An Affair Before Christmas (Desperate Duchesses) by Eloisa James

Author:Eloisa James [James, Eloisa]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2009-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

On close observation, Jemma discovered that Lord Strange was as sleekly dressed as Fletch, and perhaps even more elegant.

“Your Grace,” he said, sweeping her a bow.

“Lord Strange,” she said, curtsying.

“What an honor that you came to speak to me,” Strange said. “I see so little of proper women these days.”

“I knew your wife,” Jemma said. “Sally was a dear friend.”

His eyes changed instantly. “Surely you were not sent to school?”

“No, but Sally’s godmother, Lady Fibblesworth, was a great friend of my family, and we happily visited as children.”

“Lady Fibblesworth was an admirable woman.”

“Yes,” Jemma agreed. “Sally used to visit us regularly until I married and then left for Paris. I wasn’t in En gland when she made her debut.”

“She never really debuted. I was too wild, so they married me off. It was the luckiest day of my life.”

“I am so sorry that she is no longer alive.”

He hunched a little. “I share your feelings.”

They appeared to have finished that conversation, so Jemma tried a different tack. “Do you play chess, Lord Strange?”

“Yes.”

She liked his brevity. Good chess players rarely squealed about their abilities.

“But”—he added—“when I last played Philidor, he told me that you were the only person who has beaten him three games in a row. I have only beaten him once or twice, so you might not wish to waste your time with me.”

“You played against Philidor?”

He nodded. “Last year in Paris.”

“We must have a game.”

“I only play when I’m at Fonthill or in Paris.”

Fonthill was famous for its beauty, three hundred acres that had been decorated at ruinous expense. Except that for a man with Strange’s fortune, nothing is ruinous. But she said: “Fonthill? You must forgive me; I’ve lived out of the country for the past eight years. Is that your residence?”

“It is. You know, you’re quite interesting, for one of your sex.”

“I make a habit of never returning compliments of that nature. Men are so prone to thinking they are more interesting than the common run of their sex, when invariably they are nothing out of the ordinary.”

His eyebrow raised in appreciation. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“I expect we all deserve a great deal that we are not served.”

“I would like to play chess with you. A shame. But it is one of my foibles: I don’t play a game of chess that doesn’t occur at Fonthill or Paris.”

“I shall have to live without the experience then,” she murmured, letting a little edge tell him what she thought of his foibles and his vanity.

But he surprised her and laughed. “I could invite you to Fonthill, of course.”

“A lovely prospect.”

“Virtuous married women never visit me. Let me see. Could it be that I’ve heard rumors implying that you are not quite so…virtuous?”

“Rumors,” she said sweetly, letting her eyes slide to the golden-haired lady standing to his right like a clothes-peg waiting to be animated. “They can be so imprecise.”

“And yet often so accurate,” he said, grinning at her. He was truly charming when he chose to be.

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