Then the man playing the merchant said, “What about me?”
“You have another daughter. Perhaps she will fare better in helping the family.”
“That’s a rotten story,” said the first man, the man named Joe. He leaped to his feet and paced about. “It was a good story and then it turned rotten. Whoever heard of the heroine not triumphing? Whoever heard of the villains not getting their comeuppance?”
Thea said nothing.
The grumbling grew. The crowd stirred angrily. Some stood. Others banged the tables. A riot was brewing.
Rafe lurched to his feet. The angry faces swiveled toward him and quieted at his glare.
“She jests,” he said. “Of course that’s not how the story ends.”
“So how does the story end?” demanded the man named Joe. “What does she do next?”
“Next she…she…” Bloody hell. How did he end this story? “She gives them both a kick in the bollocks.”
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Shrieking with delight, Rosamund threw herself into her task with glee, while the knaves sought to evade her. Some audience members decided to take part, and then the innkeeper was in the fray, yelling at them to stop, because broken furniture wasn’t good for his economics, so Rafe paid for more drinks, and helped settle everyone down, and when he looked up, Thea was gone.
Thea breathed in the cool night air. The beech trees beside the inn were silhouettes against the sky, lit by a valiant half moon. She wandered onto the road, and when she looked back at the inn, with its noise and yellow pools of light, it seemed eerily removed, as if she viewed it through a glass. Lord Luxborough would like this; he would have preferred to stand out here, yet he had entered the crowded tavern for her sake. A small sacrifice on his part. Another unexpected kindness.
Wandering on, she sucked in more country air, filling her lungs but not the hollow in her stomach. What on earth was wrong with her? Finally, she had told her story. Strangers agreed she had been wronged. Surely she should feel some satisfaction or vindication? Yet all she felt was an aching sorrow for some other girl.
Around her, the fields were silent and still, the darkness thick and endless. An owl hooted. A gust of wind tugged at her skirts. She turned and, for a panicky, disoriented moment, feared she had lost sight of the inn. But there it was, a distant glow. Thea headed back, her regrets dancing at her side.
If only she had trusted herself. A little voice inside her had whispered that Percy Russell was rotten, but she had allowed her parents to tell her she was wrong. Thea had never been averse to the idea of marrying into the upper class, for the sake of her whole family, but until Percy Russell it had only been an idea, and then she faced the reality of marrying a man she disliked. Everything had changed with Percy, especially Ma and Pa; the thought of Thea marrying a viscount’s son had gripped them like a fever and they’d stopped listening to reason. And Thea, hating to disappoint them, hating to let down the whole family, had tried to suppress her dislike and accepted his attentions, but not without arguing first.
Would that crowd still have cheered if she had confessed to the next part—the part where she began saying foolish things? “Why should I stop with charming Mr. Percy Russell to induce him to marry me?” she had snapped, as Ma, seeking to “improve Thea’s charms,” pinched color into her cheeks. “Maybe I’ll expedite matters and simply seduce him instead. Maybe I’ll seduce the whole jolly lot of them.” But she never dreamed Percy and his friends would hit on a similar idea, as punishment for her good deed. Never dreamed her bitter jokes would come back to haunt her, and prevent Ma and Pa from believing a word she said.
Reaching the yard to the inn, Thea paused and breathed deeply, shoving away the grim thoughts before she once more faced the world.
Then a shadowy figure caught her eye, slinking between the carriages. Pausing at the Earl of Luxborough’s carriage. Easing the door open, disappearing inside.
“Hey you!” she called out. “Stop! Thief!”
She ran in search of help, one eye on the carriage, one on the figure emerging with a box of plants. Again she called out, as the thief ran. And ran.
And stopped.
For his way was blocked by a tall, broad man with tousled hair.
“Put down that box,” the earl said calmly.
The thief nimbly darted to the side. Luxborough was there before him. The thief darted back the other way; his path was once more blocked.
“I do not much care for dancing,” Luxborough said. “So put down that box and if you run very fast, perhaps you’ll escape with your life.”
He loomed, head raised, the moonlight hitting his scarred cheek. Thea heard a whimper and the sound of the box hitting the ground and then footsteps as the thief fled. Luxborough immediately dropped into a crouch by the plants and began inspecting them. He did not look up as Thea approached.
“Are they unharmed?” she asked.
“Hmm.”
“Would you really have killed him?”
“Hmm?”
“You threatened to kill a man over some plants.”
“The plants are irreplaceable,” Luxborough said. “Yet that ignorant thief would probably just feed them to the pigs.”
“And then what?” she demanded. “The pigs would poop diamonds?”
He shot her one of his looks, and went back to tenderly inspecting each plant, each clay pot. Hands that a moment ago had been ready to take a man’s life now cupped a yellow flower as tenderly as if it were a newborn kitten.
“Those plants are so fortunate,” Thea heard herself say softly. “To have you to protect them and look after them.”
In a swift, fluid movement, he stood, and she realized again how big he was. His chest and shoulders were vast and his arms looked strong. Perfect for hugging, really. How selfish of him not to invite closeness. Surely it was his civic duty as an earl to offer a hug to any citizen who required one.
Starting with her.
“That story you told in there,” he started.
“It was the truth, you know.” Belligerence made her voice too loud. “I suppose you think it’s silly, for m–my sister to cry over a ruined reputation.”
“Hmm?”
“‘By George, you think someone laughing at you is bad. You should try being attacked by a wild animal.’”
“Hmm.”
“Forgive me.” She glanced down at the flowers and back up. “It is impolite to mention it.”
“I imagine scars this pronounced are difficult to ignore.”
Behind them, the inn door opened, releasing the noise inside, which became muted again as the door slammed shut. The inn was settling for the night, and the yard was quiet but for them and the owl.
“Yet why should we ignore them?” she asked. “I do not wish to pretend your scars are not there. Our scars are our stories, and stories should be told.”
“Then my story must be a frightening one, to match my face.”
“But that’s it.” She stepped closer to him. “The attack must have been horrific, but now you seem so strong and fearless, and I wish I knew how to… You wear those scars like a challenge. As if to say, ‘Yes, I tussled with a wild animal with paws as big as my head. What did you do this morning before breakfast?’”