Page 33 of The Countess Caper

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I suppose we would have discreet affairs,” she mused. “Like everyone else in the ton.” It would hardly be the most shocking part of their arrangement. And since he only wanted to marry her because she was the kind of woman you left behind, she should secure herself any and all options. It was logical. Practical. She should be feeling proud of herself, not whatever this odd sensation in her chest was.

His jaw went hard again, but he only said, “I won’t force you. Not ever.”

She nodded. “I know.” Knowing that made this a possibility. “And a wedding night is just a legality.”

He wasn’t looking as pleased as she’d assumed he would. He was getting everything he’d asked for, after all. An unconventional wife who would not bother him.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Whatever happens, this house remains mine.”

He nodded. “Agreed. We’ll add it to the contract. You can have Rue sign her name to it as well—she’s properly terrifying.”

She had to smile at that. “True.” She tried not to fidget. Was she really going to go through with this? “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She licked her lips.

“Yes.”

Something flared in his eyes, something raw and primal, quickly banked. Then he bowed smartly, back to being the Beast of Dartmoor, roughly the size of a house. “Until tomorrow, then.” His voice was a bit lower than usual, gravelly. She liked it. “The archbishop is staying in Bristol, and he owes me a favor. He’ll sign the special license. Did you want Summer or the others as witness? Bridal party? Isn’t that a thing brides like?”

A bridal party, a wedding breakfast, her friends toasting her with champagne. It would make this feel too real. She did not need to muddle it further. “No, thank you,” she replied politely.

Emotions crossed his rugged face again, like storm clouds passing over the sun. She wondered that he had such a reputation for being unreadable when it was all there in his moss-green eyes. They went ever so slightly gray when he was annoyed, and darkened when he was interested. “Very well,” he replied evenly. He paused at the door, glancing over his wide shoulder. “Oh, and Tessa?”

“Yes?”

“I would have offered a much higher monthly allowance.”

He looked so quietly smug.

“Roarke?”

“Yes?”

“I would have accepted less.” She grinned. “You should have bargained harder.”

“Tessa, harder is not possible,” he muttered drily. “I’d pass out.”

Her startled laugh followed him down the hall.

Somehow, between Marigold nearly giving birth in a lilac brush during a thunderstorm and a hunt for a house intruder, Tessa had become betrothed.

To the Beast of Dartmoor.

To Roarke.

She would be the Countess of Dartmoor. She would finally be able to properly fix the roof. Mrs. Harris could choke on her judgments and her opinions. Tessa would have sugar in the pantry, beef for stew.

And she would have a single night of passion with Roarke.

She could no longer pretend she did not want that, not after the kiss.

And she could bring in more help. Little Parsley could actually go to school one day. And Tessa could buy a pistol that actually functioned. She would still be a highwaywoman, after all. Why should Roarke shoulder the entre financial bill for other men’s bad choices?

It was all rather thrilling.