Page 45 of The Countess Caper

“Lovely.” Mrs. Pompadour only beamed. “Might I suggest a few more tapestries? No one thinks to look behind them anymore.”

Rue looked down at her from the landing thoughtfully. “That could work.”

“In my experience, it works every time.”

Rue studied her for one long breath. “Would you like to see the kitchens?”

“How sharp are your knives?”

“Sharp as a witch’s nose.”

“Oh, this is just a delightful house.”

Roarke went out in the moors, striding over hills and around the remains of stone houses from a thousand years ago. He saw hawks and wild ponies. Heard the wind as it rushed through a circle of old standing stones. All things he craved. All things necessary to his well-being. To his famed equanimity. He came home to quiet halls. Another thing he preferred.

Usually.

The emptiness of the rooms somehow offended him now. The smooth polish of perfect floorboards, the ticking of the clock. He wanted Tessa’s perfume of amber and roses. Wanted to hear her cursing as she struggled to fix some broken windowpane or catch a leak before it ruined what remained of the peeling wallpaper.

Didn’t just want it.

He needed it. Craved it.

It was enough to stagger him.

He’d wanted to be near her for years, and now, after one night together, he wanted more. It had been a week since she snuck out of his bed before the sun. He was both affronted and amused. He should have expected it. She was, as they’d discussed, unconventional. She would hold to their agreement.

Would he?

The idea of pretending not to notice her for however many more decades was impossible. He wanted to ask her how her day was, what she needed, to bring her wild apples from his ramblings.

He’d never wanted any such thing before.

Correction. He’d always wondered if Tessa would like the moors, but it wasn’t until he’d seen her cheerfully wrestling a broken floorboard that he’d thought she’d enjoy the rambling.

Lara, decidedly, had not.

He did not wish to compare his new wife with his first wife, but it was difficult not to. He’d barely known Lara. When he’d come into the earldom at twenty, his marriage followed suit with very little input from either of them. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would hate everything about his life and leave for London within days. That his size would scare her. That anything short of polished sophistication was unacceptable to her. Threatening, even. That the country bored her, and boredom did not bring out the best of her character.

At least she had not snuck out of the marriage bed.

He couldn’t find it in him to truly be offended. Tessa was honest, and everything that passed between them was both complicated and simple. He wanted her. She wanted him. It was more than most married couples of the ton had between them. They might have made it work, in their own way, had things been different.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when he remembered how miserable Lara had been in his house, how she had fallen into the arms of several paramours and danced her way through Mayfair, young, beautiful, and rich. She hadn’t been happy until she’d left him. Even then, there was an edge to her entertainment. A desperation he never understood.

He wouldn’t stifle Tessa. He wouldn’t put her in a box and watch her wilt. Not when she was exuberant and brave and cheerful. He had fulfilled the ridiculous promise to his mother, but he wouldn’t do it at Tessa’s expense.

She had enough money now to make her Magpie House dreams truly bloom. He didn’t know exactly what the women who lived with her were hiding from, but he could guess. He knew enough earls and viscounts and marquesses. Mayfair did not dole out enough consequences to such men. His first wife was proof enough. He might not have done a good enough job protecting her, but neither had they. He had never hurt her, but he had not protected her well enough, either. From herself. From a life in the ton.

He would protect Tessa. No matter where she lived, no matter where he lived. He’d sent her an army of unusual people who knew which questions not to ask and which secrets to keep to the grave. And they knew how to send housebreakers to the grave. Especially Mrs. Pompadour.

It would have to be enough.

Even though he knew damn well it was not.

Chapter Fourteen

Summer’s letter came very late at night.