“It is,” he agreed. “My life is far less complicated that way. It matters not where I may be living, everything is in exactly the same place.”
“But the upholstery is different,” Philippa put in, smiling.
“One must have some small variety,” Lord Cambridge said drolly.
Their meal ended with a tartlet of winter pears and a bowl of clotted Devon cream. The goblets had been kept filled, and all at the board were feeling mellow as outside the rain poured down, a certain indication of the spring to come.
“Philippa plays a fairly good game of chess, Crispin, dear boy,” Lord Cambridge said. “I taught her myself. As for me, I am exhausted, and must seek my bed.” Arising from the high board he bowed to them, and departed the hall.
“He is not very subtle,” Philippa said when he had gone.
“But most hopeful, I think, that you and I will not quarrel again,” the earl replied.
She smiled. “As a child my mother ruled me. These past few years at court I have felt as if I were the mistress of my own destiny, although I know it to be not fully true. Now I face the prospect of a husband who will be master over me. And while I know that is how it should be, it is something with which I must come to terms. Does that make any sense to you, my lord?”
He nodded, thinking that taking a wife was much like taming a wild creature, at least where Philippa was concerned. “I shall try not to prick you too hard, Philippa,” he promised her with a small smile. Then he arose from the board. “Come, and play chess with me, madame. ’Tis a game I very much enjoy.”
She fetched the board and the pieces from their place within the sideboard. Then she set them up neatly on a small game table she had instructed him to bring to the fireside. “White or black, my lord?” Philippa asked him as they seated themselves.
“Black,” he said. “I have always enjoyed being the black knight.”
“And I the white queen,” she quickly parried, and moved her first pawn.
He laughed, then studying the board carefully for a moment, he too moved a pawn.
They were, he quickly found, quite equally matched. She did not play like other women, filled with emotion, and weepy when she lost a piece. Philippa played coolly and with a sharp intellect. She was careful with each move she made, and he was quite astounded when she checked his queen. They spoke virtually not a word, and not easily did he finally defeat her, checkmating her king.
And she laughed when he did. “Ah, at last I have found a worthy opponent,” she told him. “I shall not allow you such leeway the next time we play.”
“Ahh,” he replied with a small smile, “then you think you can beat me, eh?”
“Perhaps,” Philippa hedged. Men, as she recalled, did not like being bested by a woman. She had foolishly allowed her tongue to run away with her.
“Only perhaps?” he taunted gently, wondering why she had suddenly drawn back.
“Nothing is ever certain, my lord,” Philippa said quickly in reply.
He laughed again. “You think you can beat me, but you have decided to spare my masculine feelings, Philippa. Is that it? Well, do not bother. If you think you can beat me, then let me see you do it.” He did not believe she actually could, but he was very much enjoying teasing her, seeing the range of emotions play across her lovely face.
Without a word Philippa set the chess pieces in their proper place again, and then playing with intense concentration she proceeded to beat him in a far quicker period of time than he would have imagined. When she checked his king, and set it next to his queen, his knights, and his bishops, she looked across the table at him. There was not even the hint of a smile upon her face when she spoke.
“You were correct, my lord. I sought to spare you. You cannot live at court as I do, and serve the monarchs as I do, and be a total ninny. Neither the king, the queen, or those who surround them in their more private moments during the day would tolerate a bad chess player. And while I have carefully held back with his majesty so that he always wins our matches, I play hard enough with him that he believes he has actually bested me. It delights him, for I have bested his brother-in-law, the duke of Suffolk, and others of his favorites on many occasions. I have even played and beaten the cardinal twice.”
The earl of Witton nodded slowly. “Lord Cambridge said it. You are a consummate courtier, Philippa. I am most impressed by your acumen.”
“But am I the sort of girl you would want for a wife, my lord? Unlike others of my sex I am a poor dissembler,” she responded. “What you have seen this day is what I am. I have a temper. I have a passion for beautiful things. But I am not a giggling or silly turnip head.”
“Will you always obey me if I am your husband?” he asked her candidly.
“Probably not,” she told him so quickly that he smiled.
“You are honest, Philippa. I count honesty among the greatest of virtues along with loyalty and honor,” Crispin St. Claire said. “Well, I can always beat you if you are truly disobedient. And there are other more pleasurable means of bringing a fractious wife to her husband’s will.”
“Are you flirting with me, my lord?” she asked. Her cheeks felt warm.
“Aye, I am,” he replied. “I like to make you blush, Philippa. To find that I can discommode you reassures me that I will have some small advantage.”
“You speak as if the matter between us is settled, my lord,” she responded, feeling a small prick of irritation. There was an arrogance about him that troubled her.
