The Gentleman's Gambit (A League of Extraordinary Women #4)

by Evie Dunmore

In a world run by loud people, quiet was a scarce commodity.

She’d do her duty and play hostess, of course. At five-and-twenty, she knew the protocol: hold his gaze, smile slightly, and put her comfort last.

“That sounds like a lot of trouble just to see an unclothed woman,” he said. “You are very charming, miss,” he added, “but it’s nothing I have not seen before.”

His eyes were like the sky where it met the Scottish sea,

The issue isn’t a lack of proof of women’s abilities, but rather an unwillingness to recognize our contributions. You see, women are a popular subject of study already. Male scholars are quite obsessed with us. Have women a soul, they wondered in ancient Greece, and they still wonder whether we’re capable of rational thought, whether these humans who aren’t men are good for anything beyond procreation.”

“So much theory and guesswork,” she said with a shrug, “when instead, they could simply ask us and listen to what women say. But that would be too radical, I suppose.”

“You hold men in low regard.” She tilted her head, as if considering it. “No,” she then said. “I find the human species as a whole rather disappointing.”

She was a mountain river in winter: an icy burn, a mighty current under a quiet surface.

it was not clear whether he was keeping her safe or keeping her captive.

“I just wondered,” he said, “is it very lonely, being so clever?”

His parents’ blood now mixed in his veins. Two souls resided in his chest.

Lady Catriona struck him as her own center of gravity. She would be the same peculiar woman in London as in Beirut.

The problem is, Catriona had explained to her, there is never not a heated phase with the suffrage movement, so, good day.

Hattie was a married woman; she could walk and ride alone with men with impunity. One of the few perks of married life.

“Why didn’t you tell me that he was young, charming, and terribly handsome?” “It hadn’t occurred to me that this was relevant information.”

“Surprise,” she muttered. “Gentleman explains breathing to a woman.”

He had lived an entire life story before becoming a character in hers. Would he forget this little chapter here in Oxford once he left again?

And what was marriage, and the inevitable family life, other than an entrapment in a small, crowded space with erratic noise patterns? Even if all the laws of Britain changed in a woman’s favor, she would still be stuck inside her skin. People would always exhaust her eventually. So she remained at her desk, reading,

“I like a revolt, now and again,” he replied. “Keeps a system healthy.”

“Our lovemaking may be filthy, but our love is pure,”

“The wedding is a formality,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I look forward to what follows: calling you my wife. My viscountess. Seeing my ring on your finger, being officially entitled to give you everything, protect you with all that I have whenever you want it or need it . . . Sharing a home with you. Seeing you make use of the freedoms afforded to married women.”

“That’s silly. Lady Catriona doesn’t want a man.” “Neither did I, yet look at us now.”

I’m drawn to you when I shouldn’t be. What is in your heart? Do you ever think of us?

“When I first saw you,” he said, “I thought you were a goddess. I would have worshipped you, on my knees.”

It would be easy to blame the Scotch for the escapade, but the Scotch only peeled back the thin veneer of civility which normally concealed her darker side.

“It’s a gift, your sensitivity. It’s a pleasure to pleasure you. Allow me to try.”

“You will have to tell us what it looks like, when a reformed rake cries.”

“In Emilia, I had a companion,” he said. “A friend. A clever counsel. And so much joy. We were separate creatures, of course, but from the beginning, we were also extensions of each other.” He looked at her quite sharply then. “Let me be clear: if you found a love like that, I would expect you to marry. I would expect it for your own good. But as long as our finances permit it, I could never ask you to yoke yourself to a pale imitation of what your mother and I had. I don’t expect it of myself, either. Certainly not when we could be writing books instead.”