by Cara Elliott
“Yeeech.”
Prescott looked up as Lucy creased the piece of paper into a series of elaborate folds and launched it into the air. After several lazy spins, it dipped sharply and landed splat in the dregs of their morning chocolate.
“That one was the worst reply yet,” she announced.
“Even worse than Lady Serena?” he asked.
“Lady Serena doesn’t threaten to smother the darling little cherub who wrote the advertisement with hugs and kisses, does she?”
Prescott’s glass thumped down on the tavern table. “I’m doomed,” he announced, once he had choked down the last swallow of his lemonade.
A rip cut through the gloomy silence as Lucy tore open another letter. “Come on, show some bottom, Scottie. We’re not even halfway through the first pile.” She pointed to the two mail sacks lying at their feet. “And then there are all the rest of these to plough through. Surely there has to be one lady worth considering.”
“Ha!” Prescott gave a morose kick to the weather-stained canvas. “And pigs may fly.”
“Don’t be cynical,” she said primly, tossing yet another letter into the hearth.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“I’m not precisely sure.” Lucy started skimming the next missive. “But when Mr. Phipps says it, it means that you aren’t supposed to say something negative, even if it is true.” She made a face, and the paper quickly joined the growing pile of ashes. “Keep digging. That is—unless you would rather resign yourself to having the Steel Corset as your surrogate mother.”
Repressing a shudder, Prescott snatched up a handful of the letters from London and fell to breaking the seals.
Despite the added urgency, their energy was beginning to wane, along with the afternoon light, when Lucy suddenly straightened in her chair and reread the note in her hands.
“Eureka,” she announced.
“I hope that’s not her name,” mumbled Prescott. “It’s sounds like you’ve just spotted a dead mouse.”
“No, silly—Papa says it is a foreign word, and it means something very good,” explained Lucy. “Like when he discovers a gold coin wedged beneath the dross and sawdust of the taproom floorboards.” She handed over the paper and waited for several moments. “Well?”
Prescott grinned. “Eureka.”
Olivia pushed open the shop’s door, setting off a muted chiming from the cluster of tiny brass bells hung above the molding. A puff of dust motes swirled up from the ancient counter, quicksilver specks of reflected sunlight dancing against the jumbled shadows.
“Ah, good day, Miss Sloane.” The proprietor peeked out from behind a pile of pasteboard boxes and set aside the ledger he had been reading. “How nice to see you. It has been a long time since your last visit.”
“As I just come to look, rather than make any purchase, I do not like to impose on your good will, Mr. Tyler,” she replied. “However, the new chess sets in your window look so intriguing, I couldn’t resist the temptation to stop in and have a closer look.
“They are rather lovely, aren’t they? I just received them as part of a special shipment from Persia, along with some elaborately painted playing cards.” He smiled. “And you are always welcome here, regardless of whether you spend any blunt or not. Your father and I shared many happy hours discussing the game and its nuances.” A brusque cough. “I miss his friendship.”
“As do I,” she murmured. She glanced at the display nook above his desk. “I see you still have the ivory and amber set from Russia.”
“Aye, it’s a very unusual design—not to speak of very expensive—so it will take a discerning buyer to recognize its worth.”
Olivia repressed a sigh of longing. “I hope it goes to a good home.”
“Aye.” Tyler gestured to the rear of the shop. “You’ll find a display of the other sets in the alcove behind the bookshelves. Please feel free to spend as long as you like with them.”
“Thank you.” Olivia wasn’t quite sure what had moved her to cut through the quiet side street rather than take a more direct route home from her trip to the bookstore. Perhaps, she mused, it was because last evening’s encounter with the Earl of Wrexham had reminded her of the subtle thrusts and parries that played out over the checkered board.
He was an interesting opponent—the fact that she couldn’t read his mind made a match much more challenging.
The earl is not an opponent, she reminded herself. He’s not…Her boot snagged for an instant on the uneven floorboards. He’s not anyone who ought to be distracting my thoughts.
She shifted the wrapped book in her arms as she walked down the narrow corridor. “Especially when I have an essay to finish,” she added in a chiding whisper.
That said, she decided that a quarter hour spent admiring the Persian sets would not mean the end of the world. Slipping into the cozy display space, she put her package down on one of the small tables and began to examine the different chess pieces.
The first grouping was made of Persian turquoise, with one side carved out of a soft shade of sky blue stone while the other was a deep green-gray hue. The workmanship was superb, with detailings of rich burnished gold highlighting the smoothly polished surface. She picked up the lighter Queen for a closer inspection, only half aware of the faint tinkling of brass floating down from the front of the store.
Steps followed—a masculine tread of boots over the waxed wood—then paused at the alcove displaying the playing cards.
Breathing a sigh of relief, for she wasn’t in the mood for company, Olivia returned her attention to the chess figure in her hand.
“More games, Miss Sloane?”
Silent as a stalking tiger, the earl had moved up behind her.
“Or should I say, contemplating new and exotic ways to slay your opponent?”
The sound of his voice, low and edged with a hint of humor, had the oddest effect on her insides—her stomach gave a sudden little lurch, and her heart jumped and thudded hard against her ribcage. Flummoxed by her own unaccountable reaction, she drew a steadying breath and took a fraction of a second to regain her composure before turning.
“Contrary to what you might think, Lord Wrexham, I am not a bloodthirsty creature.”
“No, but you do like to win,” he murmured.
“I don’t imagine that most people like to lose,” countered Olivia. “Do you?”
“A fair point,” replied John, though he didn’t respond to her question. After a whisper of silence, he picked up the dark turquoise knight. “This is unusual. And exquisite.”
“Mr. Tyler always has a wonderful selection of sets.” A pause, and then she couldn’t help but add, “None of the figures are stark naked, so your sensibilities won’t be shocked.”
“How fortunate,” he replied, allowing the same sliver of silence to pass. “Seeing as I left my smelling salts at home.”
Good heavens, the man did have a sense of humor. And an impish one at that.
“Do you come here often?” he asked.
Olivia shook her head. “Not anymore.” Placing the Queen back on its square, she moved to the next table. “But my father used to be a regular patron, so I’m very familiar with its offerings.”
“Ah.” Strangely enough, John followed her.
“And what brings you here, sir?” she asked, reaching abruptly for a pawn made of color-swirled Murano glass.
The earl apparently had the same impulse for their hands entangled, knocked the figure to the floor. He held her fingers for just an instant, but in the fleeting touch, Olivia was aware of a skittering of different sensations.
Calloused fingertips, strong grip, pulsing warmth.
She pulled away as if singed.
“Sorry,” murmured John, bending to retrieve the pawn. The flex of muscle rippled the finely tailored wool of his coat as he searched through the shadows.
“No harm done,” he announced a moment later, straightening and setting it back in place.
The same could
not be said for her own peace of mind. Feeling a little unsettled by the brush of his bare skin, Olivia quickly edged away to the next display.
Again, he moved with her, his big body now looming only scant inches from hers.
The air between them seemed to spark and thrum.
John, however, appeared unaffected by any unseen currents. His voice betrayed not a hint of a tremor. “In answer to your question, I thought I would purchase a chess set for my sister, as thanks for her hospitality. She and her husband have been more than kind in hosting me during my frequent visits to Town while Parliament is in session.” He made a quick survey of the room. “And perhaps a miniature traveling set as well, to replace one I lost in transit from Lisbon to London.”
“Well then, you have come to the right place.” Olivia tried to shake off the odd tingling that was radiating through her limbs. “Mr. Tyler has a very discerning eye and offers a wide range of lovely choices. I am sure you will find something that catches your fancy.”
John didn’t answer right away. Lifting a whimsical papier-maché rook from the nearby board, he slowly twirled it between his fingers. “This is rather charming. Do you think my sister might like it?”
“I—I don’t know her tastes well enough to offer an opinion.”
“Then let me ask—what do you think of it, Miss Sloane? The painted details are magnificent, are they not?” He angled it to catch the light filtering in through the narrow diamond-paned window. A wash of gold limned his face, accentuating the strong lines and chiseled features.
The Perfect Hero—a perfect moniker. At that moment, she thought he looked just like one of the classical Greek warriors depicted in Lord Elgin’s marbles.
“And aren’t the pastel hues just the sort of colors appeal to a lady?” he went on.
Olivia blinked and forced her attention back to his question. “I am the wrong person to ask, for as you have no doubt noticed, my tastes rarely coincide with popular opinion. The fact is, I find pastel shades rather vapid. I much prefer bolder, stronger colors,” she said. “So although the artist has rendered a lovely work of art, the set would not be my first choice.”
“No?” John put it down. “What materials do you favor? Wood? Stone? Precious metal? Or some other exotic substance?” A subtle smile played on his lips. “Spun sugar? Molten moonbeams?”
She felt a tiny tickle of amusement tease at the back of her throat. “So that one could eat any mistake?” For a gentleman whose expression was normally so solemn, he was showing a very serendipitous sense of humor this morning. “Or only sit down to a game at midnight?”
The smile became more pronounced. “That could be an impediment. One never knows when one will be in a playful mood.”
Don’t look at his mouth. Wrenching her gaze away, Olivia quickly crossed to the other side of the display table and feigned an interest in an elaborate set of burnished gold warriors, one side with shields made of garnets, one side with shields made of peridots.
“I would not have guessed that glitter and sparkle would appeal to your sensibility,” he murmured.
Hell’s bells. The alcove was small and she was running out of space to retreat.
“I can admire the craftsmanship without yearning to possess them,” she replied tightly.
John surveyed the tables. “All jesting aside, what is your favorite material?”
He would probably think her half-mad if she tried to explain.
But most people think me eccentric, so what does it matter?
In answer, Olivia picked up a jade knight. “Shut your eyes and hold out your hand, sir. Palm up, if you please.
John hesitated for a fraction and then did as she asked.
“Describe what you feel,” she said, circling the stone in the center of his hand.
“A rock,” he quipped.
“Oh, never mind,” she muttered, stopping in mid-stroke. “You are making sport of me.”
“No, wait. Please do it once more.”
Olivia warily touched the jade to his skin.
“Hard. Cold,” he announced. “Smooth.”
“How about this?” She took up an ebony King and ran it across his fingertips.
His mouth pursed in thought.
She waited, and as she watched his face, a strangely intimate awareness suddenly stirred inside her head. John. His given name is John. Olivia decided it fit him. There was a strong, steadfast, sensible ring to the sound.
John cleared his throat, interrupting her musing. “It somehow feels…more alive.”
The answer took her by surprise. She hadn’t really expected a hardened soldier to have such a sensitive touch.
“That’s very good, Lord Wrexham.” I must not think of him as John. “Wood was once a living, growing organism, so for me it has more soul than stone.”
“An interesting observation,” he replied. “By the by, may I open my eyes now?”
“Not just yet.” Olivia took a moment to gather a turquoise and a jade pawn. “Can you tell the difference between these two?” She drew first one and then the other down the length of his hand.
John’s face furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “Both are stone and both are polished, yet the first one felt slightly rougher.”
“Yes, there are subtle differences in texture. Look—you may open your eyes now. See how the turquoise has pebbled veins swirling through it while the jade possesses a translucent smoothness.”
He nodded. “Yes. It’s somehow warmer, too, as if it was formed by a hotter fire.”
“Y-you…” blurted out Olivia, then let her voice trail off.
“What?” he asked, looking slightly quizzical. “Did I say something wrong?”
“On the contrary. You have an excellent feel for nuances. I confess, I didn’t expect it.”
“Soldiering is not all about slashing sabers and cavalry charges, Miss Sloane. Indeed, careful observation and attention to detail often ensures that victory can be achieved without the senseless loss of life.”
“I—I see.” A sudden shivering sensation—A sliver of ice? A tongue of flame?—licked through her limbs as John reached out and took the two pawns from her hand. But then, her emotions were always at a fever pitch when working to the crescendo of an essay.
Speaking of which…
“I really must be going, sir,” said Olivia. “I’ve lingered here too long and I’ve tasks that await me at home.”
He shifted back a step but remained blocking her path to the corridor. “A moment more, if you please. Might I ask you to help me select a set for my sister before you go?”
“You don’t need my help, Lord Wrexham. Besides, one can’t go wrong with any of Mr. Tyler’s offerings.”
“Nonetheless, I should like your opinion.”
Olivia’s face took on an odd sort of pinch in reaction to his question, and John recalled that she had once remarked on how Society frowned on any lady who dared to express an opinion.
I should not like having to constantly bite my tongue, he thought. That he was free to give voice to his ideas, no matter how roughcut and unpolished, simply because of his sex, was indeed unfair.
Intelligence was not simply a matter of a person’s intimate…plumbing.
Clearing his throat, John forced away all thoughts of her body—however intriguing they were—and quickly added, “To begin with, I assume you would recommend a set made of wood instead of stone.”
That stirred a fleeting smile. “Not necessarily. Yes, I know I said that I prefer materials with soul. But there are other factors that come into play.”
“Such as?”
“I’m also affected by the visual form of the chess figures—I love fanciful creations like centaurs and basilisks. And I respond to bold colors as well.” Olivia pressed her palms together. “It is hard to describe in words, but the essence of a set’s attraction is how it feels against my fingertips.”
“You’ve been very eloquent, Miss Sloane.” Her face was equally expressive, he noted. It spok
e volumes on the hidden passions that swirled within her.
She is a very interesting and unusual individual—if she were a man, we would be likely be good friends…
But Miss Olivia Sloane was not a man, he reminded himself. So however intriguing she was, he must be careful to keep a distance between them.
“And I think I understand what you are saying.” John made a slow circuit around the tables, taking in all the sets on display. A look, a touch, a tweak. None of them felt quite right.
As if sensing his thoughts, she murmured, “There are several others atop the storage cabinet in the far corner.”
He moved to the spot she had indicated. On one side sat a delicately carved set made out of a rich, fine-grained rosewood and a buttery ivory that was the exact color of Devonshire cream. The figures, John noted, were whimsical birds—light owls and dark ravens.
“Cecilia will adore this,” he murmured. “She has a great fondness for feathered creatures.”
Olivia nodded. “I think it will suit your sister very well.”
His gaze strayed to the other end of the cabinet top, where a quartet of miniature sets were aligned side by side. Crouching down, he saw they were all embellished with exquisitely rendered details. But one in particular caught his eye on account of the colors.
Carnelian—a deep shade of red-orange that glowed in the shadows like a glowing coal. Malachite—a sinuous swirl of smoky green hues.
“And I think this shall do very well for me,” he announced, running his hand lightly over the figures. They felt good against his bare skin. “I have missed having a traveling chess set. It will provide a welcome distraction during the tedious hours of being cooped up in a carriage.”
Olivia’s eyes were hidden by her lowered lashes. He couldn’t tell whether she approved or disapproved of the choice.
Not that it should matter.
“Enjoy your purchases, sir.” She turned abruptly, pausing only for an instant to scoop up a package from the table by the alcove opening before disappearing into the corridor.