Page 23 of The Countess Caper

A lot of it.

Between the state of her body, aching from head to toe, and the smell of spilled wine, reality was a bit of a disappointment.

She wondered what Roarke was doing right now. Was he eating coddled eggs and fried potatoes at the pub? Walking through Fox Hollow regretting his offer? He’d had to carry a pregnant woman through a storm, and then was threatened at knifepoint for his troubles, all within hours of Tessa trying to abduct him. He had surely come to his senses.

But what if he hadn’t?

What if the large, silent mountain of a man still wanted to marry her?

Well, not her exactly, she had to remind her suddenly very interested pulse. He had chosen her because she was not conventional. Not normal. She wouldn’t expect anything of him. He could leave her and never look back.

She forced the knee-jerk twisting in her chest to loosen. This wasn’t about her past. She wasn’t making decisions for the Tessa she used to be or the Tessa she thought she would be. She had to make a decision for her life as it was right now. For leaky roofs and broken floorboards and women on the run from men with far more power than they would ever have. As the Countess of Dartmoor, she could shield them so much better. They would have food in the larder, sugar and butter, and windows that did not let in the rain and the occasional bird.

Holly and Rue would be safe. Bryony might stop waking up screaming from nightmares. Tessa might never get her dowry back, but at least she had her father’s pocket watch. It was gold, inset with enamel flowers, and played a snippet of a song he had hummed under his breath almost every day. It was the first thing she had ever stolen, right from his desk before the solicitors had arrived, her cousin and her dreadful aunt in tow.

I’ll gather you roses by the back door, as gold as your hair. One for you, and one for me and one for little lark. Fly away home, fly away home.

She would not need her dowry at any rate, not with two hundred pounds a month. Roarke was addled to offer her that much. Or kind. Desperate. She wasn’t entirely sure.

Lady Tessa needed the Earl of Dartmoor.

Tessa wanted Roarke.

She wanted the Beast.

She hadn’t even realized how much she wanted him, until the possibility presented itself. She could never have imagined he thought of her at all, except to shake his head at her across a ballroom or scowl in her direction when she forgot herself and wandered out into the rain at the end of a particularly energetic ball. He was honest and forthright, and she did not think he would play games with her life. He was too honorable for that, and it made desire curl all the brighter inside her belly. And he tolerated her well enough, if yesterday was any indication.

Could she survive being merely tolerated?

Again?

Forever.

She’d once imagined being loved, adored. Having a partner who would encourage her, join in her foolhardy plans. That was a long time ago. Before living out of a trunk, before being shoved aside. Before, before, before.

She could fret and feel sorry for herself, or she could be grateful for an opportunity like this one. Too many women, including all of the ones inside her house at this very moment, never had such options.

It was a lot to think about with a head that felt like it was made of blown glass.

And then her bedroom burst open, slamming into the wall. The sound sent Tessa upright, kicking against the sheets, shouting. The shout made her shout more. Her head fell off and rolled across the floor. She was sure of it. It served her right for beheading an emu. The rest of her followed when the twisted bedclothes abruptly gave way. She landed hard, grunting.

Summer jerked at the shout and shouted back.

It was an awful lot of shouting.

She didn’t seem concerned with her oldest friend’s decapitation, and too concerned with her own sore head. “I was bringing you tea,” she muttered, the tray wobbling in her hands. Her hair was a lopsided bird’s nest. “But now I hate you.” They stared blearily at each other. “What are you doing down there?”

“Planning your demise.”

“How’s it going?”

“Hard to say.”

“Why is the sun like that?” Summer asked, squinting.

“It hates us.”

“I hate it back.”