced herself to meet Lady Amelia’s gaze, summoning the chill that had so far failed her this morning.

“I found Italy overrated. The food is quite good, but the men are all incorrigible flirts.” She let her eyes rest on Teddy for an extra heartbeat.

The men to her right snorted in approval. “Hear, hear,” one said. “Give me an honest Englishman any day.”

“Amen to that,” said the other.

But Teddy was not so easily routed. He leaned in close enough that Theo could feel the exhale of his breath, warm and minty. “You flatter me with your comparisons, Lady Pattishall. It would explain why you persist in writing such passionate letters to a black sheep like myself.”

The world went silent around her. She heard only the padding of the horses’ hooves, the sound of her own heart, and the subtle hiss of Lady Amelia’s breath as she inhaled in surprise.

She allowed herself a slow, deliberate blink. “Because, Teddington, I enjoy the sport of it. I find your letters an amusing puzzle. So many boasts, so little substance.”

Teddy laughed, not embarrassed in the least. “You mistake me. I have only ever told you the truth, as you requested in your last—” he paused for effect—“six-page letter.”

At that, Lady Amelia’s eyes went wide, and Theo almost regretted the cruelty of the ploy. Almost.

They had reached the edge of the woods, and the party was strung out in a loose parade. Theo seized her moment, urging the mare forward at a brisk trot. For a few blessed yards, she was alone.

But the baron was a predator, and within seconds he had drawn abreast of her, the bay matching the grey’s stride with ease.

“You play the game very well, Theo,” he said, his voice pitched low. “But I think you’re enjoying it more than you care to admit.”

She glared straight ahead. “What I enjoy is peace and quiet. You should try it sometime.”

He smiled, slow and wolfishly. “Shall I be silent, then? Or would you rather I entertain you with the scandalous tales from Paris?”

“If you must speak, keep it to yourself,” she snapped, but the words did not land with the force she’d hoped.

They rode for a time in silence, but every nerve in Theo’s body was alive, tracking the subtle shifts in his posture, the rhythm of his breath. She could sense without looking when his eyes were on her.

At a small clearing, the party paused to regroup.

Lady St. Ervan gestured for all to halt, citing the need to count noses before proceeding to the next gate.

As the riders milled about, Theo found herself flanked once more—Teddy to her left, Lady Amelia to her right, the latter wearing a smile so false it glinted.

“Will you join us at the front, Lady Pattishall?” Amelia asked. “We’re to set the pace for the next leg.”

Before Theo could refuse, Teddy intervened. “I think Lady Pattishall prefers to ride at her own pace,” he said, and he reached over and brushed a stray curl from her face.

The touch was feather-light, but it exhilarated her. She jerked away, but not before a jolt of embarrassment made her breath catch.

“You presume too much, sir,” she hissed, her cheeks burning. “One might think you believed your own lies.”

He met her glare with an infuriating calm. “Not lies, my dear Theo. Merely… creative truths. And if you dislike them, you’re free to invent your own.” He withdrew his hand, but the ghost of the touch lingered.

Lady Amelia, seeing herself bested, pursed her lips. “Some ladies might find such familiarity unseemly.”

Theo could have kissed her for the rescue, if only the words had not come laced with venom.

“I assure you,” Theo said, “my acquaintance with Baron Teddington is more than sufficient to withstand a stray hair or two.”

The older men, catching the tail of the exchange, chuckled. “Country air makes everyone bold,” said one.

Teddy took the opportunity to lean in again. “You know, I do remember that picnic by the lake. You wore a blue ribbon, just like today.”

She stared at him, thunderstruck as she recalled just such a picnic. It was a detail from her own childhood—before Charles, before loss, before the walls had closed around her.