Chapter 18 #2
“Your father taught you to dance?” she asked, her tone touched with astonishment.
“Indeed,” he replied, a hint of dry amusement entering his voice.
“We made a rather comical pair. I proved impervious to my tutors’ instruction, and my mother’s attempt to remedy the matter was an even greater failure.
My father, however…” He paused, his gaze briefly distant.
“He suffered me to tread upon his boots until I learned.”
Darcy chuckled, delight rising unbidden within her at the image. “He taught me to play chess,” she blurted.
Sebastian’s gaze sharpened as it returned to hers. “He taught me as well.”
Their steps slowed as the music softened and began to fade, guiding them toward the close of the dance.
“I have only ever beaten him twice,” he continued. “He was a brilliant player.”
“Interesting,” she said, her smile deepening despite herself. “I beat him four times, though it required many hours of play.”
“Four times?” Sebastian echoed, a note of disbelief threading through his tone as he swept her into the final turn. “You mean to suggest you might be better than I am?”
“Yes,” Darcy said simply, meeting his gaze without flinching.
“Impossible.”
She let her mouth curve into a smile, deliberately inviting him to make something of it. “Oh? Do you mean for me to prove it to you, my lord?”
Something dark and intriguing flickered in his eyes. “I challenge you to a round of chess.”
Darcy felt a thrill race through her, sharp and exhilarating. “Surely there must be a wager,” she replied, her tone turning lightly provocative.
“Ah,” he murmured, studying her with renewed interest, “so you are a clever gambler as well as a strategist.”
“A lady must find some means of earning her keep,” she returned, her lips curving.
His grip upon her hand tightened ever so slightly, not enough to draw notice, yet enough for her to feel it.
“And what,” he asked, “would you consider a suitable stake, Mrs. Whitley?”
Something in his expression made the playful answer upon Darcy’s tongue falter.
The amusement remained, faintly touching his mouth, yet his dark blue eyes had sharpened upon hers with an intentness that made her suddenly conscious of how close they stood.
He looked entertained, certainly, but there was something else beneath it, something watchful and decidedly male that sent an unwelcome little thrill through her.
Perhaps she had ventured too far. Darcy delicately cleared her throat. “If I beat you…”
“I shall pay you a thousand pounds.”
She gasped. For a moment she could only stare at him, certain she had misheard. A thousand pounds. The enormity of the sum struck first, followed swiftly by indignation that he could speak of it with such careless ease. “Certainly not!”
His brows lifted. “Why not?”
“That sum is outrageous,” she murmured as he escorted her from the dance floor. “If I lose, I could never stake its equal.”
“If you lose,” he returned smoothly, “you will grant me a kiss.”
A startled sound escaped her and Darcy missed a step. His hand immediately steadied hers, but the faint curve of Sebastian’s mouth told her he had noticed. The wretch looked entirely composed, while her pulse had begun a wild, traitorous beat beneath her skin.
A kiss.
Her gaze betrayed her, dropping briefly to his mouth.
She already knew its taste, its wicked skill, the heat and pleasure he could coax from a kiss alone.
He might believe he tempted Miss Whitley with the unknown, but Red knew precisely what that mouth could do.
The memory of it against hers sent warmth sweeping through her, momentarily dimming the ballroom around them.
When Darcy lifted her gaze, Sebastian’s dark blue eyes were intent upon hers, making her pulse leap. He could not possibly know what had caused her reaction, yet there was something almost predatory in the patience with which he observed it.
Darcy gathered her composure. “You are truly an unrepentant scoundrel.”
“As long as we understand one another, I believe we shall get along exceedingly well,” he replied with mock civility. “Do we have a wager?”
“Only a gentleman unacquainted with hardship would consider a kiss worth a thousand pounds.”
“Ah,” he said, his gaze lowering to her mouth before returning to her eyes, “only a man unfamiliar with the particular delight of a woman’s lips would think it worth a penny less.”
A flush of heat swept through Darcy, but she held her ground. “Challenge accepted.”
“Good,” he said, satisfaction threading his tone. “Our host and I have played chess on several occasions. I know his board will already be awaiting us in the study.”
“You mean for us to play here?” she asked, startled.
He glanced down at her, a hint of wickedness entering his expression. “Surely you do not expect me to go home burdened by the knowledge that I might have kissed you and failed to seize the opportunity? Sleep would most certainly elude me.”
“You are… incorrigible,” she said, her breath catching.
Sebastian did not immediately lead her through the main corridors. Instead, with a quiet word and a subtle shift of direction, he guided her along the edges of the ballroom, his pace unhurried, his manner entirely composed.
“This,” he murmured as they passed beneath the shadow of a column, “is how one avoids the notice of those who have nothing better to do than observe others.”
Darcy glanced at him, amusement stirring. “You make it sound like an art.”
“It is,” he replied mildly. “One I mastered rather young.”
He timed their movements with precision, slipping them between clusters of guests, past an open doorway, and into a quieter corridor before anyone might remark upon their absence.
Darcy felt a thrill at the subtle mischief of it, at the quiet rebellion of stepping beyond the expectations the ton placed upon her.
A few moments later, he opened a door and ushered her into a study.
The room was warm, the fire already lit in the grate, its glow casting a golden light over shelves lined with books and a polished desk set neatly to one side.
A chess set rested upon a small table nearby, as though awaiting their arrival.
Sebastian took up the board without ceremony, set it upon the rug before the hearth, and lowered himself to the floor to arrange the pieces with efficient familiarity.
There was no longer even a pretense of propriety.
Darcy hesitated only a moment before joining him, gathering her skirts with little care for convention as she settled opposite.
A quiet rush of exhilaration moved through her at the impropriety of it.
Here she ought to have exercised caution, perhaps even timidity, yet she found herself unable to summon either.
“Shall we begin?” he asked, glancing up at her.
Darcy inclined her head. “If you are prepared to lose.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, though his eyes had already sharpened with focus. “We shall see.”
From the very first move, she understood.
He was not indulging her. He played with precision, each movement deliberate, each piece placed with quiet certainty that spoke of long practice and deeper instinct.
There was no carelessness in him, no allowance made for her comfort, and as the game unfolded, Darcy felt a flicker of surprise give way to something far more potent.
Respect stirred first, followed by something perilously close to awe. She had wondered, fleetingly, if his extravagant wager had been offered lightly, perhaps even as a means of placing money in her hands without offense, charity cloaked in the guise of sport.
That notion dissolved with each passing moment. Sebastian played to win.
Darcy drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to match his concentration, to push aside the awareness of the firelight, the quiet intimacy of the room, and the man seated so close before her.
A thousand pounds waited upon the outcome.
The sum was staggering—enough to alter the course of her future. Combined with her earnings from painting, it would give her a measure of independence greater than she had ever allowed herself to imagine.
Darcy could not afford distraction. And yet, as she studied the board and anticipated his next move, a treacherous thought slipped through her carefully maintained focus.
He might win. Her pulse quickened at what would follow if he did.
Darcy’s gaze flickered upward, meeting his for the briefest moment before she forced it back to the board.
If Sebastian won, she would have to grant him another kiss, though he would believe it their first. The memory of his mouth upon hers, of the way he had undone her so completely, rose unbidden, sending a subtle warmth through her that she could not entirely suppress.
Darcy straightened slightly, her expression sharpening as she reached for her next piece.
No. She would not yield so easily. Not when the stakes were so high.
And so she played on, her mind fully engaged, her resolve hardening even as the quiet, dangerous awareness of him lingered between them, as steady and consuming as the fire at her back.