Page 25 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Gothic heroines, Florinda thought grimly, had no idea how complicated real villainy could be.

Chapter Eight

The Games

After a fortnight confined to the blue guest chamber, Florinda had finally been pronounced well enough to come downstairs—provided she was carried, which was mortifying, and provided she did not attempt to walk, which was maddening. She had read every Gothic novel in Carthedge Hall's library, critiqued the needlework on fourteen cushions, and developed an extremely inconvenient fascination with her host's hands.

This last development was particularly irritating. She was a sensible woman of six and twenty, not a schoolgirl prone to mooning over gentlemen's fingers. And yet here she sat in the morning room, watching Frederick set up a chess board, cataloguing the precise way he handled each piece.

Methodical. Deliberate. He lined up the pawns with military precision, each one exactly centered on its square.

"You are staring," he observed, without looking up.

"I am assessing my opponent." She folded her hands in her lap to prevent them from doing anything embarrassing. "You arrange the pieces as though preparing for an invasion."

"Chess is war in miniature."

"Chess is a game. War is rather more inconvenient for the pawns."

He glanced up at that, surprise crossing his features. "You have opinions on military strategy?"

"I have opinions on most things. It's considered one of my less attractive qualities." She reached for the white queen, turning it over in her fingers. "The palace library is extensive. Four years is a long time to entertain oneself during naptime."

"What did you read?"

"Everything." She set the queen back in place. "Natural philosophy. Agricultural theory. Three volumes of naval history that I suspect were shelved incorrectly. A truly alarming memoir about the French court that I am certain Ella does not know exists."

"And Clausewitz?"

She blinked. "How did you⁠—"

"You quoted him. Just now. The bit about pawns." He was watching her with an odd intensity. "Most women do not read Prussian military theory for entertainment."

"Most women are not trapped in a palace with a two-year-old who naps for three hours daily and a library with no organizational system whatsoever." She gestured at the board. "Shall we begin, or would you prefer to continue cataloguing my eccentricities?"

"Both, I suspect." But he was almost smiling as he said it.

They played.

Florinda had learned chess from Jon, years ago, back when her brother still lived at Ashbourne and taught her everything their tutors said was unsuitable for girls. She had always played aggressively—sacrificing pieces early, building toward positions that looked disastrous until they weren't.

Frederick, she discovered, played defensively. Controlled. He built fortresses around his king and waited for opponents to make mistakes.

She sacrificed her queen on move fourteen.

He stared at the board. "That was⁠—"

"Reckless? Foolish? The desperate gambit of a woman who has clearly lost her mind?"

"I was going to say unexpected." He captured her queen, frowning. "You have exposed your entire left flank."

"Have I?"

Six moves later, she had him in checkmate.

Frederick regarded the board with the air of a man who had just discovered his fortress contained a traitor. "You sacrificed your queen three moves before you needed to."

"I sacrificed my queen to win. There's a difference."