Queen Bee(8)
Author: Amalie Howard
“Alas, my interest is well and truly caught by a tall, dark, handsome marquess with shoulders for days and a grin to die for,” Blake whispered. I nearly crushed his toes on a stumble as he chuckled. “Too bad his interests lie elsewhere, so no need to worry about extra competition.”
“Does he know you fancy him?” I asked, though it didn’t surprise me in the least. Keston Osborn had the kind of devastating good looks that left bodies of any persuasion in his wake.
Blake nodded with a dramatic sigh. “Fear not for my pining heart, sweet Miss Whitley. I’ll find my prince…or my princess one day. I’m not picky as long as he or she is both clever and wicked, and can keep up with me in and out of the bedchamber.”
I laughed heartily, and the sound made quite a few heads turn. “Perhaps I should have dubbed you the Rake,” I said with a lift of my brows, laughing again as he pulled an exaggerated moue. “But for the record, I’m not interested in Lord Ridley.”
He eyed me. “Oh?”
We separated and switched partners before I could say anything more. Blake didn’t hide the burst of curiosity on his face, and I smiled inwardly with satisfaction as a red-faced Poppy demanded to know what we’d been talking about.
The chess pieces were set and the Queen’s Gambit was in play.
Let the game begin.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ela
Burghfield, Berkshire, February 1814
Frustrated, I stared at the chessboard, those little carved onyx and marble pieces taunting me. The lace collar of my formal dress itched, and I squirmed uncomfortably. It would not be the done thing to reach up and give my neck a good scratch as my fingers longed to do. Sweat also dripped down my neck. Girls weren’t supposed to sweat. Or speak out of turn. Or play chess, clearly.
“Would you rather play draughts?” my opponent drawled.
Contrary to my first impression, the Marquess of Ridley was the most bigheaded, puffed-up, pretentious boy I’d ever met. I did not like him in the least.
Shaking my head, I bristled at the challenge. “No, let’s keep playing. You haven’t won yet.”
“You can give up.”
I smiled sweetly. “Never.”
Looking up through my lashes, I glanced at the boy who had to be fifteen or sixteen sitting on the other side of the board. I took in his openly conceited face as he lifted a brow, challenging me. How would he feel if I flipped over the entire table and flung all the pieces right into his smug lap? That would not do, I supposed, at least not with the duke in residence a room away. I was an earl’s daughter, not a brigand slapping the mockery off a foe’s face with my gloves before daring him to a duel.
Oh, but how I longed to be.
The funny, affable boy I met behind the drapes in Elderton’s was gone. This jackanapes was insufferable and so full of himself that it was a wonder he could fit through any doorways. After we’d been officially introduced, he’d cornered me when our parents had headed into the dining room. “Do not mention our meeting in the village. You may address me as Lord Ridley. My father is Duke.”
I had stared at him in shock, wondering at the complete turnabout. “Well, you may address me as Lady Ela. My father is an earl.”
“Mine outranks yours.”
I’d glared. “So?”
“So you have to do whatever I say.”
I’d pinned my lips and kept my hands firmly at my sides like the demure young lady I was supposed to be. Dinner had been torture. I’d barely tasted any of the sumptuous courses. While our parents made small conversation, Lord Ridiculous, the stuffy, high-and-mighty son of a duke, and I were expected to entertain ourselves at the other end of the table. His sour face had softened for a heartbeat when my father had mentioned my mother’s passing, but he’d soon returned to impersonating a lemon.
Sadly, his younger sister, Zenobia, had been excused, as she’d felt unwell. She had serenaded everyone before dinner with a piano piece that had left me speechless. I’d have much preferred to be ill than to sit for hours in this stiff, prickly dress and pretend to not want to head-butt her pompous brother.
I’d held myself back. Barely.
Things had gone from bad to worse after the marquess’s haughty request that we amuse ourselves with a quiet game of chess while our fathers were having a cigar and brandy after dinner. The lovely and charming Duchess of Harbridge had retired to her chambers soon after the last course had been served.
Thankfully, Zenobia had surprised me by sneaking downstairs to sit beside us in the library as I’d squared off against her stick-in-the-mud brother.
“Nothing like faking a stomachache to escape a dreary dinner,” she confessed into my ear. I gaped, then grinned. In hindsight, I wished I’d done the same.
“I liked your performance on the piano,” I told her shyly. “Was it Bach?”
She wrinkled her button nose. “Thank you, and yes. He’s not my favorite, but Papa likes it. I prefer Mozart. I’m working on a composition from The Magic Flute, ‘Der Hölle Rache.’ ” She looked much too pleased with herself. “A revenge aria. Papa hates this piece. He says it’s pedestrian. The horror.” She clapped a dramatic hand to her breast, and I wanted to laugh.
Both children had obviously inherited their warm golden-brown coloring from their mother, a beautiful West Indian woman of Indian and African heritage. However, it was obvious that Keston—I refused to think of him in my private thoughts by his dratted title—had taken on his father’s stony disposition, instead of his mother’s sweeter temperament like his sister.
Zenobia watched the game play with avid interest while her governess and mine stood nearby, quietly observing. When Keston shifted his bishop down the board with a grin and put me in check, I flinched. Zenobia lifted herself to my ear and whispered loudly enough for my gloating opponent to hear, “Castles.”
I blinked. What move in heaven’s name was that? I had a decent knowledge of the game, having played with my own mother when she’d been bedridden, which was why when Keston had suggested we play, I’d agreed. I’d hoped it would provide opportunity for me to get to know him better, but all it had done was make me feel like I couldn’t keep up. Something he’d no doubt intended. Because as it turned out, my not-so-friendly neighbor was a chess expert.