She found out that Rook was instrumental in Parliament at raising issues concerning the welfare of wounded soldiers. Apparently, quite a few men had followed the drum from his village – some had returned severely wounded – and he deplored the lack of help for the gallant men.
Clara moaned about the lack of help that women could give. They wouldn’t let her help in the hospitals, and they had told her to go home and knit scarves. Rook laughed at the utter disgust on Clara’s face.
“It has been a bitterly cold winter in Spain for the men, so perhaps scarves would be useful,” Rook remarked consolingly.
“I cannot knit,” she confessed, stealing another piece from under his nose.
Rook was losing, in more ways than one, he admitted ruefully.
“Perhaps, you could offer to play chess with some of the more recovered men in hospital. A lot of the soldiers, despite terrible wounds, are bored senseless. You would, of course, require a chaperone. I could have a word with one of the better hospitals, if you like? Some may not know how to play, but I’m sure you would find an appreciative audience.”
“Do you think so?”
“Definitely. All day they are surrounded by, begging your pardon, death and pain. To have one’s mind taken off of it, if only for an hour, I feel, would help tremendously.”
He looked up into Clara’s shining eyes. He wouldn’t have suggested it to any other girl, but Clara had a maturity to her that took his breath away. She was slightly older than the average debutante, but it probably had more to do with her upbringing.
They had discussed her uncle, Daniel Lockwood, over the course of the game, and he had only admiration for the man – to bring up a young, frightened girl was a huge undertaking. He could so easily have harvested her out, or sent her to a girl’s school. Clara obviously had a governess to tutor her in the feminine necessities, but her uncle had enriched her education.
She would make someone an excellent wife.
But not him. He liked his carefree lifestyle, and he really didn’t want for anything. He had an heir in his cousin – a good man who already had a gaggle of children. Rook was quite…content.
Last year his and Jack’s mutual friend, Hardwicke, had been tricked into marriage by some sly jezebel – launching herself at him on a balcony during the Carrington’s Ball. ‘Conveniently’, they had been seen, and Hardwicke’s life was doomed. He was miserable as sin, but at least so was his wife.
He watched Clara’s glove encased hand steal another piece. He really must concentrate: she was thrashing him. The glove snugly fit her slender arm, and despite all his previous ruminations, he realised he would love to gently pull off her glove – finger by finger – slowly. Or, maybe let her keep them on. Rook could almost feel the erotic brush of satin, stoking against his skin. He thanked God there was a table between them and shifted restlessly on the hard seat.
Focus.
It was too late. He made a move without thinking and immediately knew it was a mistake.
He watched as she picked up his king, her satin-clad thumb rubbing over the smooth jade.
“Checkmate,” she murmured softly.
Clara watched, as Rook slowly lifted his eyes from the table. She’d lost him a moment before; his concentration had lapsed and she’d taken advantage. He’d looked… slightly angry, but she knew it wasn’t from the game. She didn’t dare enquire where his thoughts had taken him.
As he looked up, his eyes first rested on her bosom, and she tried not to breathe too deeply. She absently rubbed the king between her fingers, and his eyes flicked to the movement. When they came back to rest on her, she gasped. He looked… he looked like he wanted to devour her whole; his blue eyes burned with heat and intensity. She licked her lips, as they suddenly felt parched, and his eyes followed that movement too.
Neither of them spoke.
Tonight, Clara might have won the chess, but another game was being played, and she realised that she was hopelessly out of her depth.
“How’s the game going? Have you beaten him yet, Clara?” A voice boomed, and a slap on the back nearly sent Rook careering forward into Clara’s bosom. He watched as the king fell from her hand in surprise, and he swiped it before it could fall.
Another silence descended. Clara looked startled, and even Rook took a moment to gather his composure. For a moment, just a moment, his body had taken over his mind.
“Has it not gone well?” Jack asked in a desultory way.
Rook cleared his throat. He couldn’t get up from the table, not at the moment. “It’s gone very well, Jack. At least for Clara: she beat me.”
“She beat you?” Jack eyed him incredulously.
“She did indeed. You were duped, Jack. She has played with the finest.”
“Well I never. I have never beaten Rook. Well, except that time I got you drunk at Oxford, but that doesn’t count. Congratulations, Clara. Unbelievable…I mean…not that I thought you couldn’t…but…” he trailed off.
Clara had finally shaken the haze of… she wasn’t sure what it was, but it turned her brain bleary and her mouth dry. She was lucky he hadn’t looked at her like that during the game. She would have forgotten her own name.
