Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
ALEXANDER
The beginnings of a headache throbs at my temples, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I only got back from a flying visit to London to keep my regular Tuesday appointment at two o’clock this morning, and I barely slept once I got to bed. Not that lack of sleep is something I’m unfamiliar with. Insomnia is a friend whose presence I’ve grown accustomed to ever since Annabel’s murder and my mother’s suicide.
At least the trip allowed me to further isolate Imogen. The staff at Thistlewood are steeped in formality at the best of times, and naturally keep their interactions to a minimum. A few days with no one to talk to for a social butterfly like her must be torturous.
My initial displeasure with the idea of a honeymoon had, in the end, presented an opportunity I hadn’t thought of. Not that I would have refused my father’s request. I owe him a daughter and a wife, neither of which are in my power to fix.
Standing, I rub the tight muscles in my lower back. My stomach grumbles, and I check my watch to find it’s four-thirty. I completely missed lunch, too busy drowning in work so I don’t have to think about how my dick throbs every time I’m in close quarters with my wife.
I’m not supposed to find her attractive. That isn’t in the plan. And it’s not only physically that she appeals to me. She’s got guts, courage far beyond her years, and as much as I hate to admit it, I respect her for that.
Even so, it changes nothing. I still intend to make her life so miserable, she’ll put herself before her father and beg me for a divorce. It won’t be a problem to keep my father at bay for a few months, but after that, he’s going to want to know why Imogen isn’t pregnant, and that’s a conversation I plan to avoid at all costs. Before the autumn, I need her gone.
The kitchen is empty, and I’m glad. I’m not in the mood for Mrs. Campbell’s fussing. Her over-the-top gushing is more than I can stomach, although as she’s a favorite of my father’s, I rein in my tongue, much as it pains me to do so.
I make myself a ham sandwich and sit at the table overlooking the woods behind the house. I get through half of it before I’m interrupted by the sounds of footsteps. Groaning, I toss the remains away and am almost at the kitchen door when Mrs. Campbell appears.
“Mr. De Vil. What can I get for you?”
“Nothing, thank you. I helped myself.”
Her eyes open wide, as if I’ve confessed to the worst sin imaginable. “You should have called me.”
“No need.” I skirt past her, ignoring her inane mumblings, and beeline for the living room, but as I enter, I draw to a halt. Imogen is standing by the farthest window, examining the pieces on a chessboard. The sun has come out, and it’s shining directly on her stunning red hair. Except it isn’t only red, it’s gold, copper, and caramel. She looks so lost as she replaces the knight and picks up the queen, a sadness to the slope of her shoulders and her downturned features.
A bite of guilt takes root in my stomach, but I quash it. This is for the best. She will thank me in the end when she’s free to live the life she wishes rather than the one being forced upon her.
“Do you play?”
The question startles me as well as her. I’d fully intended to back away before she saw me.
She drops the queen, instantly crouching to pick it up. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I make my way over to her. “Do you want to play with me, Little Pawn?” I’m unsure if I’m talking about chess or sex. From the way my groin heats as I run my gaze over her and breathe in the scent of bergamot and rose, it’s the latter. Absence has only stoked the fires I’m trying my best to stamp out.
“Where did you go yesterday?”
Ah, so she knows I went somewhere. That she’s keeping tabs on my whereabouts is oddly thrilling.
“I wasn’t aware I had to report my movements to you.”
“You don’t. But let me be clear, that means I don’t have to report mine to you, either.”
Oh, yes, you do.
I peel the queen from her fingers and replace it on the board. I’m not a fan of people touching my stuff, and this chess board was one I purchased from a local craftsman some years ago. Oddly, though, that’s not the reason I took it from her. A sudden urge to touch her, however briefly, was what motivated me, yet the arc of electricity that fired between us sent a warning I should heed.
Almost as if I’m testing myself, I lean in and breathe deeply once again. A flush of heat runs through me, so sudden and violent, I have to force myself not to shudder with the pleasure the mere scent of her gives me.
She’s a rush, that’s for sure.
“I had a meeting in London.” Telling her this comes as much of a surprise to me as it does to her, if her incredulous and dazed expression is anything to go by.
“Oh. I see.”
She bites her lip and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s uncomfortable, and while I’m not usually one to relieve anyone’s discomfort, including hers, I’m mildly intrigued how she’s spent her time in my absence.
“What have you been doing?”
Her eyes momentarily flare wide, then her brows dip and she shrugs. “Gone for walks, read a bit, explored the house.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “It’s an incredible property, so steeped in history.”
“It is.”
“It’s quiet, though. A little too quiet,” she adds under her breath. Further evidence that isolating her from social interaction is the quickest way to get what I want.
Despite that, I point to one of two chairs set on either side of the chess board. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I can’t play.” She sits down anyway, despite her admission.
“I’ll teach you.” The words are out before I can stop them. These days, I don’t get to play often. None of my siblings are fond of the game, and Dad is usually too busy, considering our games sometimes last for hours. That’s the only reason I offered to teach her how to play.
I run through the basic rules, keeping the details as simple as I can for her first game, starting with the queen and king, then working my way through the rest of the pieces. She listens intently, asking the occasional question here and there. Her keenness to learn the game is unexpected, and I find myself smiling as I pick up a pawn and hold it out to her.
“Pawns are the main defenders. They look ineffective, but they hold a lot of power.” I pause, wondering if she recognizes the correlation between her and this carved piece of glass in my hand. She has more power than she thinks. I hope she never realizes that.
She nods sagely and motions for me to continue.
“Passed pawns force your opponent into using a more powerful piece to stop their relentless onward march. But pawns have weaknesses, too. The second they move forward, they’re exposed.” I let my gaze linger on her face, waiting until she meets my eyes. “But they have to move forward, because there is no going back. They must embrace their weaknesses in order to protect what matters to them.”
After a few seconds, she pulls her gaze away from mine and studies the board.
Leaning back, I raise both eyebrows. “Ready to play, Little Pawn?”
She squares her shoulders. “I’m ready.”
I show her my palm. “First move to the lady.”
In five moves, I’ve beaten her.
She folds her arms, her jaw set into a locked position. “Ugh. I’m terrible at this game.”
I reset the board. “How can you possibly expect to be proficient at something when it’s your first time?”
“Hmm. That’s a record, surely? Five moves?”
I shake my head. “Checkmate can occur in two moves, although it’s rare to achieve that, even when your opponent is a complete novice.”
She puts the pieces back in their starting positions without getting any wrong. She’s a fast learner. Depending on how long it takes to force her into asking me for a divorce, she may become a useful opponent. I can still isolate her from everyone else without denying myself the chance to play the game I love more often.
“I want another chance.”
“Ready when you are.”
We play five games, and she loses each one, although to her credit, she never makes the same mistake twice. Nor does she pout or flounce off in a fit of anger. No, she does something far more impressive.
“Does this phone let me make purchases online?” She brandishes the phone I replaced hers with.
“Yes, of course. It’s an actual phone, Imogen. It has some additional security layered in, that’s all. What is it you want to buy?”
“A book on how to play chess, so I can beat your ass and wipe that smug smirk off your face.”
I swallow a chuckle, keeping my expression schooled. “I am neither smug nor smirking.”
“No? Must be gas.”
She climbs to her feet while I do my best to hide how much her attitude delights me. I can't let her know that—give her an inch, and she might take a mile, or worse, run right over me. Yet she's so refreshing. Maybe it's her youth, but her fire and enthusiasm for learning have piqued my interest. This in itself sets off alarm bells. The contrast between enjoying our time together and fearing the influence she might have on me is unsettling.
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and remove my wallet, taking out the first credit card I come across. This one doesn’t have a limit, but I doubt Imogen plans to go crazy.
“I don’t need your money. I have my own.”
“No, you don’t. It isn’t your parents’ responsibility to support you any longer.” I hold out the credit card. “Take the card, Imogen. You’re my responsibility now, not your father’s.”
I meant it in a positive way. Unfortunately, she doesn’t take it as such.
“I’m sorry I’m such a burden. ” Snatching the card out of my hand, she sweeps from the room. Her scent lingers long after she’s gone, and like a drug addict, I close my eyes and let it saturate me.
Yes. Trouble indeed.