Page 9 of The Countess Caper

Roarke, like everyone else, would see an impulsive, foolhardy purchase, at best. Something a pampered debutante might choose because she had no idea how the world worked. Certainly nothing worth going into considerable debt over.

But Tessa saw home. Freedom. Security. Choices.

A haven.

She refused to be embarrassed. Every dream started somewhere. And anyway, she had not invited Roarke to poke holes in her dreams. She had not even invited him here in the first place.

She pushed at the door. There was no butler, naturally. She had to kick the bottom twice, hard enough that her toes were starting to be tender from the daily abuse. It finally popped open, and she nearly tumbled inside and sprawled on her face. Her elbow tingled, ready for the hard introduction to the floor. It knew from experience. Only this time, a large hand caught the back of her coat and held her steady. The abbreviated fall made her stomach tilt.

Roarke still had not spoken. He merely followed her inside. She sighed at the mess gathering under their feet and wondered what he would say if she made him take off his boots. It was tempting, but she couldn’t ask him to risk splinters and gangrene from the state of the floors. They were clean, but in terrible shape. And everything tilted north. It was a bit disconcerting before you got used to it.

Roarke, naturally, did not look disconcerted. Boulders never did.

Lady Summer, twin sister to the Duke of Tremaine, joined them from the only usable parlor. “There you are,” she said. “Where’s Marigold?”

“Lying in with her daughter.” Tessa grinned. “She’s named her Parsley.”

“Wonderful,” Summer said. “Not the name, of course. It’s appalling.” She reached out to kiss Roarke’s cheek. “Well, if it isn’t the Earl of Dartmoor.”

“You summoned?” he asked drily, but fondly.

“I did.” She looked exactly as she should: beautiful, charming, dressed in silk. Her dark hair curled fetchingly. Her smile was bright and welcoming. There wasn’t a spot of mud on her, not even any dust in her hair, and Tessa had yet to go an hour in the house without dust or cobwebs or dirt on her face.

Summer looked like a duke’s sister.

Tessa did not look like a viscount’s daughter.

Or a viscount’s cousin, now that George had taken over the estate. Even when she was not wearing breeches. She wasn’t about to let it bother her. Summer and Roarke would make beautiful, giant children who barely spoke but glittered like stars.

And Tessa would—

“Tessa!” Holly interrupted from the top of the stairs. She had come to them as Henrietta. Sometimes Tessa worried she would forget her friends’ real names, and whispered them to herself. “The attic is turning into the Thames, and we’ve run out of buckets.”

Tessa would battle the leaking roof. Forever.

It was not a bad destiny, truth be told. If she could keep it from crumbling around her.

“We’ll use the chamber pots from the extra bedrooms,” she called back, starting up the stairs. She avoided the third step out of habit. Everyone avoided the third step. Ankles were delicate, necessary things. Just ask Holly. And Daphne. Her knee was still purple from her last altercation with the third step. “It’ll have to do for now.”

She paused halfway up, leaning over the banister toward Summer and taking her life in her hands. There was an ominous creak. “His arm needs seeing to.”

“It’s fine,” Roarke said, his voice rolling up her spine, even from a distance. It was probably just her damp shirt.

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” she pointed out.

He scoffed. Looked down. Paused. “Damnation.”

She took the rest of the stairs at a run. Summer could handle his cut, and if she didn’t hurry, they might be all washed away before teatime.

Teatime. Tessa had no idea if there was anything decent enough to serve an earl. Blast.

Holly helped her gather the chamber pots, digging them out from under beds that had been covered up for years. Sheets covered chairs, the occasional table. Dust was thick as snow. The house could ostensibly welcome several dozen people. One day. Not currently, clearly. Holly sneezed, as if proving her point. Most of the bedrooms were in shambles.

The attic was an outright mess.

Were she not made of sterner stuff, Tessa might have considered a good cry. A pout. A full-on rage. Instead, she indulged in a single sigh and then slogged through the sodden boxes of old dresses, tarnished silver (they’d missed that box—silver could be sold off for a pretty penny), broken chairs. The floor was disconcertingly soft under her boots. “Careful you don’t fall through,” she warned Holly as they wove between buckets full of rainwater.

“I’ll be careful,” Holly promised, hand over her very pregnant belly. “My ankle has just healed.”