My Lady Quicksilver

“My turn,” he cut her off. “You never denied my suggestion that you have humanist tendencies. I find that very curious.”

“Hmm.” She took refuge in her tea. “I don’t believe that’s a question.”

“Do you have humanist sympathies?”

Porcelain chimed as she put her cup down and examined the tray of sandwiches. “I’m human, sir. Of course I have humanist tendencies.” Her eyes met his, flashing with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. “You wouldn’t understand. You have rights. I don’t. Every man and woman in the city secretly wonders if it might be better if the humanists succeeded.”

“I have rights, do I?” Lynch mused, half to himself. “I might have to explain that to the prince consort the next time we meet.”

Rosa selected a sandwich for her plate, her black satin glove hovering over them. “I don’t forget that you’re a rogue. But you’re certainly in no fear of being molested in the street for your blood.” Her fingers dipped and swooped, filling her plate. “I’m not strong enough to fight a blue blood off. They could leave me to bleed to death in a gutter and no one would dare say a thing. So yes, I do have humanist sympathies.”

Nibbling at her sandwich, she looked completely at ease. But she’d put her glove back on. Sitting down to eat was considered the only respectable time a woman could show her wrists to a blue blood and she hadn’t.

He filed that thought away, wondering why she thought she was safe with her gloves on. Did she not consider her bare throat, with the edging of black lace that taunted him?

“I wish you wouldn’t watch me eat,” she murmured, wiping her lips with a napkin.

I wasn’t. He dropped his gaze. There was a chessboard seated on the lamp table beside him. He gestured to it. “Do you play?”

“A little.”

She was toying with him. Lynch dragged it across to the table between them and cleared a space. “It will give you some sense of privacy.” And himself further insight into the mystery of her character. He swiftly set it up, placing the pieces on the smooth lacquered board.

“Not black, sir?”

He glanced down at the white pieces in front of him. “White moves first.” A flashing of his teeth, perhaps a smile. “I’m a man. I attack.”

“Far too blatant a proposition,” she shot back, watching as he placed his first piece. “That is an aggressive move—but there are others that are more aggressive. I think you’re trying to screen me from your true purpose. And that”—she eyed him with a dangerous little smile—“is far more like your nature than such a bland assessment.”

Lynch actually smiled. “Touche.”

“So I must presume you have another strategy in mind,” she replied, examining the board with interest. Her dainty little hand hovered over her knight, then back to a pawn. She placed it directly in front of his. A challenge to see if he would take the bait.

He moved his knight to a threatening location, giving her a bland look. She’d wanted to attack first but had restrained herself. Interesting. “I always have another strategy.”

“Mmm.” She dragged her chair closer, leaning over the board with her chin cupped in her hand. “My turn: What did you mean when you told the Duke of Bleight you’d see him in the atrium if he moved against you and yours again?”

“He’s always feared my ambition,” Lynch replied, watching her fingers hawkishly. Knight to the center. “And he’s getting older, with no direct heir except for a tangle of distant cousins. The thought that I might challenge him for the duchy is the only thing that can keep him in check.”

“Would you ever consider challenging him?”

“I’m a rogue, Rosa.” He ignored the fact that this was a second question and moved his knight to counteract her. “I can’t hold titles or any position in society. He should realize that, but he’s too blinded by his fear of me.”

She slipped a pawn across the board as if the move were inconsequential. “And if he does break the pact, will you challenge him?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, capturing her pawn. She was playing almost recklessly. He frowned. Recklessly or trying to lull him? “I told him I would; therefore, I will. I can’t afford to go back on my word, though. It would gain me nothing.”

“You wouldn’t break your word, even if you could, would you?” she asked, looking up. The sight of her eyes arrested him for a moment; they glittered with an intense emotion he couldn’t name. “I admire that, my lord. You’re not the man I expected to find.”

“Lynch,” he corrected, holding her gaze. “I am no lord.”

“But you could have been.” Her gaze softened. “You must hate them for what they took from you.”

A tight little smile crossed his lips. “Took from me? Whatever makes you think the choice wasn’t mine?”

She knocked over her own rook in surprise. “I—I don’t understand.”

“No? You haven’t heard the story? You must be one of the few who haven’t.” He reached forward and picked up her rook, his fingers brushing her glove. Rosa flinched but she allowed the touch. “Allow me,” he murmured.

Some devil took hold of him. He set the rook upright and slid his little finger around hers, linking them. The satin was delicious and warm, so smooth against his skin. His lids lowered, thinking of that small hand on other parts of his body, stroking, soothing. Her gloves still on but nothing else as she knelt before him. All of that gorgeous red hair tumbling down her naked spine, caressing the tops of her thighs. His mouth went dry at the thought.

Their gazes locked.

Rosa’s lips parted breathlessly, as if she could see exactly what he was picturing. The room felt thick with silence, each slow tick of the clock on the mantel striking loudly in the background. The air between them was charged with tension. He could have let her go. He should have, but the tiny interlocking of their fingers seemed so innocuous. So innocent.

Hardly dangerous at all.

He looked down and soothed his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. Why the fascination with her hands? Perhaps because she hid them from him? He was tempted to peel the glove off and press his lips to the smooth skin of her wrist, to feel the kick of her pulse against his tongue. Blood pounded through his temples. For once, he understood why a woman’s hands should always be gloved.

Rosa sucked in a sharp breath, as if she hadn’t taken one since he’d touched her. “My lord?” A whisper, tight with need.

Damnation. He let her go, digging his fingers into the hard muscle of his thigh. His erection strained against the tight leather of his breeches, the muscles in his abdomen clenched. “My turn,” he said hoarsely.

He raked through questions in his mind. Why don’t you like having your hands touched? What did your father do to them? Who taught you to use a pistol? All of them sensible questions he wanted answers to. Instead, another arrested him.

“You said you didn’t love your husband at first. Did you ever love him?”

Rosa yanked her hand back to her side and pressed them both into her skirts. “That’s very forward.”

“I told you about Annabelle,” he replied. “And let’s not pretend you are shy or retiring. Tell me what he was like.”

Silence. “Nathaniel was a good man. Ambitious but kind. I thought it a fault at first, for he was always looking for the good in people, even when it wasn’t there. So different from myself.” She stilled. “I never realized what I felt for him until he was gone.”

Finally, some truth from her. Though it bothered him in a way he wouldn’t have expected. Lynch eyed the chessboard and realized he’d lost his entire strategy—with just one touch of her hand. He shoved a knight forward and leaned back.

“Now tell me what you meant about the choice of becoming a rogue being yours,” she said. Hot color stained her throat. The question about her husband had somehow touched a nerve.

“I hadn’t finished yet. I answered three questions in a row before. You owe me another two.”