Page 58 of The Countess Caper

“Well then. That’s that.”

She shook her head. Rue ate another bun, watching them as though she were at the opera. Holly ate a spoonful of salted butter. Fergus hovered in the doorway until Rue tossed him one of the buns—physically tossed it to him so it sailed over Daphne’s head. And this from a lady who used to play the pianoforte for the queen at social events.

It was a problem that this madhouse and its mad inhabitants were growing on him.

“Roarke, you hate parties,” Tessa reminded him. “I only ever saw you looming in corners and glowering. Often at me.”

He’d only been there to catch a glimpse of her, glowering at anyone who did not make her smile. Who held her too close. He’d cut off his own arm before admitting it. Especially with an audience. “It doesn’t signify,” he said instead. “I’ve had an invitation to the Kensington house party. I threw it in the bin.”

“Naturally.” She said it as though it was endearing, not infuriating, of him.

He could not think of the last time someone had found his silences and reclusiveness endearing. If ever.

“The marquess is a gossip. I went to school with him, and he was the same back then. There will be dozens of people in attendance.” He tried to sound as though the thought of it didn’t make him want to grit his back teeth. He failed. “Give them two days and the news will have spread to Edinburgh. You won’t tell me what is going on here.” Though he had his guesses. “But you’ll let me arm you.”

“With a title.”

“You know as well as I do that it will cut as sharp as a blade in certain circumstances.”

It was hardly enough. But it was something. He’d see about making sure Fergus and the lads had more pistols as well. And Rue. He’d already ordered one for Tessa. It was simple, nothing flashy that someone might remember spotting in the hand of a highwaywoman. But under the handle, where her fingers curled, there was a tiny bird. She seemed to like birds. He sometimes caught her singing under her breath about a lark flying away home.

“I suppose,” she said.

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” he noted drily.

She dropped her voice so only he could hear her, despite Rue leaning forward far enough that her sleeve dipped into the jam pot. “You were clear that you did not want a traditional marriage. This seems… very traditional.”

“Temporary.”

“Ah.”

“Needs must.”

“I see.”

He was botching it. Something moved behind her eyes, something gray and shadowy. He didn’t care for it. “It’s just a party.”

“Very well.”

Relief was sharp. When she had come in from the fields, her cheeks were pink from the wind, her hair tangled. She looked good enough to eat.

But her light was dimmed.

She put on a brave face. She clearly excelled at hiding her disappointment, her hurt. He’d think on that later. For now, it was enough that he could fix this one problem. Someone was treating her ill. And making her doubt herself.

And he would not have that. Not ever.

Men with knives. Debutantes to village gossips. It didn’t matter. They would not touch her.

And if he had to parade about in a cravat in a stuffy old house where the men stank of cologne and the women either blanched at his arrival or tried to slip their hands under his coat, so be it. It was a small price to pay.

If he was going to leave her alone, he would have her safe. More than that. She would be happy.

God knew he didn’t want to leave. He shouldn’t have come in the first place. He was breaking his own rules.

Too late now.

Especially when she regarded him with concern bordering on embarrassment. “Are you quite sure?” she asked. “I don’t know that the marquess will want the notorious Punch Bowl Ophelia in his house.”