Fool Me Twice (20 page)

“A woman of foresight, in fact.” She foresaw his defeat in five moves, if he only shifted that bishop his hand was currently overshadowing.

“A sound philosophy on gambling,” he said. “I agree with you: it’s terrible entertainment. I never understood it.” He abandoned his bishop to castle, puzzling her greatly. “Of course, the basic principles do come in useful elsewhere. Politics, for instance: what is success in that field but knowing when to calculate the odds, how to gauge one’s opponents, when to hedge one’s bets, and when to cast everything on a single wager?”

Squinting, she sat back to get a better view of the board. Provided he was not declining into mediocrity again, there must be some possibility she had not yet glimpsed for him. “How very reassuring,” she said absently, “to hear that national affairs are best handled like a poker game.”

“At best,” he said wryly. “At worst, like a shoot-out in the American West.”

“I suppose one might wish you gambled, then. Or dueled.”

“And why is that?”

“Because England needs you.” She moved her pawn forward to menace his knight.

“Let’s not go back there,” he said evenly. “I’ve only just put away my pistol.”

She glanced up at him, surprised that he could speak of that incident so lightly. He offered her a rueful smile—which slipped from his lips as he leaned toward her. “How remarkable,” he said. “You realize you tip your spectacles
down
when you wish to have a look at something? Or someone.”

She directed her frown down to the chessboard. Bertram had once said that one could tell a great deal about a man by the way he played chess. While she hated to ascribe him any wisdom, he had a point: Marwick played with caution, taking time to survey all his options. But once his mind was made up, he moved without hesitation. And when it was his opponent’s turn . . .

“Are the spectacles not meant to
aid
your vision, Mrs. Johnson?”

When it was his opponent’s turn, he tried to distract her with idle remarks.

“It is bad etiquette to taunt one’s opponent,” she said tightly. “This is not, as you have noted, a game of poker.”

“Good etiquette rarely makes good strategy.”

She cast him a severe look. “Au contraire. Good etiquette is the key to civility, and civility is always good strategy.”

“Goodness,” he said mildly. “Could it be that you fancy yourself mannerly?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I couldn’t imagine how you would disagree.”

He gave an easy shrug. “How shall I say it . . . In future
positions, I recommend that you cultivate a somewhat more
reticent
demeanor than you’ve shown me.”

They were speaking now as if she’d already left her post. Perhaps that accounted for his casual manner. He was no longer troubled by the need to maintain a proper distance between them. Not that it had troubled him in his study.

Butterflies emerged in her stomach. She promptly willed them dead.

As she craned over the board again, she thought of the bedroom behind her, and the chest she must search before her replacement was found. It would take time to arrange interviews, of course. But sometimes, if a sterling recommendation came from a family friend, none was conducted.

“Yes, precisely,” said Marwick. “This silence is very becoming of a servant. A very nice show of meekness, Mrs. Johnson.”

She pulled a face at him. “Now you’re having fun.”

He grinned. “Indeed I am,” he said—and then looked fleetingly startled. He turned his gaze out the window, his smile fading.

She could sense the downward pitch of his mood. He had recalled that his role was a recluse, to whom laughter and company were denied. And in a moment, he would cast her out, thereby avoiding his own defeat. For the perfect series of moves had finally revealed itself on the chessboard.

“To answer your question,” she said, “I do fancy myself a great admirer of etiquette. But I allow it has its particular place and time. Occasionally, to do a kindness, one must bend the rules.” She made a pointed pause. “Were it not for my temerity, these rooms would
not smell nearly so nice. And
you
would not be reading about chess matches in the newspaper.”

He looked at her narrowly, as though he was marshaling his thoughts back from a faraway place. And then he gave her a half smile. “Quite right,” he said softly, and reached out very suddenly to clasp her wrist.

She froze, her fingertips hovering a fraction away from her queen, her pulse suddenly in her mouth.

He lifted her hand to his lips. “A breach of etiquette,” he murmured against her knuckles. “But a kindness. You do not wish to move your queen.”

Let go of me:
her tongue felt like clay, unable to speak the words.

“Lovely hand,” he said, and turned her hand over to press a kiss into her palm.

She pulled free. A breath shuddered out of her. Her palm seemed to burn where he had kissed it. “This—this is not—”

“Your move,” he said mildly.

She fisted her hand in her lap. “Why do you
do
this?”

He gave her a meditative smile. “Better to ask, why do I seem to be the first? Were the men blind as well, where you were raised?”

The chessboard had turned into a riddle. She stared at it, her heart pounding.

“Where
were
you raised?” he asked.

“Stop.” She rose. “I will—”

“Very well. Sit down; I will behave.” His voice was low, calming, as though he knew what he had done to her. That gooseflesh still prickled over her skin. “And I will stop the imaginary clock, too, so you do not feel baited. Take your time with your move.”

Why did she sit back down? Curiosity, she supposed. She had never before been flirted with.

But new mountaineers did not begin their careers on the Matterhorn. To indulge her curiosity was tremendously stupid. She knew it, but she sat there, breathless, looking at the board, baffled by the pieces, her hand still tingling.

“I will confess that I remain curious,” he said. “You
do
look over your glasses when you require a clear view. You’re doing so right now.”

She shoved her glasses up her nose and glared through the lenses. “I see
you
very clearly, Your Grace.” And then, because he lifted a brow as though in skepticism: “I see a man who lacks faith in his own game, and so resorts to underhanded measures to distract the superior player.”

He gave a strange, edgy laugh. “Is that a challenge, Miss Johnson?”

Miss
again, was she? “I think a challenge would be redundant, given we are playing against each other.” Her voice sounded too high for her comfort.

But really, who
was
this man? He had taken, over the last few days, to dressing formally again: his dark jacket opened over a striped waistcoat, which clung to his flat belly. Kitchen gossip suggested that he was taking five meals a day, and he looked far better for it. The shadows had cleared beneath his eyes, and the hollows beneath his cheekbones were filling in. The stark shape of his jaw had not softened, though. That was simply the architecture of his bones, which a woman would probably call flawless, if she felt inclined to admire him.

She was not admiring him. She simply
observed
the way he lounged, his long legs extended and crossed at
the ankles, in a posture that seemed almost like a dare.
Notice me,
it said.

It
was
a dare. For whatever reason, he was animally attracted to her. He wanted her attention.

A flush bloomed over her skin—
all
of her skin; even the backs of her knees felt suddenly too hot. How intoxicating, how appallingly thrilling, to find oneself in an
attraction—
even if utterly, wildly,
abominably
inappropriate.

You idiot,
she told herself.
You are going to
steal
from him.

“Now who is baiting whom?” he asked mildly.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can only assume your intention is to discompose me.” He cocked a brow. “Certainly such a fixed stare cannot be considered
encouraging
. Or am I mistaken?”

“F-forgive me,” she stammered. “I didn’t . . .” She shook her head and turned back to the board. There was no hope; she could not figure out his plan for the game. Casting caution to the wind, she moved her knight forward.

Instantly, he sent out his queen to menace it.

The rapidity of his move boded ill. She moved her forward pawn to protect her knight, then scowled at the board.
What
was he planning?

“There,” he said. “You’ve done it again, Mrs. Johnson.”

She looked up. And then wanted to kick herself, for she knew exactly what he meant. Quickly, she nudged her glasses back to their proper place.

“I do wonder . . .” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing so that crow’s-feet fanned into visibility at the corners. She found herself riveted by them, these small, secret signs that he had once been a man given to more
serious pastimes than lounging. “Have you worn the glasses very long?”

She struggled to maintain her calm façade. “I cannot imagine how it interests you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Curiosity is a great entertainment.”

“I am sorry to hear that you’re in need of entertainment. Perhaps your boredom might be cured by leaving the house.”

“And thereby deprive myself of your sharp tongue?” He gave her a threatening smile. “How might we blunt it? I can think of several possibilities.”

She pretended not to have heard this. “Curiosity, of course, is the most dangerous solution for tedium.”

“Why, Mrs. Johnson!” He propped his chin atop his fist. “Did you just imply that you were dangerous? Lady Ripton failed to mention that, I fear.”

“No need for worry,” she said sweetly. “I have just given notice; you may hire someone very staid to replace me.”

His laugh offered her a view of his straight white teeth, and the cleft in his chin, normally disguised. “Touché.”

She felt herself on the verge of a smile, and instead folded her lips together. They should not be amusing each other. Anyone looking in at this scene, anyone who did not know them, would mistake them for pleasantly bickering lovers.

What a strange thought. She understood now how lovers might be said to quarrel without animosity. It rather took her breath away.

“Ah!” He lifted his brows. And she realized she had reached to adjust her glasses again.

“They have a smudge.” She removed them to
polish with a handkerchief—and he promptly reached over and plucked them from her hand.

She lunged to her feet. “Give those back!”

Too late: he had held up the lenses to squint through them. Then he looked up at her, his expression amazed.

She sat down rigidly, her heart beating very fast. To wait for his inevitable remark was agonizing. He knew now that she did not require spectacles in order to see; that the lenses, while thick, were in no way corrective.

Silently he held them out to her. Their fingers brushed, and she flinched, for the contact sent a shocking spark along her skin—as though his kiss to her palm had sensitized her, and now she had no defenses.

How humiliating. She set the glasses back onto her nose, feeling sick. He would ask now about them, and there was no explanation she could offer that would not sound ridiculous.

He cleared his throat. She braced herself. But instead of questioning her, he bent over the chessboard, making an intent study of the pieces.

He was giving her a chance to compose herself.

No.
She wanted to believe she misunderstood him. But a lump was forming in her throat. Kindness was a very underrated quality. She had vowed once that she would never neglect to appreciate it. Only she had never expected to find it in him . . .

She hid her confusion in a study of her handkerchief, which she folded, end over end, into a tiny, tight square.

He moved his rook. “Check.”

She tucked the handkerchief away and made herself sit forward. Her king was menaced. There was an easy way out of this trap, she felt sure of it. But she could not concentrate. What reasons must he be imagining for her
disguise? He must think her daft—but what of it? He himself was no model for reasonable behavior.

She shifted her queen to block the rook—realizing, a moment too late, that she had moved that piece into reach of his knight. He would checkmate her in two moves, no help for it.

His hand moved toward the knight—hesitated there for a fractional moment—and then moved onward to his bishop.

“Don’t,” she burst out.

Their eyes met. Again, that hot shock—as though he had touched her. His eyes were intensely blue. Sapphire was the word. “Don’t what?” he asked, but there was something hot and devouring in his gaze, which said far more than his words did. She could not look away. A woman could fall into his eyes. Drown there. She would, gladly.

The thought echoed, panicking her. What was she
doing
? “You know what I mean,” she said. “I’ve lost the game. Don’t take pity on me.”

Sitting back, he offered her a rueful smile. “As you pitied me during the first half of this match?”

“That wasn’t pity.” Oh, she did not want to like him! Especially not if his eyes could cast spells on her, and his lips could reduce her to a gibbering ninny. What a perilous combination. “A servant cannot pity her employer.” And he was still her employer, no matter that she’d told him to find a replacement for her. He was the
Duke of Marwick.
Her next victim. “It was only good strategy on my part.” And avoiding him was good strategy, too. Why had she come inside?

He shrugged. “Once again, you parse diction. But I
will
call it pity, Mrs. Johnson, when a slip of a girl must
yield her pawns to salve the pride of a man who once fancied himself a chess master.”

Had she heard him right? A slip of a girl? Nobody had ever used that phrase to describe her. It made her sound diminutive, fragile, when she stood almost six feet in her stockings.