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Chapter Six

Dinner was exquisite. The cook had, as always, risen to George's exacting standards. But he barely tasted the white soup or the perfectly roasted mutton. His thoughts lingered on the chess match he had left behind. Part of his mind turned over moves, countermoves, and strategies, while a rather more rebellions portion returned inexplicably to the sight of candlelight on fair skin and delicate silk. When the last course had been served, he rose and turned toward Helena.

"Would you care to continue our game, Your Grace?" Another hour, or even two, spent over a chess board could only convince the servants more thoroughly that they were a besotted pair of newlyweds. And it would give him insight into the mind of the woman who was raising his nephew.

And if anyone had the courage to ask him about it, that was precisely what he would tell them.

"Do I have a choice, Your Grace?" Helena returned.

"I offered you any number of choices when I returned to my estates, as you must recall. You still have them."

"So, this is amusement for you? Now that you can no longer spend your evenings cutting a swath through Paris, you've decided to make me your latest diversion?" Helena asked, her melodious voice cutting through the silent room with an incredulous edge as she took a seat at the board and leaned back against her velvet cushion.

She sat perfectly erect; her sage green silk gown draped in elegant folds around her knees. Across the polished rosewood table, George sat with his broad shoulders framed against the carved marble fireplace behind him. Between them rested the exquisite chess board, its remaining pieces cast in sharp, dramatic shadows under the candlelight.

George smiled; that slow, enigmatic curve of his lips that was so rarely seen on his stern face, transforming his harsh features into something dangerously attractive. He offered no reply, choosing instead to lift his hand and lazily trace the carved outline of his black queen upon the board.

Helena stared down at the marble board, her mind working furiously as she analyzed the complex web of positions he had constructed. With every turn, he advanced his black pieces with unyielding discipline that forced her into a constant, exhausting defense.

She looked up from the board, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the man sitting opposite her. George appeared entirely untroubled by the intense match, his calloused hand resting loosely near her captured pieces while his heavy crystal glass of French brandy sat untouched beside him. It was abundantly clear to her that this evening ritual was not merely a casual pastime for the quiet hours before bed. He was testing her, probing her intellect, and enjoying the sharp friction of their minds far too much.

"I refuse to let you win," she said, her eyes flashing with a spark of defiance as she gripped the armrests of her chair, her jaw setting into a resolute line that matched his own stubbornness.

"I should be disappointed if you did," he said, his velvety voice dropping into a low, resonant register that vibrated through the quiet air between them, carrying an unmistakable weight of challenge.

Helena challenged his moves as the game unfolded, convinced he was manipulating her as much as the chessboard. Every time she carefully executed a tactical maneuver to trap his knight or secure her center, he countered with a swift, unexpected advance that forced her back onto the defensive, systematically dismantling her carefully constructed plans.

He plays with my mind just as expertly as he moves these carved pieces. He wishes to see where my patience fractures, Helena thought, her fingers hovering above her remaining ivory knight.

Yet she refused to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. She deliberated over every single square, weighing the consequences of each sacrifice.

As she pondered her next move, deeply absorbed in calculating the sequence of exchanges required to save her king, she unconsciously bit the inside of her cheek; a habit she had possessed since childhood whenever her mind was locked in intense concentration. She raised her eyes to find that George's attention had shifted away from the ivory pieces entirely. His eyes dropped to her face, lingering upon the delicate curve of her mouth.

For a moment, she believed she saw his eyes soften into something unreadable, their color hinting at morning skies and not winter ice.

Before she could fully process the disturbing heat of his gaze, George reached forward and moved his black bishop. With a quiet, definitive click, his piece settled into place, trapping her remaining defenders and locking her white king into an inescapable defeat. Helena folded her arms tightly across her chest, leaning back in her velvet chair while staring down at the ruined battlefield of ivory and ebony.

"So that's it? I lose, and tomorrow, we repeat this absurd ritual?"

George leaned back comfortably in his leather armchair, crossing one long, muscular leg over the other as his gaze lingered on her. "No. We continue until you beat me."

She gasped, her dark green eyes widening with a genuine, startled disbelief as she stared at him, her lips parting slightly in shock at his arrogant declaration. "And if I never do?"

"Then I shall have the pleasure of your company every evening."

Two days passed and Helena spent most of her time on the second floor, seeking refuge from the overwhelming grandeur of the state rooms within the sunlit nursery. It was the only room in the entire estate that felt untainted by pride or societal expectations, for within its walls rested the innocent child she loved more than her own life.

The nursery was a spacious room featuring high windows that offered a sweeping view of the manicured southern gardens and the misty Surrey hills beyond. Helena sat near the window, gently cradling Oliver against her chest as the pale afternoon light illuminated his soft, dark curls.

Over the past days, Helena had watched the nursemaids with an observant and protective eye, and what she witnessed filled her with anxiety. While the younger nursemaids were gentle and eager to please, the estate's housekeeper had placed an old maid named Lydia Thorne in primary charge of Oliver's daily care.

Thorne was a sour, set-in-her-ways woman who had served many noble families, and she handled the fragile boy with indifferent haste that made Helena's stomach twist in knots. Helena had watched the woman pick Oliver up without properly supporting his head, swaddle his sensitive skin in rough, improperly aired linens, and ignore his fretful cries while she casually dusted the window ledges.

The maid did not act out of malice, but out of long-standing, cold routine. Helena knew precisely how Charlotte would have wanted her precious boy tended to – with soft whispers, infinite patience, and absolute tenderness – and Helena knew how to provide it herself.

One afternoon, as the golden sunlight began to slant across the floral carpet, the heavy oak door of the nursery opened, and George stepped quietly into the room. It was an exceptionally rare occurrence for the Duke to venture into the domestic quarters during the day, and his sudden appearance immediately altered the peaceful atmosphere.

Helena's head snapped up, her gaze focusing on the Duke with something between apprehension and appreciation. Those broad shoulders could offer shelter, or they could confine her against the wall as he approached… and both ideas made her heart race. He stood near the doorway, his hands resting behind his back, watching Helena and Oliver with that intense, unreadable gaze that always made her guard rise.