Page 49 of The Countess Caper

“Vile.”

“Utterly.”

Tessa handed her the pouch. “I’ll see you back at the house, then.” Rue was already walking away. “Always lovely having a chat, Rue,” Tessa muttered.

The sun was warm on her head, the breeze cool on her cheeks. It smelled of mud and burning leaves and the last of the flowers. A good time. She had everything she needed.

Including Roarke.

She turned and started to see him there, leaning against a tree as if he was watching a play on Drury Lane. His voice was rough, amused.

“His spleen, is it?”

Chapter Fifteen

“Roarke?”

She wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t an apparition she had conjured to perfect an already near-perfect moment.

And she refused to examine why he felt like the missing piece.

She was addled, clearly.

But he looked so good, strong, and patient, with wind-tousled hair and that rare half-smile. As if he liked what he saw when he looked at her. She wasn’t too small or too much; her hair wasn’t too red, her opinions too radical, her nails too chipped.

As if he hadn’t just seen her hold up a peer of the realm at gunpoint.

Better, as if he had and he found it… adorable?

She didn’t know how to feel about that. About the click of relief and anticipation in her chest on seeing him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. She tried not to squeak, tried to sound nonchalant. Sophisticated. She failed. Of course.

She’d once been so adept at knowing the rules, at following to the letter with a polite smile that showed nothing and a sublime curtsy. But none of that had helped her in the end. It hadn’t saved her dowry or made her any more lovable to her family members. She was sure she could pull on the mask again, like a disguise—one so much less fun than a highwaywoman’s disguise. But not with Roarke, for some reason. Her polished social skills evaded her.

Probably for the best. If she tried to flatter him, she had the feeling he would just glare at her like she’d insulted his dog. “Clearly I’m not doing anything as interesting as you are.”

She smiled. Winced. Mostly winced. “Um.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She lowered hers. “You wanted an unconventional wife,” she blurted out.

“That I did.”

“You have no one but yourself to blame.”

“For your criminal activities?” he asked drily. “Interesting interpretation of the law. You’re right. I should be ashamed.”

She winced again. To be fair, in any court in England, he could be found culpable, responsible for her actions. Because she was his wife. Because she was a woman.

Anger bit at her.

“I’m only teasing,” he said quietly, misreading her expression. She struggled to amend her glower. She’d never glowered when she lived in London. “I’m only glad you didn’t steal his carriage, like you did mine.”

“Borrowed,” she corrected him, wondering why she suddenly felt like smiling. Being around Roarke was exhausting. Exhilarating. Was a person meant to feel so many confusing things all at once?

“Beg your pardon,” he said. “Borrowed. You’re wearing breeches again.” He sounded very, very calm. As if he was commenting on the weather. And yet a glance out of the corner of her eye showed his hand curled into a loose fist. His eyes met hers, burned.