Whereas chess had been her dearest companion in the years of their separation, and it would be so now. What she needed to do was turn the chess to her advantage by distracting him.
The slow smile on Jemma’s lips would have given Elijah pause, had he seen it.
“Brigitte,” she said.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“There are a few other things that I will need for the evening, if you would be so kind.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jemma was curious about one thing in particular: what would Elijah wear when he appeared at her door? On reflection, she decided he would be fully dressed. To appear in a dressing gown would lack a gentleman’s discretion, given the household’s focus on their chess game.
For her part, she put on an utterly delicious nightgown. It was made of delicate silk in a cream color, lined with lace and covered by a matching wrapper. It was only when she was lying down, and the neckline shifted in a certain way, that one suddenly had a glimpse of a gorgeous cherry silk lining. That was something she had learned from a circle of Frenchwomen, years ago.
“Surprise him!” an older woman had laughed.
“Wear a sweet-natured gown, and underneath, a harlot’s scarlet. Play the innocent and then the rascal.” She followed that advice with a few earthy suggestions involving the male anatomy, none of which Jemma had tried…but none of which she was opposed to trying.
Her face paint was so artfully applied that only a man of Corbin’s perception would have known she wore any. Her hair didn’t have a speck of powder. It fell over her shoulders, gleaming like bottled sunshine.
“His Grace will be a happy man,” Brigitte said, pausing before she left for the night.
Jemma looked up, surprised. “Thank you! Though you and I know better than he how much of my beauty comes from Signora Angelico’s brilliant designs, not to mention my favorite lip rouge.”
“I don’t mean that,” Brigitte said. “I mean because you—you are interested in this evening, no? You—”
Jemma sighed inwardly. Could life become yet more embarrassing? “Yes.”
Brigitte smiled brilliantly. “He is lucky.”
Elijah appeared precisely at ten, which Jemma thought showed a healthy level of enthusiasm for the game, as well as—no doubt—what would likely follow it.
He was fully dressed. Naturally.
She opened the door, well aware that the candles placed around the room cast an extremely flattering light on her skin.
Being Elijah, his eyes didn’t drop from her face. Instead he strolled into her room as if they were in the drawing room. He looked at the delicate little table set up by her bed, the delicious morsels Mrs. Tulip had sent up, the carefully draped scarves she’d chosen to serve as blindfolds.
To her utter surprise, he started laughing. “I feel as if I just happened into one of the great courtesan’s apartments.”
Jemma bit her lip, and then smiled swiftly. “Should I demand a payment before, or trust on your gentleman’s honor to provide payment after?”
“Oh, before,” he said gravely, walking toward her. There was something in his eyes that cured the hiccup in her heart, the pulse of shame she felt at his first comment.
“May I kiss you?” His question was so simple, and so—so Elijah.
She swallowed hard and said, “Only if I might return the favor.”
He bent his head then, and gave her the kind of kiss that no man gives a courtesan. Or a mistress. Or anyone who is paid for the most intimate of pleasures. It was a kiss that started with a brush of the lips and a silent question.