Page 80 of The Countess Caper

“That door has not been opened in years,” Roarke said. He was in his shirt sleeves, collar open at this throat, cravat long since discarded. The candlelight made him look like Hercules standing in the lion’s den, all muscles and gold light. He studied her for a long moment, seeming to come to a decision. About what, she did not know. “I have a question about my room.”

She blinked. “All right.”

“Why are there so many grapes in there? I can’t tell if I’m queasy or hungry.”

“I forgot we put you in the Grape Room.”

“You said it was the Blackbird Room.”

“One day, it shall be.” She peeked behind him. The moldings were ornamented with grapes, bunches growing in the corners, trailing over the door lintels. Painted on the walls, choking the ceiling. All in the most unfortunate shade of vermillion green. “Eventually.”

“I suspect one of the previous owners was a bit of a drunk,” Roarke said, leaning close as though he were confessing.

“We can move you?” Tessa suggested. Unless he was not staying for long. They had not discussed it. She would not ask. Not tonight. Tomorrow she would be brave. “We have a lovely blue room. You’ll feel like you’re underwater.”

“Seasick, you mean,” he said with a brief smile.

She thought of the many mirrors in the chamber, of the blue coverlet embroidered with a wave pattern, of the seashells pressed into the wall. Of the exceedingly odd perspective of the mural of a mermaid who may or may not have three arms. “That too.”

“I’ll deal with the grapes, thank you very much.”

She worried at her bottom lip, suddenly not sure what to say. What to do.

“You’ve been cooped up all day,” Roarke said. “And so have I. How about a walk?”

She nodded. He plucked her shawl from the back of a chair and handed it to her. She was decidedly less neat than she had been with a lady’s maid to tidy up behind her. There were teacups on the table again. Two pairs of muddy boots on the floor. And she was reasonably certain that countesses generally did not have stacks of mouse-nibbled books on the floor, or a vase filled with sticks and an antique dagger. Roarke didn’t seem to mind; he walked past her to open the door and motion for her to precede him.

He changed when he was outside—she could see it in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the line of his jaw. He had always disdained drawing rooms for the fields. Candlelight for moonlight. She hadn’t truly understood that about him before. She should have, as she also preferred it. She hadn’t realized that about herself either, not until the last few months.

Tonight was a perfect example. She’d been restless and distracted all day, filling her hours with work. Tonight had started the same, until Roarke led her through the garden under the moonlight. The flowers were nearing their last bloom, decadent and excessive and wilting under the weight of their own beauty. The air was cool, smelling of damp and loam and the smoke from someone’s fire down in the village. Crickets and grasshoppers competed in song, trilling in the long grasses beyond the garden wall.

“What did you do today?” he asked.

“A thousand things,” Tessa replied. “And I went down to the village.”

He sent her a sidelong glance. “And how was it?” he asked, too casually. “How was Mrs. Harris?”

“Mrs. Harris was the soul of nervous civility.” She paused. “What did you do?”

He grunted.

She stopped walking. “Roarke Noble.”

He only smiled a little at her governess tone. “I merely reminded the good shopkeepers of Fox Hollow that if they did not wish to keep shop, they certainly didn’t have to.”

“I don’t even know how that’s a threat, but I am certain it is.” It wouldn’t have been what he said, more the towering hulk of him, the sudden sharpness in those leaf-green eyes. No wonder Madame Colette’s had all but cleared when she’d stepped inside. Madame Colette had offered her tea, coffee, and even a wedge of cheese in increasing agitation. Mrs. Harris had curtsied, bright red in the face, and could not meet her gaze. “You probably should not terrorize the village folk,” she said drily.

He shrugged, unconcerned. “I stop when they stop. Although I suppose I do owe you an apology. For yesterday.” The gravel walk crunched under his shoes. “I did not mean to embarrass you,” he said gruffly. “At the Kensingtons’.”

“You didn’t embarrass me.”

He looked as surprised by her nonchalance as she was by his concern. “I planted a facer on an earl.”

“On a jackass, you mean.”

He grinned. “Also true. But still not exactly ballroom etiquette.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “If he wants to be treated courteously, he ought to act with courtesy.”