When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,44
leaves and pretenses.
Which meant Matilda would have to lose, of course. For her own fig leaves and pretenses had become necessary to her survival. She had thought to start out with the Bishop’s Game, then changed her mind in favor of the venerable Italian Game, a shade less aggressive. Mr. Wentworth made the predictable moves in response, suggesting he had some familiarity with traditional play.
An hour later—an hour during which Matilda had lost her slippers, forgotten her problems, and eschewed any notion that she must lose—she had Mr. Wentworth in check. The delight of that, the sheer, crowing pleasure of it, the sense of coming home to herself, was better than all the warmed shawls and fresh biscuits in England.
After a silence—delighted on her part, brooding from Mr. Wentworth’s side of the board—he moved his king, one small square forward, the direction his king must not even consider going, and the game became…a draw.
Matilda stared at the board, then at her opponent—he was still brooding, doubtless waiting for her reaction—then at the board. How long had it been since she’d had an opponent this worthy? An opponent this enjoyable?
“I am astonished,” she said. “I am wonderfully, delightfully astonished. I was completely distracted by your rook, which I was sure I’d capture twenty minutes ago. You and your timid bishops have hoodwinked me.”
She hadn’t smiled like this—pure glee, undiluted joy—for months.
“While your myrmidons were determined to waylay my queen. You have a ruthless streak, my dear. You keep it well hidden, but the chessboard reveals all. I have not enjoyed a match this much since Stephen dragged me to St. Petersburg in the depths of winter.”
My dear. She beamed at the chessboard with the same sense of satisfaction and contentment she would have turned on her empty plate at the conclusion of a banquet.
“My father used to say that the Russian winter has created a race more indominable than angels and wilier than devils.” She should not have mentioned Papa, or Russia, and she most assuredly should not be smiling like a complete gudgeon because Mr. Wentworth had played her to a draw.
A draw. She hadn’t been able to win or lose, hadn’t been able to control the outcome of this game. What a surprise, what a relief.
“Would you care to play again?” Mr. Wentworth asked.
She could keep him in this parlor for days, while she forgot to eat, drink, or even move. “I’d like to study this game first, if you don’t mind. Perhaps tomorrow?”
He rose and bowed. “I will look forward to that, Miss Wakefield.”
The chessboard clamored for study, for a replay of various moves, a review of the options Matilda had discarded. Mr. Wentworth had slipped through her defenses and seen through her strategy. When had she lost sight of his cunning, when had her vigilance…?
“Mr. Wentworth,” she called over her shoulder as he reached the door. “A moment, please.”
He returned to her side. “Ma’am.”
Matilda could not summon a smile, she could not even regain the sense of warmth she’d enjoyed since joining Mr. Wentworth’s household.
“You called me Miss Wakefield, and yet, I’ve never told you my surname.”
He moved his king back into check. “I apologize. I did not mean to presume, but my upbringing emphasized proper address, and I…” He fell silent, staring at the board.
“You are unhappy with yourself for using my name.”
“One doesn’t like to intrude. Might we discuss this?” He held out a hand, and Matilda took it.
She ignored the pleasure of touching a man she esteemed greatly, ignored the even simpler joy of clasping hands with another human being. Mr. Wentworth had spoken her name, a name she’d not used since fleeing London and had told to no one.
He’d used her name, and that made Duncan Wentworth her enemy.
* * *
Stephen had the same capacity for utter absorption that Matilda Wakefield had, though with Stephen, the physical signs of concentration were harder to discern.
Matilda bit her lip.
She blinked, she frowned. She sighed and scowled.
The composure she habitually wore like one of her blasted shawls fell away when she played chess, leaving a brilliant mind and a lovely woman on display. Her fingertips were calloused, and a fading scar across the back of her left wrist looked like a healing burn. Duncan had been as fascinated with her hands as he had with her plundering rooks and charging knights.
“Stephen has a theory,” Duncan said. “He has many theories, and this one might have merit. May I join you?”