“Well, Miss Lockwood. Would you care to play with me, instead?”
Clara hesitated. Passing an enjoyable evening playing chess with Jack, was very different to facing Rookdean over the table, but how could she refuse? And did she want to?
“That would be most welcome, my lord,” she murmured demurely.
Rookdean seated Clara first; she had her back to the window, facing into the room. Rook had his back to his guests, and she realised she would have his undivided focus. She felt a frisson of pure pleasure shoot up her spine, at having that direct, blue gaze on her at such close quarters.
Jack suddenly reappeared to claim his glass of brandy, which he’d abandoned in his haste, and she tried not to listen, as Jack bent to Rook’s shoulder to whisper something in his ear. It was rather rude of him though, to whisper in front of a lady, so she strained her ears to catch the words.
“Go gentle, Rook,” Jack murmured softly. “She hasn’t played in an age and only knows the basics.”
Clara sat back in her chair and gave Jack a brilliant smile as he straightened. Bless him, he had set her up wonderfully, the dear man.
“Jack has been a delightful companion tonight, my lord. I’m sure it has all been your doing. I am most grateful,” she said warmly, as they finished placing their pieces. Jack started to protest that it had been all his pleasure, when Rook questioned.
“Jack?” Raising his eyebrows at his friend.
“Oh…er…Lord Winterbourne, I mean,” amended Clara, realising her faux pas.
Jack intervened. “We were on first name basis over dinner, Rook. Can’t have all that ‘Miss this’ and ‘Lord that’. Takes up half the damn conversation – pardon me language, Clara.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Well,” Rookdean seemed to purr at Clara. “You must call me…” Clara held her breath as he hesitated, and Jack seemed to tense in anticipation as well.
“Rook,” he said flatly.
Her shoulders slumped: that wasn’t a name. That was just his shortened title, in fact, now she thought about it, she had never heard mention of his first name. Even his sister called him, ‘Rook’.
She found herself responding however, “And you must call me Clara, of course, when we are amongst friends.” He nodded in acknowledgment.
“Well,” said Jack enthusiastically. “Isn’t this nice. I’ll be off now…doing my…something.” And with that he disappeared once again.
Tentatively, Clara started the game, watching Rook’s moves and discerning how he played. Everyone had a method – usually learnt from their tutor – but Clara had played with many of her uncle’s friends, and she had a wide knowledge of methodology.
Purposefully, she left a pawn to his tender mercy and, although she saw his clenched fist, he obeyed Jack’s advice and stayed the capture – what a gentleman!
As he concentrated, Clara was able to study him closely. He was handsome, but not in the smooth, pretty way of Sir Matthew. His face was strong and made slightly harsh by his firm jaw and high cheekbones; he looked nothing like his namesake.
Tonight he wore black, except for the bottle-green waistcoat, white shirt and cravat. He looked impeccable. Unlike her, he had removed his gloves to play chess, and Clara could only stare at those large hands – remembering them on her body.
Rook was fairly silent, and Clara shook herself inwardly. She had to concentrate and, as the game progressed, Clara realised he was good – very, very good; she started to play in earnest.
Rook watched as Clara captured another pawn. At first, he had thought it a fluke, as he hadn’t been paying attention, that was true. Most of the debutantes wore pale, wan colours, but Clara was wearing a deep-blue, silk evening gown, shot through with some kind of silver thread. It suited her dark colouring and brought out the creaminess of her skin. He supposed her slightly older age made the colour permissible.
She fidgeted with the shoulder of her gown, pulling it up, and he realised that it was the side where that beast of a man had bitten her. He remembered the delicateness of her collarbone and shoulder. He wanted to throw aside the chess table, kneel before her and pull the sleeve down. He wanted to brush his mouth down that long neck, trail his lips over her shoulder and kiss the bruise, laving the hurt with his tongue until she moaned. He wanted to pull the gown further and kiss…
“Another one, my lord, I am sorry.” His thoughts were rudely interrupted by another capture of a piece, and he narrowed his eyes. The bloody minx.
“You, Miss Clara Lockwood, are a cheat.” Her eyes sparkled at him, and he found himself captivated by the dark amber gaze. Her lashes lowered modestly, cutting off his imprisonment.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean…rook.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat at hearing her say his name. He imagined her moaning it as he… He looked down at the table – she’d taken his rook, damn her!
He let out a hoot of laughter. “I have been well and truly gammoned, have I not, Clara?”
“To be fair, the hoodwinking was initially aimed at Jack. But I confess, I might have learned a thing or two from my uncle… and all his friends,” she acknowledged gleefully. “He was to be one of the founding members of the London Chess Club, but passed away before he could see its proper formation.”
“Well, it serves me right to have underestimated you, Clara. I am coming to believe, I may have underestimated you in quite a few things,” he seemed to say the latter part to himself.
The tension had eased, and conversation flowed between them, although every now and then, there was the silence of deep concentration. They discussed everything from books to the current war, and their belief that Wellington would succeed.
