Page 63 of The Lady Knows Best

Even after the coat was in place, he still gripped it by the placket, holding it closed at the base of her throat, his knuckles resting lightly against her collarbones. Surely, he felt how she had to swallow before she could manage even three hoarse words: “Yes, thank you.” She didn’t dare look up to meet his eyes.

But looking straight ahead was dangerous too: the wedge of bare skin revealed by his open collar. That intriguing hollow at the base of his throat. A dusting of light brown hair below it, disappearing into his shirt.

She wanted, quite desperately, to lay her palm—her cheek—against his chest, to feel the heat of his skin, the contour of his muscles, the beating of his heart. But to cross such an intimate line?

After such a bold advance, there could be no retreat.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“What?”

Startled, she managed to drag her gaze upward, over his stubbled jaw, to his mouth. She watched as his lips curved into a sardonic smile.

“I’ve just remembered. We’re in the library, and I’d say this is dimly lit, wouldn’t you? I promised I’d show you—”

Blood rushed into unexpected places. The tips of her ears. The secret spot between her legs. “That’s really not—I should go back to—”

“Shh.” Forming that sound pushed his lips into the most kissable shape. “Close your eyes, my dear. That’s it.”

To her utter astonishment, once she had complied, he released his hold on his coat and stepped away from her. Before she could form a question, she felt him behind her. His right arm passed around her body and his hand came to rest lightly over her closed eyes. “No peeking.” She could hear the smile in his voice. He slid his other hand down her left arm to her wrist, her hand. “Now walk,” he murmured into her ear, guiding her steps with their joined hands and the gentle pressure of his body at her back.

Absent her sight, her other senses seemed painfully acute: her awareness of everywhere they touched, his warmth, his scent, made her feel weak at the knees.

“I won’t let you stumble into anything,” he said. “You can trust me.”

Had there ever been a more outrageous claim?

But she did as he asked, nonetheless. Let him lead her across the room. From behind closed eyes, she tried to recall the rest of the room’s furniture, tried to picture where he might be taking her. She hadn’t paid much attention, her focus solely on the desk, but hadn’t there been a sofa to the left, by the window that faced the front of the house? Except he seemed to be steering her toward the right....

“Stop. That’s far enough.” He lowered his right arm to uncover her eyes but did not release her hand. “Now, open.”

She blinked several times, but even when she could focus clearly, she couldn’t make sense of what she saw. In the corner of the room to which he’d led her sat a small, round, pedestal table, its top inlaid with a checkered design. And on that pattern sat a marble chess set, the pieces arrayed for play.

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“That night, in the Greys’ library,” he prompted. “What Arabella saw me doing with Mrs. Wellcroft . . .”

“You and she were . . . playing chess?”

“I’m not very good. Ryland tried for years to teach me, but . . .” Her own arm lifted slightly with his sheepish shrug. “I’m something of a hopeless case.”

Unbidden, Daphne squeezed shut her eyes again, trying to call up the details of Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square’s letter, the specific accusation it had leveled. The detail she had assumed was a euphemism, unfit for print.

“You were playing chess,” she repeated flatly.

His soft laugh stirred her hair, the sound of a man pleased by his own cleverness, and he brushed the pad of his thumb across the back of the hand he still held, in what she supposed was intended to be a soothing gesture. “You see? I’m not the rakish villain everyone’s made me out to be.” He chuckled again, more rueful this time. “Not entirely, anyway.”

No, he wasn’t the man Miss Busy B. had imagined when she’d set out along this path to avenge Miss Grey and to warn the innocent readers of the Magazine for Misses. And the more time Daphne spent with this Miles, the more her desire for him grew.

Slowly, she opened her eyes again. So far from the candle, with their shadows falling over the chessboard, it was difficult even to distinguish the light pieces from the dark.

But someone had to make the next move.

She drew in a breath, the ragged sound loud in the stillness surrounding them. “What if... what if I wanted you to be? Rakish, that is. Just a little.”

She’d shocked him. His thumb, which had been sweeping lazily over her knuckles, paused, as if every part of him were involved in considering what his answer ought to be.

Mortification consumed her like a flame when he released her hand and took a step backward. Of course he didn’t want her—he wanted to win his wager. Their courtship was nothing but a show for others. Just flirtation and foolishness, as she’d said in the garden.