Page 5 of Love Is A Draw
When she finally rose to follow Maia downstairs, her apron weighed lightly with gathered pins, but her mind hung heavilywith anticipation—the board, the pieces, the next move—everything had a calculated reason.
Brilliance was not always loud. Sometimes, it wore an apron. Sometimes, it stood very still.
CHAPTER 3
On her way downstairs once Maia’s hair was properly fixed to entertain guests, Gail thought the Pearlers’ house on St. James felt like a perfectly composed chess game—every piece in its place, every line elegant, yet purposeful. The grand staircase twisted upward like a silent promise, its polished banisters gleaming beneath the morning light. Sage-green damask with ivory stripes gave the walls a softness, while gilded trim and matching sage velvet curtains lent the space a regal sheen. The drawing room doors stood open, revealing upholstered chairs in delicate arrangements, ready to welcome anyone who might visit. Yet for all its grandeur, the house always felt warm. It was a home—open and alive with the energy of those who lived there, the bustling, content hum of its staff, where all were treated with respect.
The little girl’s footsteps thundered down the staircase like an unbridled pony, her dark hair bouncing with the force of her excitement. Gail descended quickly behind her but with the grace expected of a servant.
Maia’s high-pitched squeal pierced the quiet. “It’s Greg!” she shouted, pausing only briefly at the foot of the stairs before gleefully throwing herself into the hallway. “Greg’s here!”
Gail followed Maia’s exuberant trail, composed but alert. She didn’t allow herself excitement—not for guests like Greg Stone. Certainly not for what followed.
Greg Stone. The Black Knight. The name she’d read about in theChessman’s Chroniclesbut also come to know in person—the player whose daring endgames left opponents gutted before they even saw the trap. She’d studied his moves, imagined what her grandfather would have said of him. Wondered, quietly, if she might one day play him—not because she sought fame, but because she longed to test her mind against his—the best player.
Rachel Pearler came from the other side of the hallway, elegant as always, though her unhurried pace carried a hint of indulgence at her daughter’s antics.
When Gail reached the entryway, Greg Stone stood tall near the open door, his black riding coat stark against the honeyed light spilling in from the street. His broad frame was imposing, but his dark eyes softened when Maia launched forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. He steadied her instinctively, hugging her like an uncle with a beloved niece.
“Hello to you, too, Maia.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. He ruffled the girl’s hair lightly—so carefully it seemed almost deliberate not to ruin anything more than a stray strand.
Rachel glided forward gracefully, greeting Greg with a small nod as he kissed her outstretched hand, but her gaze flickered toward Gail, a silent nudge. Gail cut across the room in three quick strides, her fingers already moving to tighten the slightly undone ribbon in Maia’s hair.
“Stand still for a moment, Miss Maia,” Gail murmured as she smoothed the silk over the little girl’s braid.
Maia shifted from one leg to the other impatiently but didn’t resist.
Greg’s dark gaze lifted to meet hers. “Good morning, Gail. How do you do?”
Gail acknowledged that he’d greeted her but didn’t dare respond so as not to overstep her station. She tied the final bow, her touch precise but guarded, but didn’t let her thoughts drift—not with him watching.
“May I bring a guest inside?” Greg asked Rachel as he crossed the threshold of the Pearler household, his presence quiet but assured. His eyes briefly flicked to the doorway where someone waited.
Through the cold white light, Gail only made out the silhouette of a tall man, his figure framed by the rain beyond the doorframe, where the sun had just dipped out of sight. The warmth of the Pearler’s hallway wrapped around her, golden and alive with light, in stark defiance against the cool evening air from the street beyond.
The butler reached to take Greg’s coat, muttering about how the heat was rushing out the open door, as though the winter itself dared to intrude on such a sanctuary at this time of the year. Gail suppressed a chuckle for the kind old butler, James, could never imagine how cold winters were in Bassarabia, where she grew up.
Rachel met Greg’s gaze, and something unspoken passed between them. Greg inclined his head, and Rachel moved elegantly aside with a nod.
Gail caught the exchange—she always did—and marveled at its simplicity, the understanding that came without words, the unspoken welcome in their gaze. The trust they shared reminded her of how she had come to London. Trust had saved her once. It still governed every quiet move she made.
A young man emerged from the shadows, and Gail forgot to breathe. Everything in her paused. He stood just inside the threshold, tall and soaked in cold, his presence sending a shiver through the warm air of the hall. His gaze swept the space, missing nothing, and then—so unexpectedly—a quiet grimace ashe glanced down at his shoes. Raindrops and mud puddles from the waxed leather, a few droplets pooling in silent defeat against the polished floor.
He wore no cloak, no fur, just a wool overcoat, rich but wrong for London’s rain, its collar darkened by damp. He looked cold but didn’t seem it, as if it took more than frost to reach him, or if it had, it hadn’t stayed. His fingers raked through damp hair with an unthinking grace, revealing blond streaks where the snow had melted into the gold-brown waves.
And then—oh, foolish heart—he looked up.
The chandelier light caught him in full, gilding the sharp line of his cheekbone, the square set of his jaw. His eyes… Gail couldn’t have said their color, only that they unsettled her. They held too much quiet calculation, like someone who had learned to think through silence, not speak through it.
He didn’t pose or hesitate. He simply stood as if the world might bend toward him eventually, and he needn’t hurry to meet it. And that—that unthinking stillness, that comfort in his own skin—made something twist low in her stomach.
When he addressed Rachel, his soft, “Dobryi den,” Good afternoon, spilled from him like music, his voice colored by the faintest Russian lilt. “I hear you speak many languages, Mrs. Pearler.”
“I’m afraid Russian isn’t one of them.” Rachel turned to Gail, who was in charge of teaching Maia Russian.
“The pleasure is mine to make your acquaintance, and I thank you for not leaving me in the rain today.” The lingering roll of his r’s and the low, growling timbre of his chest gave his English a faint accent. The sound of it, deep and warm, tightened something in Gail’s chest.
And then his gaze found hers. He inclined his head, his expression polite, his courtesy no different to her than ithad been to Rachel, yet somehow, it seemed genuine—like an acknowledgment of her presence, not just her station.
