Page 21 of The Countess Caper

“That’s not a no,” Summer pointed out.

“It’s not a yes, either.” Tessa didn’t know what to think. And it would not become any clearer with all of the women staring at her. Or with the way Holly sprinkled sugar on a pickle for dessert. Pregnant women really did eat anything.

“What happens to us if you say yes?” Rue asked bluntly.

Bryony pushed her plate away, her cheeks pale.

“Nothing here changes,” Tessa rushed to assure them. “I’d make certain of it.”

“You could be a countess,” Daphne said.

“I suppose so.”

The thought of being a countess held no immediate appeal, aside from the help it could provide her friends. The foundations she could build.

Being Roarke’s countess, on the other hand…

It appealed.

She did not know why. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know why. It made for a distraction from the melancholy simmering inside her chest. For tonight, let it be enough.

“But to marry the Beast of Dartmoor,” Daphne said hesitantly. “Is it safe?”

“Don’t call him that.”

They finished their meal and drank more wine than was wise. Holly drank pickle juice. Rue refused to let down her guard and drank coffee instead, dark as the mud in the garden. She preferred to be awake and alert for as long as possible. Summer painted more birds over the fireplace in the main drawing room, a silent comfort for Tessa, who collected all manner of birds: larks, swans, swallows.

The moon rose over women laughing too loudly, over spills of wine on the table, the clack of wooden balls and the crash of empty wine bottles in a spontaneous game of bowls in the hall. Bryony set them up in rows, and Summer hung over the banister shouting insults, especially when Tessa’s turn came around. “You call that a throw? Stiffen that noodle arm!”

Tessa shot her a grin. “You do know you’re not actually supposed to throw it like a cricket ball, don’t you?”

“Then where’s the fun in that?”

Tessa’s grin turned feral. “Shattering the bottles is very cathartic. My walls, however, already have too many holes in them.” They’d had to evict some kind of snake from the music room. Something else had chewed through the Tudor paneling in the back hall.

“You’re rather violent for someone so short.”

“Why do you think I’m so violent?” Not everyone could be as beautiful as Summer, who somehow managed to be lithe and lush all at once.

Summer whistled. “Big talk, Lilliput. Let’s see, then.”

Bryony blinked, mildly alarmed. Rue patted her arm. “Never mind them—you know they’re always like this.”

“Delightful, you mean?” Tessa tossed over her shoulder. Her hair had long ago slipped from its pins.

“Is that what that is?”

Summer drained her wine, made a face at the vintage. “Let’s go, countess!”

Tessa narrowed one eye, ignoring the very tiny thrill that coursed through her at the title. No thrill. Bad thrill. “I could probably hit you from here.”

Summer snorted. “You drank as much as I did. You’d have to choose which of the two of me is really me.”

“It’s a very bad sign that that made sense,” Tessa muttered. “Shall we wager?”

“Let’s.” Summer’s eye shone.

Tessa had no money, of course, or certainly none she would waste on the frivolity of a bet, but they never wagered for coins at Magpie House. They wagered for chores. Disgusting ones.