She left the room and headed down the hall to the staircase, wincing at the sound her riding boots made on the wooden floors. It was hardly the ladylike approach her mother and governess had always required, but even this small and necessary rebellion made her feel stronger.
The dining room table was set with covered dishes at its center for an informal meal. Mrs. McFadden was adding cutlery and putting out the serving spoons. “Ah! There you are! I’ve yet to pry the professor from his books but perhaps you can fetch him for me.”
“Are you sure he wouldn’t come at the bell?” Isabel was hesitant to interrupt her host if he was busy. “H-he might be cross at the intrusion.”
The housekeeper laughed. “He wouldn’t hear a church bell above his head if he’s got his nose against a page of that heathen scribble—and that man never barks. Though he comes at a cry of distress, I’d rather not give him a heart attack over beef pie. Besides, if we don’t interrupt, he’ll have a cold supper for the kindness.”
“Of course,” she said and dutifully went to the library to seek out Mr. Thorne. The door was closed so she knocked softly. But when there was no answer, she opened it slowly, ready to apologize at the first indication of protest.
But there wasn’t any. She looked to find him at his desk, but instead was captivated by the sight of him sitting on the Oriental rug on the floor, surrounded by maps and papers. Darius had his back to her as he shifted leafs of parchment and picked up a small note to study it, mumbling a bit as he went.
She stole a selfish moment to watch him in his element and admire the man. The light from the fireplace made his brown hair look auburn and set off his broad shoulders. She caught a glimpse of his profile as he spread out a map and her breath caught in her throat at the masculine beauty of him. Kneeling, he evoked the image of a man at prayer, his strong, slender fingers so careful with each sheet he touched as if they were sacred texts.
How is it you have no wife, Darius Thorne? How can you be as wonderful as you are and still be alone?
“Mr. Thorne?” she asked.
He made no indication he’d heard her.
She cleared her throat and tried again, with a bit more volume. “Mr. Thorne.”
He didn’t move and Isabel lifted the hem of her skirt to attempt to approach him without stepping on any of his papers. It was a tricky business but she smiled a little as she tiptoed across the ivory mosaic. Isabel touched him gently on his shoulder, braced for him to jump in case her presence startled him from his scholarly reverie.
But he didn’t jump. Darius looked up slowly like a man waking from a dream. “Helen! Were you . . . ?” He sat back on his heels and glanced behind her. “Did I miss the dinner bell?”
She shook her head. “Mrs. McFadden insisted it wouldn’t work and asked me to come get you for the meal while it is still warm.”
He smiled and gathered up a few papers to create a cleared path from the circle. “She’s right. I was—transported in thought.” He stood, brushing off his pants and straightening his long wool jacket. “Were you there long?”
“No,” she lied. “Not at all.”
“It’s one of my terrible failings, you perceive now, to shut out the world when I’m working, but I’m glad you’re here.” Darius held out his arm to her. “Shall we see about dinner?”
“Yes.” She took his arm and they returned to the small dining room.
“It smells wonderful, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius announced. “You’re a culinary genius!”
“I’m as plain a cook as any.” She deferred the compliment, flustered at the attention. Mrs. McFadden filled their cups with warm spiced cider. “I’ll be back with the bread, but don’t wait to start.”
Isabel smiled. “She took that well.”
Darius pulled out Isabel’s chair for her and the two settled in without ceremony. “I never know what to say to please her. She seems to think I don’t eat enough but . . .” Darius eyed the numerous dishes with a wary eye. “I don’t think the British army could finish off meals to her satisfaction.”
“Perhaps she’s used to providing for a larger family.”
“That must be it. She’s told me more than once that bachelors make for terrible employers. So I’ve tried to be as little trouble as possible, but your theory makes me wonder if I’ve been coming at this all wrong.” He began to uncover the dishes to allow them to sample the fare. “I might have to come up with an experiment or two to test out the idea.”
Isabel pushed away a silly image of Darius deliberately attempting any kind of “trouble” for his housekeeper. “What is your usual area of study, Mr. Thorne?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I would rather not put you to sleep at the subject, Helen.”
“I am very interested, Mr. Thorne. Please.”
“Normally, it would be my theory on the reflective and universal truths that can be deduced about a culture simply by looking at an example of its architecture. But these days, it seems to be a more narrow chase involving sacred Hindu objects and Indian relics.” He took a healthy serving on beef pie onto his plate and sighed. “Although it currently doesn’t feel very narrow. I’m not getting anywhere! It feels more like wearing a blindfold and having cloth sacks on my hands while trying to learn to embroider.”
Isabel struggled not to laugh. “What a fantastic metaphor!”
“I didn’t mean to speak so colorfully,” he said as he lifted out a ladle of thick creamed vegetable soup.
“From architecture to sacred objects; what is the connection, Mr. Thorne?” Isabel added food to her plate as she spoke.
“A tenuous one at best.” He sighed, but the turn in the conversation inspired him. “Every thread worth tugging takes me back to India these days. Men have spent decades there and been less entangled than we were in that brief span in the dark. Isn’t that odd? That I might live to be a hundred but still be defined by one small slice of time.”
“Not defined, Mr. Thorne.” Isabel shook her head. “By we, you mean your friends and yourself?”
“The Jaded,” he intoned. “A misleading name our informal club achieved after a jest at a party in London. An outsider noted that we appeared to be very exclusive and dreary without realizing our origins. There are only six of us altogether who survived the experience, and it’s probably made us a bit too serious to participate in frivolous dances and salon conversations. We prefer to keep to ourselves.”
“What a horrible name!” she exclaimed.
He shrugged. “It is apt in many ways. India changed us, Helen, and the trappings of society aren’t an easy mantle to put back on without some skepticism. A man can be hardened by survival.”
“You don’t seem hardened, Mr. Thorne, or the least bit dreary.”
“Opinions are subjective.” His face reddened and Darius adjusted his glasses.
“And how is it that you are in Scotland, Mr. Thorne, looking for Indian artifacts and not in Bombay?”
“Ah!” Darius set down his fork and knife. “It turns out that—”
Mrs. McFadden entered with a small basket of fresh rolls. “Are you entertaining her, sir?”
“I am hardly qualified, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius said. “Are you sure that’s the custom?”
The housekeeper came round to him to hand over the bread. “You’ve a guest and it’s your duty to do so. Don’t think I’ve time on my hands for parlor games and nonsense!”
Isabel’s back stiffened. “Mr. Thorne is wonderful company.”
Mrs. McFadden nodded. “Good, then. I’m sure you’ve no need of a chaperone. I can attend to cleaning the kitchen and not worry about having to stand about and encourage small talk.” She turned and left so quickly that Isabel had to swallow a hiccup of surprise.
“She is very . . . abrupt with you,” Isabel said. There wasn’t a maid in her mother’s house that wouldn’t have been packing her bags after such an exchange. Isabel’s cheeks warmed at the thought, but somehow Mr. Thorne made it seem perfectly sweet that his housekeep
er was so outspoken.
“Always.” Darius held out the basket to her. “She thinks I read too much and am addled as a result, which, of course, is partially accurate. But she was attached to the property and knew the previous owner and it seemed appropriate to keep her on. The apothecary in the village told me that she was widowed at twenty and never forgave the world for it.” He sighed. “I love the way she keeps the house, and for all her noise, she makes the place less . . . quiet. I’ve asked her to hire a girl to help but the suggestion wasn’t well received. It was cold soup for three days.”
Isabel selected the smallest roll. It seemed Mr. Thorne truly did have a policy of rescuing women. “You are not fond of quiet, Mr. Thorne?”
He shook his head. “It has its place.”
“Well, your housekeeper is wrong about one thing.”
“Is she?”
“It falls to me to provide entertainment as a good guest to repay my host for his hospitality,” Isabel said. “Do you—have a pianoforte?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Harp?”
“This is going to lead down a meandering path of disappointment, Helen.” He sighed, then brightened. “You can read aloud to me! I’d love to hear someone else reciting some poetry for once. My own voice is gravel in my ears.”
Isabel nodded. “If you wish.”
“Or . . .” Darius’s voice trailed off in thought.
“Or?” she prompted him gently.
“I think I have a better idea. Do you play chess?”
“A more direct path to disappointment, Mr. Thorne. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Would you like to learn?”
Isabel sat back and considered it. There had been several chess sets throughout her parents’ large house, but she had never been invited to touch them. Even her husband had possessed an ornate board in his study. But Richard had never played and she’d never asked.
“It’s a man’s game, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. It’s a game of strategy and of battle, but it is a mental game, which doesn’t limit it to either gender.” Darius put his elbows on the table, his countenance changing as he was swept up, making his case. “Two sides face each other and the goal is conquest.”
Her brow furrowed. “I have no interest in war.”
“Perhaps not, but chess is an elegant reduction of conflict and many things. It is the art of defense and offense, of tactical planning and patience. Like dancing, there are choreographed moves and predictable patterns, as well as surprises.”
She smiled. “You are obviously a great fan of the sport.”
“You should learn chess, Helen.”
“Should I?” she asked, mystified at his persistence.
“For one more reason I’ve yet to mention.”
“And what reason is that?”
“Because the most powerful piece on that board isn’t the armed knight on horseback or the brute soldier or even the solemn-looking fellow wearing the crown.”
“No?” She held her breath, drawn in by the light in his eyes.
“It’s the queen. The singular female on the field has more power and freedom to move than any other piece.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Imagine it, Helen. She is the strongest element on the board and every other piece is either struggling to make sure she is safe or to stay out of her way.”
“Oh my!” Isabel let out the breath she’d been holding. “Really?”
“Here, I’ll show you. Bring your plate of food!”
She almost gasped in shock at the outlandish suggestion, but when he stood from the table, she followed suit. They abandoned the dining table with their stolen plates and hurried like mischievous children back to the library, where Darius quickly rearranged the chairs in front of the fireplace and set out a table between them for the board and their dinner plates.
Isabel was given the White army to champion and almost immediately discovered what a great teacher Darius was. He patiently explained each piece’s strengths and moves but added a story with the figurines so that by the time they were ready to begin a game, she was heartily attached to each of her little soldiers, fearful of their safety, proud of her brave knights, and impressed with the haughtiness of her bishops and the righteous indignation of her royal couple at the cheekiness of their rivals’ impending invasion.
Especially my queen.
The tiny feminine carved face was calm and unyielding, her lips in an eternal imperial pout. Isabel liked the look of her with her ivory crown and robe encrusted with dots of paint that resembled pearls. Here was a woman who was powerful and unafraid.
The first game was less a battle and more a series of lessons on how a battle unfolded and the consequences of every choice she made. He held his Black army in check, never striking aggressively against hers but advising where he could have, letting her retrace her steps and weigh out her moves. The first loss of a knight made her almost tearful, but Darius walked her through the realities of a necessary sacrifice to achieve a greater goal.
“You must try to see all the pieces as part of a larger entity, all working together.” He turned the board just a few inches to the left. “Take a deep breath. Sometimes I like to imagine that my men are all eager to do their duty and consider sacrifice a great honor—especially when I promise to resurrect them for the next battle.”
She laughed. “Such absolute power!”
“Heady, isn’t it?” He squared the board again between them. “When you play chess, nothing happens on the field without your command.”
“But I’m not commanding you.” She eyed the intimidating lines of his pieces. “And your men don’t look happy about dying just to please me!”
It was his turn to laugh. “True! The Black army seeks only to please their dark queen, but let’s see if you cannot outwit them.”
“I will do my utmost to make her rage in frustration.” Isabel bent her head in concentration, trying to see the board as he did. Her poor knight stood forlornly next to Darius’s hand—a captured piece. “But only if you sign a treaty not to mistreat any of my men who fall into your hands.”
“Agreed.” Darius solemnly held out his hand. “I shall be merciful.”
“Good.” Isabel took his hand to shake it, her bare palm pressed to his and the warmth of his firm touch enveloping her slender fingers. It was meant as a jest, her proclamation of the articles of their little war, but the spark of sensation she experienced drained her of humor. There was nothing funny about the seductive pull of the heat shimmering across her skin. Isabel knew it was forbidden, this pleasure, but suddenly—it was hard to accept why.
I’m married—and already so far down a path to scandal that I may never recover. But this—God, how is this even possible? When I thought never to want any man’s touch again for as long as I lived?
“And you?” he asked, still holding her hand across the board. His gaze was steady, the green in his eyes deepening as the contact between them lingered.
“M-me?” Isabel tried to regain her mental footing and ignore the sweet fire curling up inside of her.
“Will the White Queen also pledge to be merciful? My army stands ready in either case, but a gentleman must ask if the treaty is to be balanced.”
“Of-of course.” Isabel conceded, then reluctantly let go of his hand. “I’ll serve them jam and biscuits while they wait for you to pay their ransoms.”
“Very kind of you.” He dropped his hand too quickly and clumsily knocked over his rook and two pawns. “Whoa! Disorder in the ranks!”
Darius reordered his pieces and Isabel took the opportunity to catch her breath and press her cool fingers against her cheeks. Mutiny abounds and I should take care that my growing affections for him don’t add to the mess I’ve made of my life. I’ll have caused Mr. Thorne enough trouble without abusing his offer of friendship.
***
Darius silently cursed his clumsiness, praying she hadn’t noticed the way her touch derailed his thoughts. The
game was meant to be a diversion but not like this. He’d hoped to teach her something new and cheer her. In the firelight, she’d transformed her ethereal beauty into a feminine figure of fey glory, and her quick grasp of the game and willingness to play along with his fanciful stories had humbled him. He’d never revealed to anyone else as much of the odd workings of his mind. Chess was a serious game but Darius had never played it without folding in a bit of drama.
Instead of laughing at him, Helen had openly approved, proclaiming herself enchanted, and revealed that her imagination outpaced his. Even now, she took his breath away as she announced, “My lone knight is melancholy to think of his lost twin, Mr. Thorne, but I warn you, he is getting a fireside speech from his comrades to rally his spirits. They’ve reminded him of our cause and inspired him to avenge his brother!”
Darius was entranced—a man held in thrall. “No less inspiring than the cries of my generals to my battered men-at-arms. He is promising extra rations of ale and a parcel of land to the first common man to take down one of your bishops.”
“How wicked!” she exclaimed, her eyes gleaming. “The White army needs no such bribery.”
“Well”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“they do need one thing.”
“And what is that?” she asked, her attention instantly diverted to the board, her expression anxious. “Is someone in danger?”
“No, not necessarily,” he conceded. “But the White army does need the lady ruling the White Kingdom to make her next move, or my wicked forces will start to conclude that she has forfeited.”
“Oh yes, of course!” Helen bit her lower lip, her gaze narrowing as she concentrated. She touched her rook, but hesitated. “Hold on to the tapestries, gentlemen, for we are moving.”
She slid the rook forward to plant it boldly just out of reach of a pawn, an unsubtle threat to his knight, and lifted her fingers. “There!”
Darius winced playfully and reached for his chest as if he’d been struck. “My scouts have betrayed me!” He let out a slow deep breath and then reassessed the board. “I’ll retreat and see if I can’t turn the tide.”
The game continued with mourned losses on both sides and celebrated advances, but Darius deliberately made sure she had an opportunity to ultimately win. The fierce joy on her face after her careful trap sprang on his weakened court and yielded a kneeling black king at her queen’s feet was priceless.
Obsession Wears Opals Page 6
