Page 68 of The Countess Caper

Tessa tucked herself under a lemon tree and inhaled the sharp citrus scent, feeling better than she would have ever thought in this moment. Disdainful glances were being thrown her way, mouths moving behind painted fans, a sneer here, a scornful smirk there. But she made Roarke laugh. In public. Where she had only every seen him with the unwavering, uninterested stoicism of a stone.

The entire ton could drown in the punch bowl.

Or, at the very least, her cousin George.

She ought to have known better than to get cocky. Even inside her own head. Her family sensed that kind of thing, sniffed out any whiff of confidence and descended like pigs on truffles.

“Tessa, don’t slouch. It’s not ladylike.”

Tessa stifled a groan at her aunt’s words, shooting like bullets toward her. She did not, however, straighten her already straight spine.

Point for Tessa.

“Hello, Aunt Celeste.”

Celeste sniffed. She was a beautiful woman, with the aristocratic bearing of a person who knew they were descended from a line that dated back to before the Battle of Hastings. She wore a soft blue gown with cream lace, and more pearls and opals than a jeweler’s shop sold in a year. Her silk slippers must be pinching her toes, given the unhappy purse of her lips. Tessa nearly said so.

“Cousin,” George greeted her, sounding bored. But his eyes were sharp. They always had been. He was handsome enough, and it got him out of consequence after consequence. It was no surprise that he was good friends with Lord Tewksbury.

“George.”

“Lord Raleigh,” her aunt corrected.

“Then he may address me as Lady Dartmoor.”

Celeste sucked in an outraged breath. He no longer outranked her. In fact, she outranked her aunt. A small, petty part of her rejoiced at that, if only because they would have great difficulty in adjusting to that fact.

Fine. Not a very small part of her.

Aunt Celeste was turning a very unflattering shade of vermillion. “Everything is a caper to you, isn’t it? A lark.”

“Mother, don’t trouble yourself,” George said. “You know she was always ungrateful and rude.”

Tessa had been no such thing. But the familiar accusation did deflate her slightly. And he knew it. Damn him.

George shook his head, feigning concern. “I was certain the rumors were wrong. What have you gotten yourself into now? You aren’t suitable as a countess, cousin. You haven’t the disposition.”

He was right about that last part. Countesses probably did not stuff lemons up a viscount’s nostril during a ball. She still gave it serious consideration.

Very serious.

His very presence brought back memories of packing her favorite dresses after her father died and George and her aunt took possession of the house. Her favorite books, which her aunt made her return because they now belonged to her son. Even though he had no intention of reading them. The way her aunt was never satisfied with Tessa’s posture or smile or needlework. Her French was not good enough; she galloped instead of danced. She was ungrateful, greedy.

Tessa called up the little snippet of song from her father’s pocket watch, letting it soothe her, as it always did. She wasn’t a young girl anymore. She wasn’t even the woman they had helped kick out of Society, older and with very few options. She was a highwaywoman. A countess. And she was humming under her breath.

George sent her a sharp look. She snapped her teeth together even as she contemplated singing at the top of her lungs. Instead, she turned on her heel and left.

She could leave now. Fly away, fly away, fly away home. She had the power to make the choice instead of having it made for her. She did not need George or her aunt. Pride carried her to the balcony doors and down the steps into the shadows at the edge of the garden before the all-too-familiar itch to run away tingled in her feet. In her throat, burning with emotions she did not like. Did not want to feel again.

Did not deserve.

But it was there under her skin, and she did not know how to rid herself of it without running. She had improved. She did not need to flee the county or the city. Just the ballroom. Just for now. The dark gardens called, and the shadowy maze under the moon.

No one would notice.

Someone noticed.

“Are you running away again, little devil?” Roarke was suddenly there, his voice in her ear rough and soft at the same time. He pulled her sharply against him, pressing his chest against her back, her shoulders. She gasped, despite herself. His hand closed around her throat, lightly but impossible to evade. He held her still, captive.