“You’re leaving?”
“My work here is done.”
Rather than escort her to the edge of the dance floor as she’d expected, he merely turned slightly and offered her hand to another, to Chidding, who then stood beside her, watching as Knightly strode away.
“I was rather surprised to see you dancing with him,” Chidding said, as the next tune began to play, and he took her into his arms for an unexpected turn about the room, which would no doubt have tonguesthat had begun wagging when she’d danced with Knightly continuing to wag.
“It was simply for old times’ sake.”
“Not many women would be as magnanimous as you.”
“My mother once told me that holding grudges causes wrinkles. Besides, he means nothing to me any longer. Waltzing with him was rather like having a tooth extracted. Painful while it lasts, but a relief when it’s over.”
He flashed a grin. “Then I need not be jealous.”
She winked. “A little perhaps, but rest assured, he is in my past. And I intend for him to remain there.”
Upon reaching his carriage driver, Knight issued the order, “Home, as fast as you can.”
Because he needed to get as far away from her as quickly as possible before he began to regret a choice he’d been obligated to make—out of love, out of kindness, out of decency—because the man who’d forced him to choose was anything but loving, kind, or decent.
As the vehicle raced toward London, Knight closed his eyes and inhaled her gardenia fragrance that clung to him. It would probably dissipate before he entered his residence, but it was with him now, faint and yet with enough power to haunt his thoughts and cause all his memories of her to bombard him. Holding her in his arms again had been both heaven and hell. Handing her off to Chidding the very depths of hell.
He’d hoped by dancing with her that he’d demonstrated he still held respect for her, favored her. He wanted those in that ballroom to understand she wasworthy of their attention and courtesy. He’d noted only a couple of gents had danced with her, unlike her first ball when every unmarried man in London had been clamoring for her. Knight had done that, made her a pariah. When she deserved to be a queen.
The carriage finally came to a stop in front of his residence. He leapt out of the conveyance, dashed up the steps and through the door. He didn’t even bother to stop as his butler approached, but handed off his hat, walking stick, and gloves as he passed by the servant. He strode briskly down the hallway to his favorite room, his library, where she had marveled at all his books. Where she had read to him romantic tales and he had courted her with sonnets.
Reaching the sideboard, he splashed scotch into a glass and quickly downed it, relishing the warmth burning his throat, penetrating his chest, dulling the ache that resided there. After refilling the glass, he walked over to the fireplace and lowered himself to a thickly stuffed chair. Slipping two fingers into the small pocket on his waistcoat, he rubbed the green ribbon he’d once taken from her. It had begun to fray. Eventually, he supposed it would come apart. Perhaps when it no longer existed, the memories of her would fade away as well and his torment would abate.
But he’d learned that life seldom went as one expected.
He’d been born the spare, second in line to a dukedom. He hadn’t minded because it meant for the most part his father ignored him, except for the rare occasion when he was summoned into the library where his cheek met the duke’s palm, and then hewas dismissed without ever learning what he’d done to displease his sire.
He’d never told his mother about the slaps, fearing his father might deliver one to her, because the duke gave her little attention as well. Perhaps it was because she was so quiet or maybe because she had the mien about her of someone who wasn’t quite of this world. She was always staring off into the distance, the corners of her lips turned up into a small smile as though she’d ascended to a place of joy. When she tucked him into bed—after his nanny had already tucked him in—she would sit on the edge of his mattress and tell him a story about a princess who fell in love with a stablemaster or a gardener or a keeper of the hounds. Those were his favorite moments of the day because she brought with her such serenity.
His brother, Francis, four years his senior, was styled the Earl of Knightly, carrying one of his father’s titles as a courtesy. Frank received the lion’s share of their father’s attention because he would one day inherit—even though he struggled with the numbers and letters that so fascinated Arthur. For some reason, it angered the duke that Arthur was advancing in his studies faster than Francis. Arthur tried to explain to Frank how easy everything was, shared little tips for making hasty calculations and for recognizing words on sight. But Frank preferred riding, chasing the hounds, and swordplay. Even if the swords were only wooden.
When he was seven, Arthur was awoken in the middle of the night by his mother’s cries. He slipped out of bed, tiptoed across his room, opened the door, andpeered out. He saw two men dragging his mother—in her nightdress, kicking and screaming—down the hallway toward the stairs. He would have rushed out to help her, but the duke stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, watching. He feared the duke more than he feared what was happening with his mother. Surely if she was in trouble, the duke would step in to help her. He quietly closed the door, returned to his bed, and stared at the ceiling while tears gathered and rolled down his face for the remainder of the night.
The following morning, during breakfast, while dipping his spoon into his boiled egg, the duke announced, “Your mother has fallen ill. You’ll not be seeing her again.”
Arthur opened his mouth to ask for more details, but Frank caught his attention with a widening of his eyes and a shaking of his head. Therefore, Arthur held silent. He knew people often died when they became sick. Had his mother died, then?
Later, Frank told him her illness was the reason she often looked like she was awake but not really there. Mentally, she’d gone someplace else. “She’s not well, but they can’t do anything for her. It’s her mind, you see, but it’s not something to be talked about.”
He didn’t see. Nor did he ever again talk about it.
When he was sixteen, his life took another drastic turn. He’d advanced far enough into his studies to be accepted into Oxford. The night before he was to leave, Frank introduced him to gin and then convinced him to go on a midnight ride. Galloping over the moors with abandonment and recklessness, urging his horse to jump over stone walls, Frank eventuallylost his seating, tumbled from his mount, and broke his neck. The heir apparent was dead.
Long live the new heir apparent. Arthur Pennington, styled the Earl of Knightly.
It should have beenyou, his father had grumbled the morning Frank was laid to rest in the family crypt on the ducal estate.Why couldn’t it have been you?
Arthur wished it had been. For so many nights, so many days, he wandered around Oxford much as his mother had roamed through the house, in an absent sort of state. He didn’t want to be an earl, didn’t want to be a duke. But the law didn’t allow his father to replace him. It didn’t allow Arthur to turn his back on his responsibilities.
One night, however, he decided if the duke wanted nothing to do with him, he would have nothing to do with the duke. He would study even harder than he had in the past. He would make his own way in the world. Earn his own money, accumulate his own wealth, have his own residence. He would ask nothing of his father ever again.
Then he met three chaps who also wanted to be independent of their fathers. They began strategizing their course. And the Chessmen were born.
