Page 57 of The Countess Caper

“Why the hell not?”

“Mrs. Harris did not believe I was countess, and she thinks Parsley is a bastard.”

“Parsley is a bastard,” Marigold said evenly. “But that’s not her fault. The blame is on her father.”

“Hear, hear,” Rue said. “I like this new side of you, Marigold. Perhaps you can teach Paulette not to weep at shadows.”

“Not that I would marry him, even were he to ask. Parsley deserves better.”

Roarke held up a hand. “What do you mean, she did not believe you were my countess?”

Not a countess. His countess.

She could not let that thrill her.

Tessa shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Not really.”

“She’s not the only one who didn’t believe you are a countess, either,” Holly whispered.

Tessa shook her head sharply. Roarke noticed. He was too keen, saw too much. “Who else?”

“No one.” She would not touch her throat.

She didn’t have to.

“Goddamn it, whoever tried to cut you didn’t believe you either? Would they have reconsidered otherwise?”

“It’s fine.”

“That tears it.” Roarke sighed. It was a soft sound, and the only soft thing about him. His expression was implacable, hard. Cold enough that she might have shivered had she not known him. “We’re going to a party.”

He may as well have said he was going to the moon.

There was a very distinct and nearly physical pause, a thrum of silence, and then every single one of them turned to stare at him. Even Fergus, though he had to gallop down the hall to do so.

Roarke folded his arms across his chest, staring back.

“A party?” Tessa echoed.

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Roarke?”

“Yes?”

“Did you happen to fall out of the carriage yesterday?” She tilted her head, the minx. “Onto your head? Repeatedly?”

“We eloped,” he said, as if she didn’t already know. As if the secret of it wasn’t eating at him. Did she think he was ashamed? He wasn’t. Only cautious. Careful.

Scared to death.

“I did not send notices to the papers,” he continued. “Did you?”

“No.”