Page 11 of The Countess Caper

In any event, he was running out of time. His birthday was in less than a week. He loved his mother, but she had made things difficult. He imagined she was even now giggling from some cloud in heaven. Or giggling in hell, which most of her family would assume. He missed her.

Despite this irritation.

“Have you had tea?” Tessa inquired.

Summer, sitting by the fire, snorted. “Rue is in the kitchen at the moment.”

“Ah.”

Roarke watched them exchange a knowing glance followed by a small shudder. “Is your cook so terrifying?” he asked.

Tessa wrinkled her nose. “We don’t have a cook at present, so we all take turns,” she explained. “I’m afraid that Rue is by far the most skilled, but she is also the most likely to throw a knife at your head if you interrupt her.”

“You don’t have a cook?” He’d never known a houseful of wellborn women not to have a full staff. Summer had eaten off gilded plates and drunk from crystal cups every day of her life. As a viscount’s daughter and an heiress, he couldn’t imagine Tessa was much different. Hell, any earl worth his salt was the same.

He was not particularly worth his salt.

And, to be fair, he couldn’t have imagined her in those tight, wet breeches either. He wouldn’t be able to stop now. The way they molded to her bottom, to the curve of her strong legs. He didn’t think she would mind a long ramble through the moors, climbing the Dartmoor hills and greeting the wild ponies. He could count on one hand the number of people, never mind ladies, who did not think him touched in the head for his preference for the wind over the expensive clatter of silver cutlery and polite chitchat.

Tessa might understand.

Hope he had no business feeling or feeding unfurled inside his chest.

He cursed Summer under his breath. This was a bad idea.

The best idea he’d ever had.

The worst.

“Roarke, are you growling?” Summer inquired.

“Of course not.”

Probably.

Definitely.

“I expect you’re hungry,” Tessa said apologetically. “I’ll brave the beast in her lair.”

“No need,” Summer said cheerfully. She pulled a picnic hamper from behind her chair. “I am prepared. After last time, I didn’t want to go to bed hungry again.” She lifted the lid to reveal apples, pears, bread and cheese wrapped in waxed linen, jars of almonds and walnuts. Four pots of jams, one of honey.

“What happened last time?” Roarke asked. Everything about today had not gone as expected, and he had known it was going to be an odd day to begin with. Add a theft, tight breeches, childbirth, and hidden refreshments, and he honestly did not know what to expect next.

“We went to bed very hungry,” Summer explained. “Very hungry. And then Rue woke us at four o’clock in the morning to taste her strawberry crumble.”

“It was worth it,” Tessa said. “But you are brilliant,” she added. “Because Lord Dartmoor might not be hungry, but I could eat a Christmas feast to myself.”

“The entire goose?”

“And the trimmings.”

Summer grinned, pulling out a roll of bread. “You’ll find it’s best not to let Tessa get too hungry. She gets a bit feral.”

Tessa snatched it from her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You nearly bit my finger yesterday.”

“You were so slow. I’ve seen snails move faster.” She stepped closer, but her foot caught on a loose floorboard. She faltered, and Roarke moved to catch her, but she had already steadied herself, clearly out of long habit. There was a soft rip as the hem caught a loose nail. She sighed. “That’s the third time this week.”