Desperate Duchesses by Eloisa James Page B

laughing.”
    “He was never very good at being formal, nor sad either. Nor ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of himself, and that’s why he did it.”
    “Over a game of cards! And why was he playing such high stakes?”
    “It wasn’t cards,” Harriet said. “It was chess.”
    “Chess!”
    Despite herself, a tear rol ed down her cheek. Jemma produced a handkerchief from somewhere and blotted her cheek.
    Harriet almost smiled. It was the softest, most elegant little scrap of cloth she’d seen in years, perhaps ever.
    “It’s mortifying to be crying for him,” she said, sniffing a bit.
    “Why? I would think you should wear your grief like a badge of honor. After al , you care enough to grieve. I can hardly imagine.”
    “It’s mortifying because he—he was so eager to leave me that he took his own life.” It came out angry.
    “That’s foolish, darling, and you know it. Your husband no more wished to leave you than he truly thought to give up life. I know Benjamin, remember? I was there when you fel in love.”
    “When I fel in love,” Harriet said, more angry tears swel ing in her eyes. “If he was in love with me, he showed an odd way of displaying his passion.”
    “He did fal in love with you. But Benjamin was a remarkably impetuous person. I’m sure he regretted shooting himself the moment he did it, but it was too late. He just didn’t think clearly before acting.”
    “He should have thought about it!”
    “Was the chess game public?”
    “Of course. Chess is al the rage now. Everyone’s playing it, in the cafés, in private houses. White’s. Sometimes I think it’s al anyone talks about.”
    “How surprising. I had no idea. I thought it was only like that in France.”
    “Benjamin had a tremendous passion for chess. He couldn’t just play, you know? He had to be among the very best.”
    “But he wasn’t,” Jemma said sadly.
    “You remember that? Of course, you used to play him occasional y, didn’t you? Did he ever win?”
    Jemma shook her head.
    “He could beat most everyone,” Harriet said. “Truly. But he couldn’t bear the fact that he couldn’t beat the very top players.
    It was almost like a disease, the way he wanted to beat Vil iers.”
    “It was Villiers he played at the last?” Jemma asked. “Vil iers?”
    Harriet dashed away more tears. “Why are you so surprised? Vil iers is the best chess player in England. Or so they say.”
    “It’s just very odd,” Jemma said slowly. “I’ve been talking of Vil iers al morning.”
    “Are you planning to play him in chess?” Harriet said, feeling hopefulness tighten in her chest like a vise.
    “It wasn’t that. It’s my guest, Roberta. Lady Roberta St. Giles. She’s in love with him.”
    “In love with Vil iers?” Harriet smiled weakly. “I believe I pity her.”
    “Was he a friend of Benjamin’s, then?”
    “Vil iers played Benjamin al the time, but he never al owed any stakes. Which was just a condescending way of tel ing Benjamin that he was unlikely to win. Then final y Benjamin chal enged him and Vil iers agreed to play. Benjamin played wel in the beginning. But now, I think that Vil iers may have been just playing along.”
    “I see,” Jemma said, holding her hands tightly.
    “And Benjamin started to raise the stakes on the game. I gather that Vil iers refused and Benjamin got so angry—it was when he was winning, or he thought he was winning—that he forced Vil iers to give in. That’s what everyone told me afterwards.
    ”
    “And then…”
    “I don’t think Benjamin realized at first. But he must have gone home and thought over the game, step by step. I was in the country, you see. I wasn’t there; perhaps if I’d been in London I could have stopped him somehow. At any rate, he must have realized that Vil iers had just been babying him. That he never had a chance of winning that game.”
    “Benjamin loved chess that much,” Jemma said.
    “He should have loved me that much!”
    Jemma