Page 3 of The Countess Caper

She growled. There was no other word for it.

“You.”

Chapter Two

Her pistol did not waver.

If anything, her aim improved. Threateningly.

She would rather have stolen the prince himself, the very devil, in fact, than Roarke Noble, Earl of Dartmoor. The Beast of Dartmoor. Ridiculous nickname. Almost as bad as the one the ton had given her. Punch Bowl Ophelia.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

She blinked, momentarily nonplussed. Of all of the reactions she might have expected, all of the questions, that one would never have made the list. Not in a thousand years. “Pardon?”

He scowled at her. Not at her pistol, but her. “You vanished from Society.”

True. But why on earth had he even noticed? She supposed The Incident was still talked about. She sighed. “You hate Society.”

“You don’t.”

He did not look like an earl. He never had. He was too tall, his shoulders too wide, his thighs too thick. He was entirely and annoyingly too handsome with his shock of dark hair, his neat beard. His green eyes, sometimes like moss, sometimes like stone. Not that she’d noticed. And he wasn’t wearing a cravat.

“Where’s your cravat?” she asked peevishly, even though she had never once given a whit as to whether or not a man was wearing one.

“You are attempting to steal my carriage because I am not wearing a cravat?”

“No, of course not.” He made her ridiculous. Always had.

“Then pray tell.”

He was lounging. She was threatening him, and he was lounging. He didn’t even have the decency to be scared. Nervous. Mildly anxious.

Damn the man.

“I need it,” she said stubbornly.

“I gathered that much. Tell me where you need to go in such a state, and I’ll take you there myself.”

She snorted. “I don’t need you. I need your carriage.”

“I’m afraid we are a packaged set.”

She motioned with her pistol. “You’re really not.” Had he recently fallen on his head? Didn’t he realize she was threatening him?

Again, not a particularly inspiring start to her highwaywoman career.

Stealing jewelry from ballrooms would have been so much easier. No one would notice until later, and then they’d assume they had been foxed on wine or a clasp had broken. The idea that it might be found somewhere illicit was worse than losing it, and they might never even make a peep. Perfect, really.

But it had been rather a long time since she had been welcomed in a ballroom.

He continued to watch her steadily. She huffed an impotent sigh. “You know I could shoot you, don’t you?”

“Lady Tessa, you are not going to shoot me.” He raised an eyebrow, implacable as always. “Despite promising to do so for a great many years.”

“Just get out,” she snapped. “I’m in a hurry.”

He did not move.