Page 29 of Love Is A Draw
He feared she was already the better player. The one with the nerve to play for a draw just to stay in the race without overstepping her station. And he admired her all the more for it. Admiring her so deeply, it terrified him.
This wasn’t a move. This was a surrender. If this had been the board, she had just placed him in checkmate without so much as moving a piece.
CHAPTER 13
Vauxhall Gardens at half past eight in the morning…
Gail stepped from the carriage, and her boot met the damp gravel with a soft crunch. The morning fog hung low, curling over the paths and around her ankles. She looked over her shoulder at the coachman and, for a fleeting moment, considered calling him back. The thought of turning around and going home settled over her, heavy as the mist, but she steeled herself, drawing in a long breath that hit cool and sharp in her lungs.
The gardens were quieter than she’d imagined, filled with the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird somewhere beyond the treetops. Not silently peaceful, the quiet carried tension like the pause between a chess player lifting a piece and setting it down. Her fingers twitched at the memory of the board, at all the times she had held a move suspended in her mind, calculating probabilities. This felt different. Here, she was moving without knowing the answer. She was walking into an unprotected gambit.
Fog—nothing more than a cloud that had landed too close to the ground, she’d taught Maia—gave this space a shrouded uncertainty, like stepping into a world not entirely her own. The balloon came into view first, a bright orange shape rising against the muted tones of the morning. Bright swaths of yellow and blue spiraled across its sides. She stopped in her tracks. The fabric of the balloon rose in a slow, rippling motion, as though the giant contraption were alive and waking.
Instinctively, she started parsing out the risks. In chess, her safe place, every move was deliberate, with time to weigh and re-weigh the consequences. She preferred to play long, careful games where she could control the board. Surprises only happened if she failed to see them coming. This—that wobbling, fiery thing lifting from the ground, daring gravity to pull it back down—opposed her nature. Daring, yes, but was it reckless? Foolish? A faint headache teased at her temples.
She almost turned away.
And then she saw him.
Victor crouched near the balloon beside another man with black soot smudged on his hands, probably the pilot. He gestured animatedly, while Victor half-listened, his eyes flicking up every so often to the tree and the path. As if the force of her gaze had touched him, his head turned, and their eyes met.
The cool, distant expression he was so skilled at wearing melted in a way that made Gail’s breath catch. Surprise flashed first, followed by something deeper and warmer like a flame filling the air between them with more power than a balloon. Enough for a lifetime perhaps, but Gail didn’t allow her mind to explore that avenue. She had no strategy for it.
Victor stood and approached her, brushed at his coat, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The edge of it was dripping, but he hardly seemed to notice as he wiped his hands.
“You came.” His accent thickened, even in those two words, as though the sheer relief of her presence had broken his composure.
Gail stepped closer, pulse quickening. The mist seemed thicker now, though she couldn’t tell whether the fog or the hazy whirlwind of feelings swirling around her caused it. “Yes.” A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “It seems, to my own astonishment, I would take a balloon ride with you.”
His face broke into a smile that made her acutely aware of the clasp of her hands in front of her. She pressed her fingers tightly together to anchor herself as her heart flipped.
“I’m ready, sir.” The pilot smiled at Gail. “John Brown, my name.”
She greeted him politely.
“Here.” Victor stepped forward and extended a hand. “Allow me.”
His fingers closed around hers, firm but steady, pulling her closer to the balloon. His tender chivalry made her chest tighten. The faint press of his hand drew Gail fully into the moment as he guided her toward the balloon’s basket. Beside it, he placed a sturdy wooden stool, its surface gleaming faintly with the morning’s dew. Ever mindful, he tested its steadiness before stepping onto it and climbing into the basket first.
For the briefest moment, she forgot about the balloon, her gaze drawn to the way his coat shifted, riding up as he stepped over the rim. The fabric strained against the lean lines of his waist, his taut bottom framed in a way that sent a sudden, unbidden rush of warmth through her. Her pulse thrummed against her throat, yet she stood perfectly still.
Reaching over, Victor extended his hand to her. She placed her fingers in his, and his grip firmed, as though silently promising that she’d be safe. His hands were a little damp, soft,and yet strong. Wonderful. His warm, steady palm grounded her as the world around her tilted.
Unsteady on the stool, Gail raised her booted foot hesitantly, but the layers of her dress caught on the woven basket.
“May I?” Victor braced her carefully, his hand never faltering.
“Thank you.” Gail put her hands on his shoulders, bending toward the basket. And just like that, Victor lifted her into the basket. The intimacy of his touch startled her—not inappropriate, not uninvited, but perfectly, dizzyingly real.
The pilot’s brisk instructions rose above the shifting murmur of the burner. “Hold tight to the basket, ma’am. She’s a bit wobbly on takeoff, but she’ll smooth out once we’re aloft.” He glanced toward Victor, giving a sharp nod. “And you, sir, keep yer balance centered. I’ll mind the rest.”
Gail’s gloved fingers instinctively tightened around the rim of the wicker basket as the balloon shifted slightly, the ground less stable beneath her.
The ropes creaked under the strain, and she blinked, feeling the empty expanse of Vauxhall Gardens press inward. With no crowd milling about, no familiar figures nearby, the gardens seemed eerily hollow. The mist blurred the edges of everything, softening the world into something dreamlike. If they fell, the empty paths and overgrown hedges would offer no rescue. No one could catch a falling balloon.
Her gaze drifted upward, and her breath stilled. The balloon loomed above, its massive envelope vibrant against the pale morning, an enormous sherbet-colored sun hanging low in the sky. The vivid stripes of orange, yellow, and blue rippled as the burner hissed again, and waves of heat shimmered faintly. The sheer size of it made her stomach lurch. The full balloon seemed alive, straining with quiet determination against the tethers keeping them grounded, battling gravity. She tried tothink the logic through but there was a variable she didn’t know everything about—Victor. She trusted him implicitly while also yearning to know more about him. Preferably everything.
A sudden jolt beneath her feet broke her thoughts, and the wicker basket tilted. She reached for Victor, and his hand received hers, as if he’d been waiting to hold her.
