Page 3 of A Match of Misfortune

“Is it? And what of Mrs. Markham? Does it not bother you that you must now share her affections with me?”

Cecily set the book on a small end table near the chair, allowing her attention to linger on it so Nash would not glimpse the truth of his accusation in her expression. When she had successfully veiled her emotions, she met his measuring gaze. “I am thrilled that Mrs. Markham has found love. No one deserves it more than she. Besides, you are leaving for India soon, so it is not as though you will be in London with her and your father.” She sent him a pointed look. “So you see, that cannot be the reason for my disliking you so intensely.”

His focus was as unwavering as his smile. “Very well. My second guess is that you find losing a hardship.”

“Is this about our footrace?” At the memory, an assault on her pride flooded through her. Why she had ever agreed to race him when his strides were twice what hers were was beyond her. And now, because of that race, her favorite pearl necklace was missing. They’d started back to Cavendish Square to search for it the moment she realized it must have fallen off, but to no avail. “How can I be upset at losing to you when you are two years older than I and have the advantage of both size and strength? Not to mention, you did not have to run in a dress.”

“What of our archery match? Or our game of shuttlecock and battledore?”

She pulled in a slow, inconspicuous breath, refusing to let him get the better of her. “Your hands are the size of a giant’s. It is clearly an advantage in both sports.” She well knew that had little to do with anything, but it felt like some sort of consolation. Until he turned his hands over and appraised them with a look of pleasure, as though she’d offered him some great compliment.

“And I would assume you also have an excuse for why you lost our game of chess? Did my giant hands make it easier for me to move the pieces? Perhaps it’s difficult to play while wearing a dress?” He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Or do I hold a different advantage over you as well? An intellectual one, possibly?”

Cecily shot to her feet. “As enlightening as this conversation has been, I think I shall excuse myself.” She moved to step past him, but he stood, blocking her escape.

“So that is the reason for your dislike of me? Losing is a hardship for you, and I have bested you one too many times?”

There was no humor in Cecily’s laugh. “The only thing that is a hardship for me is you.”

Pure amusement lit his features. “In all sincerity, I am flattered to be considered your refiner’s fire. Though my quandary remains—why have I been given such a place of honor in your esteem?”

Cecily craned her neck to meet his gaze, and a strange wave of heat surged through her. Not only anger, though there was certainly much of that, but something else with it. Something that was far more unsettling. She straightened her posture, ignoring the odd, unfamiliar sensation. “I can offer you several potential possibilities: your constant need for attention, your presumptuous opinions, your tiresome optimism, your arrogance, your lack of perception, your⁠—”

He stepped closer, and her heart flew outward, halting her words entirely. It would have been wise to step away, to put more space between them, but she did not. She could not. Some strange curiosity kept her rooted in place.

“Do you want to know what I believe is the true reason for your dislike of me?” His hushed voice was just above a whisper.

Cecily swallowed, not sure she did.

“I can’t help but wonder …” He looped his finger around one of the curls that hung over her shoulder. “Is your dislike of me a pretense? A cover for other feelings? Feelings that are equally strong?” He let the curl slide downward through his palm at a slow, intentional pace. “Stronger, perhaps?”

She stared at his hand, attempting to make sense of what was happening. “That is … absurd.”

“Is it?” he asked, his voice a low hum that reverberated through her.

“Entirely.” She shook her head, trying to chase the thought away. His rationale made no sense. None. But when she lifted her gaze to his, there was a strange look in his eyes—one of admiration and … hope?—that caused her confidence to waver. “It is not possible that …” she said, attempting to speak reason to herself, but with his nearness and the lingering scent of amber and sandalwood, her thoughts grew muddled. “I don’t … I …”

He lifted a hand to her cheek, making her breath catch. “So you do not have other, more amiable feelings for me?”

With the racing speed of her heart, she was suddenly far too aware of the answer that was forming on her tongue, but her pride would not allow her to say it. Not outright. “I am certain I should not.”

“Should not?” One side of his lips lifted into a partial smile. “That is not the same thing, though. Is it?”

Again, Cecily swallowed hard, imploring her good sense to return. But all she could think about was the sensation of his fingertips against her skin. “Not exactly, I suppose.” Her words were breathy and sounded strange even to her own ears.

Nash took another step, closing the space between them. He glanced at her mouth, filling her with anticipation. “Do you know what I am certain of?” he asked.

Her whole body tingled and her head grew dizzy. “What?”

He was but a breath away. “That I would like to kiss you.”

Without permission, her gaze settled on his lips. There was no longer a smile upon them. No hint of mischief. He leaned in, stopping just out of reach, as though waiting to see what Cecily would do. Waiting to see if she would welcome his kiss.

And, despite all reason, she closed her eyes in acceptance.

It felt like an eternity before Nash’s hand came to the nape of her neck. But instead of his lips meeting hers, they brushed along her cheek until his mouth settled by her ear. His breath was warm, and a surge of pleasure raced through her.

“It seems my suspicions are confirmed,” he whispered.