Page 13 of Rogue Lyon

He smiled and took a step to the right, as if blocking her way. “Don’t apologize on my behalf.” He nodded at the poster. “Are you entering?” he asked again.

“It states gentlemen’s chess tournament.”

“Ah, so it does.”

“So I can’t.”

“Shame. I bet you can play.”

“Why would you think that?”

“A woman of mystery.” He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “I’ve learned that about you already.”

“Hardly.”

“I disagree. To look at you, one would never have guessed you could deal to the standard Mrs. Dove-Lyon demands, or that you could read the table so well as to spot deception afoot.”

“What does that mean? ‘To look at me’?”

“I suppose it means…” He reached for a lock of hair that had escaped to rest upon her shoulder. His finger brushed her flesh.

His touch was like a static shock, sending a fizzing sensation across her chest and down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked into his blue-gray eyes.

“Some women flounce and want to be looked at. I get the feeling you like to do the looking.”

“I watch people,” she said. “That is true.”

“And to my advantage.” He released her lock of hair and stepped back. “You like the painting?” He gestured to it.

She blew out a breath, finally able to inhale again now that he wasn’t up close and looming over her, surrounding her with the scent of pine and leather and handsome man. “Yes, it’s beautiful.” She pointed to the rabbit. “I love that he’s eating those dandelions. Makes me think he’s a pet and not for a pot.”

“Me too.” He sounded enthused, as though he approved of her comment. “That’s what I like about it. The boy’s attire gives the impression of being entitled; he could have any expensive object he asked for, yet he loves his little rabbit friend.”

“And the artist has captured that,” she said.

“Do you know about art as well as cards?”

“I’m afraid not. I have very little experience in art.”

“Would you like to learn?”

She hesitated. “I love to learn about almost anything. My father always said it was something we should do until the day we die.”

“A wise man. Did he teach you cards?”

“Yes, and chess.”

“Chess…” He turned to her and grinned broadly. “So you would be quite capable of playing in the tournament if it were open to women. I knew it.”

“Men don’t like to be beaten by women.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon runs a gentlemen’s club, remember. It’s about keeping the menfolk happy. I would beat them all.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrows rose. “In which case, it hardly seems fair that you don’t get the chance.”

“Is anything in life fair? I think not.”

“Now that”—he wagged his finger—“is a truth if ever I heard one.” He gestured to the door and the encroaching twilight. “I have to go, but thank you again for what you did back there… I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Meredith Jones.”