Anabelle Bryant - Duke Of Darkness

Grimley left soon after, the only sound now the panting of a ridiculously energetic terrier.

“Just Henry seems to think you are his dessert.” Devlin envied the little animal. His declaration had chased away all conviviality and Just Henry remained a welcomed addition to the room, unlike himself.

“I must tell you, Your Grace, I’m surprised by your news.”

So he was Your Grace again. He grimaced, aware he needed to explain the more intricate details of the request within the documents he’d received.

Alexandra rose to pace the room, dumping Just Henry unceremoniously at her feet. “Marriage? And that is a condition to the settlement?”

“I believe it would serve as your dowry, the use of the money to be determined by your betrothed.”

Alexandra scoffed, a flush of anger warming her cheeks. So lovely. Who would have guessed Aunt Min kept such a stunning English rose hidden away at The Willows?

“And I am to accept this? I have no say in my future again.” Emotion riddled each word as she paced, her black skirts swishing around the panting dog who matched her every step.

Ah, so the English rose did have a past. It was an interesting twist in the unfolding story. He watched her strides slow, could almost see her mind at work. Truly, he’d underestimated her intelligence.

A determined glint lit her enchanting blue eyes as she strode forward. “I don’t accept. I refuse.”

She stated the five words as if they weren’t laughable and, devil take him, he laughed. He transformed the misplaced reaction with a gruff cough and regained his composure in a swift act of better judgement. “I don’t believe you have a choice. Not only was it my aunt’s dying wish, but it is legally binding. You are now my responsibility.”

Her answer clipped the final syllables of his response. “I’ll wager you for my freedom.”

“What?” He almost missed her meaning, ensconced in determining how she would fit within his unusual existence. “Oh, I never wager. Sorry, Lexi. It is what it is.”

“Don’t call me that, Your Grace. You claim I am your charge now. I would prefer Lady Alexandra.”

An aborted snort of amusement escaped before he could think better of it.

“That was uncalled for.”

Wounded eyes glanced in his direction and an apology bloomed on his tongue. Ridiculous. The Duke of Wharncliffe never apologized.

Yet she persisted.

“One game of chess. Or the best out of three. Winner decides my future.”

With due understanding, she would not let the matter drop, but her challenge immediately gained his attention. “You play chess?” Now that intrigued him. “How did you come by the skill?” He strode to the chess table near the far window and palmed the black king. He always played black. He always won. Hadn’t found an opponent yet daring enough to take the risks he did with his pieces. And so the game grew stale. Even he didn’t like to win every time. Where lay the challenge in that?

“Your aunt taught me, of course. We played often.”

His brow climbed in question. Aunt Min despised chess. Or at least she led him to believe it so. True, one’s interests could change over time. Temptation whispered in his ear. He hadn’t had a good opponent in ages. How well could she play? He surveyed her stance near the fireplace. She met his assessment with an inborn confidence and a challenging gleam in her eye.

So she would stake her future on the game. If nothing else, it would prove entertainment for the evening and deflect unwanted feelings linked to Aunt Min’s passing; although the notion paled when he considered the redundancy of forging the bargain when one already knew the outcome.

He picked up the white queen and tossed it across the salon. She captured it in a smooth arc of her hand.

“Let’s play.”

Chapter Seven

Alexandra’s body swayed with the steady jarring of the coach, yet her glare never wavered as she eyed Devlin under lowered lids. The barouche, newly repaired, had arrived on cue that morning as if summoned by the devil himself. That devil, Wharncliffe, sat across from her now. Neither of them had spoken a word since last evening when he’d made quick work of winning their chess matches.

He’d extended her another opportunity, a tournament of three out of five games and gone so far as to claim he enjoyed their wager, ready to offer new stakes, but she was no fool to fall further into his debt.

He proved a masterful chess player. She watched his adept fingers move the pieces about the board through intricate plays exceeding anything she’d read in a book or practised on her own. How foolish she’d been to bargain with him. And she had lost.

When he did not appear at breakfast, Grimley informed her of Devlin’s desire to leave and she’d walked to the foyer alone with her single valise and small travelling bag. Henry followed, yipping at her heels. She’d picked him up with a wry smile, confident and pleased the combination of the confinement of a barouche, two days’ travel and a rambunctious terrier would annoy the duke tremendously.

And yet for all her misery, there was no denying Devlin Ravensdale composed a breathtaking sample of a man. He rested now, his head against the velvet cushion of the back bench, his eyes closed. Did he sleep? She could not be sure.

She’d heard Grimley enquire of his night’s rest in a manner overly concerned, but then too, she’d been distracted by her own situation to give the comment due attention. He did look weary when they’d first entered the barouche.

She continued her perspicacious perusal of his person. His body, long and lean, was proportioned to the perfect cut of his clothing. Impeccable clothing, made by a very precise tailor, no doubt. For all the biscuits he seemed to enjoy, his physique showed no trace of fat. She blinked away the thought of all his strong, hard muscle. Nothing at all like Henry Addington.

Odd, that sudden and obtuse comparison. Henry seemed a boy compared to this man, a simple respectable gentleman. His Grace likely sent a string of ladies into a swoon on a regular basis. When she first met him in the stable, the dim light and newborn colt saved her from embarrassment as her breath came up short and her hands trembled. The visceral reaction proved difficult to ignore and unsettled her usual levelheaded demeanour. And when he’d lifted her atop his horse, as if she was nothing more than a bag of feathers, and rode with her back to the manor house, the muscles of his legs pressed against the horse, pressed against her—

She shook her head to stop her wayward thoughts.

Her gaze travelled to his hands placed atop his waistcoat, his fingers folded in repose. He wore a gold signet ring on his right hand and his fingernails were well trimmed and polished. She’d watched them reach into his waistcoat pocket in search of a little metal tin, of which she hoped was not tobacco or snuff. She hadn’t seen evidence of such use, but could not fathom what else he’d keep captive there. His watch fob and chain were golden, linked from one end of his pocket to the other and not visible where his coat hung open.

Abandoning all propriety and convinced he must surely be asleep, she raised her eyes to his face, enthralled in examination of his person. His hair could not be blacker if he bathed it in soot. Its glossy richness reflected sunlight in blue, and no doubt felt silkier than satin to the touch. It wasn’t overly long and definitely not stylish. A sudden jolt of the barouche sent a lock rakishly over his brow and her fingertips itched to tuck it into place.

How unfair for a man to possess such ruggedly entrancing good looks. His dark brows slashed straight to give the appearance of seriousness, although at the hearty rumble of his laughter when she proposed her challenge last evening, she surmised he enjoyed humour well enough. His nose was chiselled in proportion to his sharp chin, wrapped with the thinnest beard she’d ever seen. How might it feel to kiss a man with whiskers? She shifted on the bench and reached for Henry, offering a rub to the sleeping pup’s belly in a familiar habit. Devlin’s whiskers could not possibly feel the same.