Page 35 of The Countess Caper

She tried not to let it loom inside her, and they headed toward Bristol. Women made decisions like this every day, but rarely with such good results. Earls were not generally known for their consideration. Roarke, however, was all consideration. And quiet glowers and wide shoulders.

And extra carriages, apparently.

The walls were lacquered, the cushions dark blue leather. Everything was polished to a shine. Atticus drove the road with care and purpose, keeping the wheels steady. A pity the family crest was upon the door—she could hardly use it to steal from other unsuspecting earls. Never mind; she had Foxglove for that. A wide-brimmed hat and a scarf. And soon, a shiny new pistol.

Anyway, it was probably frowned upon to plan one’s criminal activities as you pulled up the lane to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s vacation house.

Roarke waited outside for her, striding forward to open the door when the horses pulled to a stop. He pulled the step down, waving Atticus away. And then he smiled at her, that quiet, steady smile, the one that made her toes curl despite herself. The one so few people ever glimpsed. He wore a dark gray coat over a forest-green waistcoat patterned with leaves. His dark hair was swept back as if he’d been walking by the sea. “Lady Tessa.”

“Lord Dartmoor.”

He offered his hand to help her out of the carriage. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Neither was she. She was forever tearing them.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She grinned, physically refusing to let her nerves make her morose. If she took herself too seriously in this, she would be doomed. She winked. “Are you?”

He half smiled. “Is anyone truly ready for you, devil?”

Tessa wished the nickname had not echoed in her head in his soft, rough voice, all throughout the simple ceremony. It was not the first time she’d been called something similar—usually having to do with the kind of chaos you wished away. No one had ever said it with such fondness.

It was addictive, that fondness.

Dangerous.

She was not a woman people stayed for, despite fondness. Roarke was proving it to her even now. She had to keep a level head. Stay in the moment. Be grateful and be smart. And if you can’t be smart, be kind.

Anyway, she was quickly distracted.

Very quickly.

She was married. She was Lady Dartmoor.

And it was her wedding night.

Roarke had rented rooms at the finest inn, The Golden Swan, which was very fine indeed. Everything was swept clean, and there were flowers and beeswax candles on every table and a fire crackling in the old hearth. A mural of a fox hunt raced above the mantel. It was faded, clearly painted at least a hundred years ago. Soot blackened the edges.

“I hope you don’t mind an inn,” Roarke said, once the door closed behind them and they were finally alone for the first time. As husband and wife. He frowned. “I should have found something better. A country house. Something with dignity.”

She grinned. “I happen to have a country house, if you’ll recall,” she pointed out. “With no dignity to be found anywhere. This is far better.”

“You have a deathtrap with curtains.”

“We burned the curtains, actually,” she replied cheerfully.

“Dare I ask why?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

He crossed to the sideboard, where a tray waited, piled high with fruits and pastries. Next to it stood a decanter of wine and one of whiskey. “Drink?”

She rubbed her palms on her skirts, which were patterned with green and white stripes, cheerful but not particularly formal. She’d sold all of her ball gowns. “Whiskey, please.”

They drank in silence for a moment as the rain touched the mullioned windows. A cool breeze made the candle flames dance. “Are you cold?” Roarke asked. “I can close the window.”

When he moved to do so, she stopped him. “I like them open. It smells like a storm.”

She wasn’t sure why that pleased him so much, but it did.