The burn of her cheeks must have shown with color, for a smile lessened the severity of his face. “You need not look so dismal, Miss Gresham. Shall I stand on my head for you?”
“Perhaps there is some sort of establishment.” She leaned forward. “An aid society of sorts that I might write a letter to and procure a place for them.”
“Have you any connections to such a place?”
“Not directly, but there is one my friend Sophia and her family have donated to quite regularly. I believe it is run by a bishop. I shall call upon the Kettlewells at once and see what might be done in way of helping the Shaws.”
He did nothing more than nod, smile, and glance back out the carriage window—as seemed to be much more his habit than standing on his head.
But when they arrived at her townhouse and she’d bidden Mr. Kensley goodbye, she could not help feeling that she was somehow better for being with him today.
Indeed, she would not be averse to seeing him again.
Mr. Kensley resumed his visits, though a bit less frequently. When he did call, which was usually in the morning hours, Isabella persuaded him to stay long enough for a chess game or a stroll with her and Bridget in Hyde Park.
He always seemed obliged to join them.
They talked of everything, from nonsense to politics to literature to what it would feel like to travel to Egypt and climb atop the highest pyramid. La, how companionable was his company! She need not conform to any social formalities in his presence, nor did she need to fret over his laughs and smiles as devices to woo her.
If anything, his manner seemed more fraternal than flirtatious. A welcome change from all the male company she had been forced to keep over these last few years. Yet what would Father say?
He would likely bend his brow at her fraternizing with a gentleman of unknown fortunes and no connections. But she could not seem to help herself.
After all, Fatherhadleft her alone in this townhouse with little else other than Bridget and Lilias to amuse her. Well, and Lord Livingstone, of course.
Father likely had high hopes that, upon his return, he would find her and Lord Livingstone on the cusp of an engagement. Would he be so very disappointed to find that she had stopped seeing his lordship entirely? That she danced not once with him at balls? And that, worst of all, she had thrown away his letters without so much as opening them?
But she would not think of that now. Biting her lip, she lifted her rook up two and over one. “There. See what you can do to escape me, if you can.”
Mr. Kensley, with both elbows on the card table, blew air out of his cheeks. “You are merciless.”
“And skilled.”
“And quite boastful.”
“And very much winning.” When he made another pitiful move of his pawn, she claimed his queen with her invading rook. “Check. You had better take your king and run, good sir.”
“I do not run from anything.”
“Oh?”
“I will stand”—he slid a bishop diagonally across the board—“and fight.”
She clicked her tongue when he removed her rook from the board. With a mere unnoticed pawn, she conquered his king. “Checkmate.”
He leaned back in his chair, raked both hands through his hair, and breathed out a laugh. “Remind me, Miss Gresham, that I have far more important things to do in London than sit indoors and play chess.”
“Such as?”
“Sunlight, for one.”
“Pray, how does onedosunlight?”
He flicked over chess pieces as he stood. “Not by sitting in here all day, that is for certain. Go and get your bonnet.”
“Sir?”
“Hurry now, Miss Gresham, or I shall never be able to teach you how to do it.”
