Page 71 of The Countess Caper

Tea. Toasted bread with honey. That was all she needed to focus on. Never mind the ache in her thighs, the sweet soreness from Roarke dragging her into climax after climax.

She reached for her teacup. Lord Falsingham shifted beside her, trying to put more space between them. Roarke speared him with a glare. He coughed in his hand. “Beg your pardon,” he croaked.

Across the table, over a bowl of roses gone soft from an evening spent perfuming the ballroom, Lady Kensington smiled. A huge, bright smile. “Lady Tessa, do try the ham.”

If the guests had noted that the marquess had asked her to dance, they also noticed that the marchioness spoke to her like a dear friend. It would have changed her life a year ago. It still made a difference, and she was grateful for it, but she was also grateful not to feel the clawing desperation to change herself, to be perfect, to need the validation. When had that happened? She was far from perfect, and really, wasn’t that lovely?

Roarke had never kissed Perfect Tessa.

Anywhere.

And he certainly hadn’t taken her in the rain in a maze a hundred feet from the soiree of the Season.

Perfect Tessa’s life had been boring. And no more secure for it.

She preferred rusty muskets and nursing cats taking over bedrooms and leaking rooftops. She preferred her candy with a bite of salt. They said that revenge was not ladylike, but they said that because they did not want women to exact revenge. Or justice. Or anything at all.

Tessa took a second portion of ham, scandalizing an elderly viscount.

“Problem, sir?” Roarke asked mildly.

The viscount just shook his head and drank more tea until she feared the man would choke.

Tessa left the table shortly after, more cheerful than she would have thought possible at such an event. Deirdre would have enjoyed the scene.

After breakfast, Tessa found herself in the greenhouse, studying the flowers. She needed just a moment to gather her courage, to screw it to the sticking place now that she had found it.

She wasn’t the only one.

A lady approached her, smiling hesitantly, her shoulders squared. Tessa knew that stance intimately. She waited for the lecture on propriety, comments on her suitability. For Aunt Celeste to jump out of the bushes.

“Lady Dartmoor?”

Tessa forced a smile, reminding her pulse that this was not worth fussing over. This was not a knife at the throat. Or rabbits eating the last of the lettuce in the garden. Or even Rue’s attempt at jellied salad. That was truly a thing to be feared. “Yes?”

“I’m Lady Eleanor. I’m sorry to disturb you.” She was tall, with a rosebud mouth and gray eyes. Quite the most beautiful woman Tessa had ever seen. And she was dressed perfectly, from her spotless gloves to the curls falling softly over her ears. Tessa stifled a sigh.

“Not at all.”

Fly away, fly away, fly away home.

“Lady Winifred mentioned I should speak with you personally.”

Oh.

Everything inside her settled. This she knew. This she understood.

“Is Iri—That is, how is Lady Winifred?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Lady Eleanor rushed to assure her. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

Iris—Winifred—was fine, but Lady Eleanor was clearly nervous. She fiddled with a rose, shredding the petals without noticing. It scented the humid air. “How can I help you?” Tessa asked gently.

“My… friend requires your particular sort of assistance.”

“Ah. Your friend.” Tessa took a closer look. Lady Eleanor did not appear to be visibly increasing, and nor were there any bruises. That she could see.

Lady Eleanor followed her concerned perusal, and her face cleared. “No, really, I’m here on behalf of a friend. Miss Smith.”