Page 59 of The Countess Caper

“He’ll treat you with the respect he treats all of his guests—better, even—or he’ll answer to me.”

Holly shook her head. “I find that nickname most annoying.”

“I suppose I deserve it. It’s apt enough,” Tessa said.

“Hardly. You did not try to drown yourself in a punch bowl, a la Ophelia. You tried to drown a rat.”

“That’s what you object to?”

“Well, it’s incorrect. It makes no sense.”

“The ton rarely does.”

“Ophelia would not approve.”

Tessa rolled her eyes, but she looked less haunted. Roarke decided to buy Holly her own house. And maybe a horse. Two horses.

He pushed to his feet. Tessa glanced up at him. “Pack your trunk,” he said. “We’ll leave after luncheon. There’s something I have to do first.”

Such as visit the village and its judgmental inhabitants—in his shiny, expensive carriage and his best cravat. Like a proper earl. To throw his aristocratic weight around, like a proper jackass. If Tessa wanted to purchase fabric, she would be sold fabric. If she needed bread or glue or silk flowers for the damn bonnet she never wore, she would have them. From the village. Despite this Mrs. Harris.

If Tessa ever truly understood the things he would do for her, he’d be doomed.

She was doomed.

Trust her to be soft for a man who infuriated her to her wit’s end.

Roarke had said he wanted nothing to do with her, then he showed up out of nowhere for no particular reason. He sent her an army. He said he wanted an unconventional marriage with no demands, something that had more to do with signing her name in a ledger than anything else, and then he announced they would parade through a house party so their marriage would be public and irrefutable. Just so he could protect her.

Anyone with eyes could see he was the protective sort. No injured bird, stray cat, lost child, or unhappy lady would be excluded from his care. She absolutely could not read into it.

It was not personal. It was not about her specifically.

No matter how warm it made her feel, how desperate to curl into his broad chest. To lick his lower lip. Bite his collarbone. Bite him everywhere.

She was certain ladies did not bite. A governess had surely told her that at some point in her childhood.

Still. She wanted her mouth on him. His mouth on her.

And to think that just hours ago she had felt small. Caged.

He should not have that kind of power over her happiness. Her equilibrium.

Her house.

“Fergus, the fifth step from the bottom is likely to give way at any moment and kill someone. Have it seen to,” Roarke ordered, just as the carriage was brought round, already packed with their belongings.

Tessa froze. That was too close to the priest’s hole where Bryony liked to hide. “It’s already been fixed,” she said nonchalantly. Even if she felt very, very chalant. Was that even a word?

“Since this morning?” Roarke raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, while you were out.”

“Hmm.”

She smiled brightly at Fergus. “No need to fuss with the staircase.”

He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”