Page 16 of The Countess Caper

“You did not follow her?”

“She specifically asked me not to. And I hate London. It breaks me out in hives.”

“Me too.” It hadn’t used to.

He looked pleased at that, and then stoic, as if being pleased was against the rules.

Meanwhile, she no longer had any idea of what the rules even were. Marriages were often a business arrangement for families like hers, and the Noble family specifically, seeing as Roarke Noble was the Earl of Dartmoor. It was a matter of dowries and estates and little earl babies. She was not naïve.

She was, however, confused.

Her dowry, while substantial, was also fictional. Meaning George had already spent it and would most definitely not offer to replace it. He would not even give her the annuity that was due from her own mother’s inheritance, over which he technically had no rights whatsoever. There were legalities involved, and he could afford much better lawyers than she could. Perhaps Roarke did not know that, though. She was not sure if it was common knowledge.

“I do not have a dowry,” she said bluntly.

“I did not ask for one.” He straightened. “But why do you not have one, exactly? The Kilkenny family is well off, and an old, distinguished name. I’ve not heard of any insurmountable debts.”

She sighed. No, her cousin was cleverer than that. “Do you know George Kilkenny, Viscount Raleigh?”

“Aye,” Roarke replied. “He’s a right tosser.”

She smiled. “He’s my cousin.”

He winced. “Apologies. Of course he is.”

“Not at all. He is a tosser. Also, a greedy rat bastard.”

“Ah.” He cocked an eyebrow. “In charge of your dowry, is he?”

“Aye,” she returned, imitating his stern, sharp tone.

His smile was brief, a mere quirk of the corner of his mouth. She rather liked it.

“I’m sure you’d rather not be related to him. And anyway, as an earl you can do much better than me. Any duke or marquess would be glad to have his kin as a countess.”

“But not you?”

She frowned. “I don’t rightly know.” She had been raised to want just that but had not thought about it much recently. Certainly, she could do more for the inhabitants of Magpie House if she were a countess. She might even be able to afford new mattresses. Chairs without splinters. A few burly footmen to help trounce any gentlemen that found them. She quite enjoyed planting a facer, especially to an unsuspecting gentleman of the ton, but some of them were quite tall. She’d need a ladder to reach them.

She glanced at Roarke.

“I’ve had a duke’s daughter as a wife,” he said. “And I thought she might be happy, that we might be happy in our own way, but…”

“What happened?” She knew enough not to believe the rumors, but not much else.

“She died. In childbirth.”

“I’m sorry.” She thought of Marigold, and sent up another prayer of gratitude.

“Thank you. It was not my child, but still a wee bairn. She was no bigger than a minute.” There was sorrow there, however complicated. “We were strangers, really.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Not like that. And anyway, you just said you don’t want a husband. You’re perfect.”

She was perfect because she was unconventional. Forgettable. Easy to be around. Easy to leave behind. No demands.

He had no idea how raw the holes in her self-worth were that he was carelessly poking.