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one like him,” Jemma said, finding herself smiling like an idiot. Villiers walked a dangerous boundary, between masculinity and its opposite and yet—as always—his flamboyant clothes managed to make him look more male. Of course, his features weren’t in the least feminine: not that large nose and rough-hewn chin. Especially combined with his customary laconic, bored expression.
    There wasn’t another man in En gland who could have worn the cloak. Correction: there wasn’t another man in England who would have dared to wear the cloak. But Villiers looked like a prince—the kind of prince who has a harem of dancing women, what’s more.
    Jemma turned sideways to slip her hoops between two gawking ladies and swept into a deep curtsy before Villiers. “Your Grace,” she said, “you do us too much honor.”
    Villiers made her as deep a leg. “The day I miss one of the Duchess of Beaumont’s entertainments will be the day you mea sure me for a coffin. And”—he turned to Damon—“though your brother has done his best to fit me for that uncomfortable bed, I find that I survive to fight another day.”
    Damon’s bow would have honored an emperor. “But never with me again, Your Grace.”
    “I trust not indeed,” Villiers said, walking forward and giving his surprisingly sweet, if rare, smile. “I find losing uncomfortable and should not wish to repeat the occasion, Gryffyn. You do realize that I lost to both brother and sister in only two days?”
    Jemma smiled. “If you refer to the chess match between us, Your Grace, you have lost but the first game of our match.”
    Villiers glanced around at the hushed guests, who instantly turned away, ineffectually pretending that they weren’t hanging on every word of their conversation. The smile playing around his mouth was devilish. “I thought perhaps we could begin that second game today, Your Grace. After all, as I understand it”—and he glanced about again—“some foolish men have bet over two thousand pounds on the outcome. It would be an unkindness to delay their curiosity as to the final winner.”
    There was a little murmur in the room, as if a sudden sweep of wind had blown over a field of wheat. In the last weeks, betting on the match between the Duchess of Beaumont and the Duke of Villiers had reached a frenzied pitch. Villiers was widely proclaimed to be the best chess player in En gland, and the fact that Jemma had beaten him in their first game would likely drive the betting to new heights. Not to mention the fact that—
    The Duke of Beaumont appeared at Jemma’s shoulder and swept a deep, diplomat’s bow. “I am enchanted to see you,” he said to Villiers, not even a shadow in his tone indicating that he was both estranged from Villiers and engaged in a parallel match of chess with his wife. Not to mention the fact that most of London believed that Jemma herself was the prize, to be given to the winner, whether it be her own husband or Villiers.
    Naturally, Jemma fully intended to win both matches herself.
    “I was sorry to hear that you suffered injury this morning,” Beaumont said, acting as if his brother-in-law had nothing to do with that wound. “Should you be resting, Your Grace?”
    “Ah, rest,” Villiers said idly. “So often overrated, particularly when there is a chance that one might play a decent game of chess. Indeed, Beaumont, I had hoped that your duchess would open a new stage in our match. You see,” he added, “I dearly hate to lose.”
    “We’re only playing one move a day,” Jemma said to him with mock severity. “You cannot hope to know whether you will win or lose based on today’s move, Your Grace.”
    “I shall endeavor to frighten you with my brilliance,” Villiers said, “blunting your intelligence so that you throw in the game.”
    “I tremble at the thought. But I agree with my husband that you must be in need of rest. If you would accompany me to the library, perhaps we might begin that