She knew it was coming. It made her heart accelerate. It seemed he’d been going easy on her, but he was through with that. She wiped her brow. He was clever and dangerous, and it made her want to smile at him. He’d survive on the streets of New York.
She ran her fingers down her hair and coiled a strand around her finger, then held it up to examine it.
He reached for his cup and took a drink while she moved her bishop.
While she waited for him to move, she picked up his captured bishop and rubbed it against her fingers.
“Miss Ramsey, can you remain still?”
“Oh!” She opened her eyes wider. “Am I distracting you?”
“Yes, and why did you tell me you never played chess before?”
“I never told you that,” she corrected him, studying the board. “I was having a little fun with you. Is that a crime?”
He didn’t answer but in four swift moves, set up her king to be checked in his next move.
What? No! She had thought she had him. She had played this game hundreds of times. Old Hank the Shark had taught her. He liked her mother and let them sleep on his old couch for two months until her mother robbed him and he threw them out. But Fable had learned his game, and she’d learned it well. By the time she was ten, she was unbeatable on the streets.
How did the duke beat her? Lord Sudbury had told her the duke never lost a game. She’d been sure she could beat him. He’d obviously distracted her while she thought she wasdistracting him. Or maybe he was immune to her wiles. Well, she could be immune to his, as well.
When he tossed her a triumphant smirk before taking his winning move, she jerked her legs up, sending the chess board spilling into the duke’s lap.
“Hmmph,” she complained, making no apology for ruining his victory.
He remained seated with kings and rooks in his lap, his fingers clutching his beautiful wood and onyx board. It only took one look at him without her competitive temper, driven by fear of losing a prize, be it money, food, a place to sleep for her and mother. Every game had a cost for losing. But today it didn’t. She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
His stoic face transformed before her into a knowing grin accompanied by an almost silent chuckle she found thrilling to her ears.
“You’re a sour loser.”
“You mean a sore loser,” she corrected with a chuckle. She stared at him and then inhaled deeply. “Why aren’t you angry?”
“Who says I’m not angry? What should I do? Have you beaten? Throw you out?”
She shook her head. Her eyes grew rounder. “No. Please don’t.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a lackadaisical smirk. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”
“Okay, but first tell me if you’re planning on marrying the king’s niece.”
His smirk faded but when he set his gaze on her, it was anything but angry. “I’m not swayed by her title or her beauty,”
“Oh?” Fable asked quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear. She knew many people didn’t like red hair. Was he one of them? She hoped not. “Is she beautiful?”
“Yes, very,” he answered. “But I’m not swayed by it.”
She wanted to ask him what he was swayed by. But what if he said only a dark haired beauty could sway him? So she didn’t ask.
“Tell me, Miss Ramsey,” he said softly, “why shouldn’t I throw you out for tossing my board around?”
There was no reason. He should throw her out. In fact, she wished he would. She foolishly had a crush on her rescuer, and she needed to be away from him before her crush became something more. But she smiled at him, and when she opened her mouth, it wasn’t to tell him to toss her out. “Because I want to beat you at chess, Your Grace.”
Chapter Five
Ben stood on his terrace in his burgundy silk robes and looked out over the rolling hills illuminated under the pale, full moon. As was the case most nights, he couldn’t sleep. But tonight he wasn’t awake because of a haunting desire to fight. Tonight he was lost in thoughts of how Miss Ramsey won three games of chess against him. He’d won four, but she’d beaten him three times! She was clever and tactical. When one was raised on the street, they either became warriors or they died. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the choices. She’d purposely distracted him with her hair, her eyes, her lips, her fingers, her skin, her breath…
He ran his fingers through his hair. What was she doing to him? He’d met plenty of women, thanks mostly to his meddlesome sister. The best bred, most beautiful, courtliest, most courteous women in the whole of Great Britain. And none of them had ever affected him the way the enchanting Miss FableRamsey did. No matter how hard he had tried, he often found himself staring at the way sunlight pooled in the cradle of one of her curls, igniting fires of coppery-gold and all the shades of autumn, and the way her slender fingers stroked the smooth wood of his chess pieces. He blew out a deep puff of air. He thought of her now. What was he to do about it? He couldn't run off to battle. His arm wasn’t healed enough. Even so–and here was the worst part–would she haunt him on the battlefield? Even his trip to Ardleigh to see Lord Brambley was plagued with thoughts of the woman in his kitchen.
