Page 17 of The Countess Caper

Her father had done his best after her mother had died, but then he’d also died too young. And she was sent to live with a string of relatives who foisted her off to the next house as soon as could be.

Marigold’s parents said they could not afford to keep her, when Tessa knew it was only that they did not like her influence on Marigold. George’s mother resented every single penny and every single ounce of attention that was saved for her son. There were others scattered in between—an elderly spinster aunt who died, a great-uncle who forgot she was living in his house.

“You would have the protection of my name,” Roarke continued. “My respect, of course. And two hundred pounds as a monthly income, which, as Summer said, you clearly need for this ramshackle disa—house.”

That was a fortune.

“I see,” she said, because she wasn’t sure what else to say.

An absolute fortune.

“Say you’ll think on it,” Roarke murmured.

“You can’t afford for me to think on it. You only have a few days, by your own account.”

“I can afford one night.”

She nodded, but before she could say anything else, a bell rang from the foyer, loud and shrill. Roarke started.

Tessa sighed. “You’ll rescind your offer by morning,” she said.

He towered over her nonchalantly. “I am made of sturdier stuff.”

He was probably used to physically removing obstacles with little effort. Muscles or money, they would see him clear of most problems.

He did not know Magpie House.

Or its inhabitants.

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Let’s see, shall we?”

She wasn’t disappointed.

He followed her out of the parlor and down the hall, where Rue rang the bell like a nun spotting Viking ships on the shore. She turned and waved a butcher knife at Roarke. It dripped with what Tessa hoped was the blood of a roast and not a human.

“Who the hell is he?”

Chapter Seven

“Rue, this is Lord Dartmoor.” Tessa made the introductions as though they were still in the drawing room and there was nothing at all untoward about being threatened with a dripping knife.

Rue, pink-cheeked and with golden hair that reached down to her elbows in loose curls she never bothered to put up when at home, scowled. “Is he on the list?”

Roarke stood very still, for which Tessa gave him points. Rue was not above stabbing a man in the foyer, earl or no. Actually, the fact that he was an earl was decidedly not in his favor. Rue had not been well treated by an earl. It was all she would say on the matter.

“He’s not on the list,” Tessa replied. The list was currently tacked to the wall in the kitchen. It was decorated with knife marks and holes left by angry forks. Lord Tewksbury. Lord Beville. Viscount Eastbourne. And Viscount Raleigh, just so she could have the pleasure of seeing George’s name poked through with holes. They’d spent several hours playing very cathartic games of darts in those first few weeks.

“He was invited. He’s here for Summer.”

“For you,” Roarke said quietly.

Tessa refused to feel a flutter. He was correcting her, not complimenting her.

The small flutter was not so easily convinced.

Bodies were rather inconvenient when they went against one’s logical brain. Tessa’s brain knew he had chosen her because he did not particularly care for her.

Her body still wanted to climb him like a tree. That rough voice. Those huge, patient hands. The way he looked down at her with beetled brows as if he knew she was up to some mischief.