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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