Page 26 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"Again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Play again." He was already resetting the pieces, his movements faster now, less precise. "I was unprepared. I did not expect⁠—"

"Did not expect a woman to beat you?"

"Did not expect anyone to sacrifice a queen for a bishop and somehow make it work." He met her eyes, and there was genuine admiration in his gaze that made her pulse skip. "Again. Please."

She beat him again. Different strategy—she played conservatively, let him overextend, then dismantled his position piece by piece.

"You adapted," he said, staring at the board. "You saw how I played and changed your approach."

"You sound surprised."

"I am." He looked up. "Most people do not adjust. They play the same way regardless of their opponent."

"Most people are not very good at chess."

He laughed—an actual laugh, surprised out of him, and Florinda felt it land in her ribs and take up residence.

This was dangerous. This was extremely dangerous. She was not supposed to enjoy making him laugh. She was not supposed to catalogue the way his face transformed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way he looked—for just a moment—like a man who had forgotten to be numb.

"You should smile more," she said, and immediately wished she could retrieve the words and stuff them back into her mouth.

His face shifted—not closed, exactly, but careful. "Should I?"

"I meant—" What had she meant? "You have a pleasant smile. When you use it. Which is not often. I was merely observing. As one does. About smiles. Generally." She was babbling. She never babbled. "Shall we play another round?"

"Perhaps later." But he was almost smiling again. "I should allow my dignity time to recover."

* * *

That evening brought Whist—and the Dowager Duchess.

Florinda had encountered Frederick's mother precisely twice during her convalescence: once at dinner, where the Dowager had surveyed her with the warmth of a tax assessor, and once in the corridor, where she had received a nod so glacial it probably lowered the temperature of the entire wing.

Now she sat across from the woman, partnered with her against Frederick and Penelope, wondering if it was too late to develop a convenient headache.

"You are the Ashbourne girl," the Dowager observed, arranging her cards. "The one who was engaged to that poet."

Florinda kept her face pleasant through sheer force of will. "I am indeed the Ashbourne girl, Your Grace. The poet was rather less memorable."

The Dowager's eyebrow rose perhaps a quarter inch. "He wrote an ode about you in the papers, as I recall. After the dissolution."

"Did he? I make a point of not reading anything that rhymes 'betrayal' with 'portrayal.' The quality is invariably poor."

Across the table, Penelope made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh. Frederick appeared to be examining his cards with tremendous concentration.

The Dowager said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Your lead, I believe."

Florinda led with a seven of hearts and prayed her partner was not the sort to hold grudges about bidding strategy.

They played three rounds. The Dowager, it transpired, was an excellent Whist player—ruthless, strategic, and possessed of a memory for cards that bordered on supernatural. She communicated through the barest movements: a tightening around the eyes meant lead with trump; a minute thinning of the lips meant you have disappointed me, but I shall permit you to redeem yourself.

By the second round, Florinda had learned to read her. By the third, they were winning handily.

"You play better than I expected," the Dowager said, as Frederick swept up the cards with the air of a man accepting defeat. "Most young women sacrifice strategy for sentiment."