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offense. He thought he caught a faint glimmer of relief in her gaze, as though she’d wondered, after she spoke, if she might perhaps have gone too far.
    She thrust out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”
    His amusement only increased at her rather unorthodox gesture, since as a rule ladies did not shake hands. Hesitating a scant moment more, he enfolded her palm inside his own.
    Immediate pleasure tingled over his flesh at the contact, her hand soft and delicate and extraordinarily feminine. Tiny, as well, her palm barely a fraction of the size of his own—so small that without care he knew he could crush the fragile bones inside with no more than a squeeze. He was careful and tender, though, aware of his height and strength as he towered high above her.
    Gazing down, he met the suddenly rapt expression in her eyes. Without thinking, he tightened the contact between them, the tips of his fingers brushing idly against the silky texture of her skin as he pulled her a fraction closer. She trembled but did not resist, subtly swaying toward him, near enough now for the skirts of her gown to brush against his pantaloon leg. Her lips parted—pink and pretty and sweetly kissable. He bent his head and stared at her luscious, strawberry-hued mouth, wondering if her flesh would taste as good as it looked.
    She trembled again, her eyelids drooping with reciprocal interest.
    Abruptly, he blinked and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake, as if he were emerging from a haze. What in the blazes? Surely I wasn’t about to kiss her? And God knows what else besides!
    Desire pulsed through him, his flesh thickening with unmistakable arousal. He was way out of bounds, he knew. Margaret Amberley was a guest in his house, and as such under his protection. Crossing that line, even with a kiss, would be a violation of her trust—and make him little better than the sort of scoundrel he’d warned her against earlier. Then, too, there was his oath to another woman. One whose young life may have been extinguished, but was not forgotten.
    As if Meg had suddenly turned into a leper, he dropped her hand. Pivoting on his heel, he started toward the door.
    “My lord,” she called. “You…you did not give me your answer.”
    Answer? What answer? Then he remembered—the chess game. Christ, he cursed to himself, did she still want to play that bloody game? But of course she did, having not been privy to the prurient direction of his thoughts.
    Momentarily, he considered refusing, telling her there would be no chess game tonight or any other. But then he remembered her offer. What had she said? If she lost, she would promise not to infringe upon his solitude again for the remainder of her stay. He had to admit he liked the idea of that, and its simplicity, since he knew instinctively that she was a woman of her word.
    Slowly, he turned back. “Yes, we have a deal. Pray lead the way if you would be so good.” With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he allowed her to pass.
    Like candy from a baby, he mused, as he trailed after her to his book room. Thirty minutes from now he’d be handing her a defeat. And putting an end to any further unwanted bouts of temptation.
     
    “Checkmate, my lord,” Meg declared in a soft voice nearly an hour and a half later.
    Lord Cade’s forehead gathered into a series of lines. “What! But—”
    “It was your rook, you see. Once I captured that, the next three moves were virtually assured to be mine.”
    As she watched, he scowled harder and stared at the board, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. His cravat sat slightly askew around his neck as well, the result of having given the linen several hard tugs during the last few minutes of the match. Until now,his attitude had been one of relaxed overconfidence, nursing his tumbler of whiskey while he monitored the progress of the game with a far too casual eye.
    “I am afraid there is no way out,” she told him. “Although I must say you made a