Page 89 of The Countess Caper

Another punch.

“You’ll have to deal with many, many people. All that polite conversation. And you’ll definitely have to wear a cravat.”

The next punch hovered.

“I’d rather go home,” she added. “Wouldn’t you?”

Roarke pushed to his feet, sighing. “With you? Always.”

The footman cursed, spitting blood. His left eye was already swelling. “Bitch.”

Roarke turned, stepping on the man’s hand. “This is the hand that touched her,” he said quietly. Bones cracked. The footman howled. “Never again.”

Lennox and Fergus met them on the stairs.

“Thank God,” Lennox said, spotting Tessa unharmed. He said nothing about the blood on Roarke’s shirt. Fergus grunted in approval.

“There’s a footman in the nursery,” Roarke said. “See him to a magistrate or a constable, would you? He had his hands on my wife. No need to be gentle.”

The men’s faces darkened. Tessa smiled brightly. “I’m perfectly well.”

“We’ll see to it,” Fergus promised.

Roarke tucked Tessa into his side, as if she was going to be stolen again. His jaw was starting to look as if it hurt. She let herself soften against him, suddenly exhausted and yet still feeling as though her blood was pumping too fast. “How did you even find me?”

“Rue found your letter.” He glared down at her. “Rue.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Rue. Not me.”

“Ah.”

“We’ll be discussing that later, I assure you.”

The thrill the stern promise sent through her was very nearly indecent. Heat rushed into her belly. He narrowed his eyes at her warningly.

It did not douse the fire.

Quite the opposite.

“You are incorrigible,” he said softly. “Little devil.”

He didn’t say anything else until they had reached the ground floor, but his hand was warm on her lower back. “What is this place? Why did he bring you here?”

Tessa touched one of the gold birdcages hanging from the ceiling. “This was my mother’s house. Lark House.”

He frowned. “Why aren’t you living here instead of in that deathtrap?”

“I like that deathtrap,” she pointed out tartly. “And I’d forgotten about this house. I haven’t been here since I was very little.” She climbed into the carriage, waving at Atticus, who waited with a glower and a cudgel in hand. Not very subtle. “Did you see George?”

“Aye,” Atticus replied. “Jumped into a carriage as though his arse was on fire.”

“Follow him. Please.”

“Why does George care about the house?” Roarke asked as Atticus pulled into the street traffic.

“Because it’s mine,” she said darkly. “I saw the papers he stole. It was her dowry, and it’s my inheritance. My father put it in trust.”