“I do, but very ill, indeed.”
“Ah, even better, as I hate to lose.” He held out his hand to her. “Come, and favor me with a game, won’t you?”
She hesitated, taking in his outstretched hand. His brown eyes were twinkling, and his lips were curved in a mischievous grin. Prue had the right of it—hewasa shameless flirt—but he was great fun, and surely there could be no impropriety in a game of chess in the middle of a crowded drawing room?
“Very well, my lord.” She took his hand and let him assist her to her feet, but the Duke of Grantham appeared in the drawing room doorway just then, and the look on his face when he saw her hand on Lord Dunwitty’s arm . . .
Dear God, he looked positively murderous, his brows lowered over icy gray eyes, his lips pressed into a tight, grim line.
She paused, confused. “Your Grace?”
His gaze darted to her face, and God above, she’d never in her life seen eyes as cold as his were in that moment, like a tempestuous winter sea. If a look could have frozen her where she stood, she’d have turned into a block of ice in an instant.
“Going somewhere, Miss St. Claire?”
“I—I . . .” But it was no use. That icy gray gaze made the words tangle on her tongue, and she fell silent.
Lord Dunwitty came to her rescue, saying smoothly, “Miss St. Claire and I are having a game of chess, Grantham. With your approval, of course.”
A moment passed, then another. Rose held her breath. Surely, he wouldn’t forbid them a harmless game of chess?
But the duke seemed to shake off the displeasure that had seized him and waved a careless hand toward the games table in the corner of the drawing room. “By all means, Dunwitty. Miss St. Claire may do as she pleases.”
He swept past them without a backward glance and joined Lady Emily in a distant corner of the drawing room.
“Shall we, Miss St. Claire?”
Rose’s gaze had followed the duke, but now she turned back to Lord Dunwitty with a smile. “Yes, indeed.”
Lord Dunwitty led her to the games table, but only half of her attention was on the chessboard as he laid out the pieces. Her attention insisted on wandering back to the duke, who was seated rather closer than necessary to Lady Emily, an inviting smile on his lips.
Inviting, or was it more seductive? Was that what one would call the suggestive curve of those handsome lips? But then Lady Emilywashis betrothed, or nearly so, and he might bestow as many lascivious smiles on her as he pleased.
For her part, Lady Emily was basking in his attentions, her cheeks aglow, and her air as she glanced around the drawing room decidedly triumphant. Rose could hardly blame her. It was no small victory, catching the eye of a gentleman like the Duke of Grantham.
But it was nothing to do withher. She jerked her attention back to Lord Dunwitty, who was making himself as agreeable as any gentleman ever could. Really, he was quite the most agreeable man she’d ever encountered. One couldn’t help but be charmed by him.
Indeed, she wasexcessivelycharmed.
Why, then, did her attention keep wandering to the opposite side of the room? Goodness knew there was nothing of any interest to her unfolding over there, though she couldn’t help but notice that for all of the duke’s protestations that it didn’t matter a whit to him what she did, he spent quite a lot of time glowering at her, his dark eyebrows lowered over those smoldering silver eyes.
“White or black, Miss St. Claire?”
“I beg your—oh. White, I suppose.” She dragged her attention back to the chess board and pushed one of her pawns forward two squares.
Smoldering. Yes, smoldering, drat him, all the ice from earlier melting in that smoky heat, hotter with every moment that passed, until that dark gaze was positively singeing her skin, until bit by bit, moment by moment, she could think of nothing else, her concentration, her calm, and her very wits deserting her. She was dizzy with heat, fire unfurling in her belly until she could hardly keep her seat—
“Pawn to E4, Miss St. Claire.”
“Er, yes. Pawn to . . . to . . .” She closed her fingers around her own pawn, but it was no use.
In an unguarded instant, her eyes locked with the duke’s, and there was no escaping him, no looking away. Flames engulfed her, scorching heat rising higher and higher, his eyes tracking her flush as it surged into her cheeks, and flooded her chest and throat.
“Take care, Miss St. Claire. You’re about to lose one of your rooks.”
Her what? Her . . . oh, her rook. Chess. She was playing chess with Lord Dunwitty. “Yes, of course. Pawn to . . . to . . .” Her breath was short, and the board was swimming before her eyes. “Forgive me, Lord Dunwitty, but I’m afraid I have rather a bad headache.”
He looked up from the chessboard with a frown. “You do look a bit flushed.”
