My Lady Quicksilver

“Five months.” Shadows flickered through her gaze, then vanished. She stared at him, her gaze cutting right through him. “A button, my lord. That is the forfeit, is it not?”

It took him moments longer than it should have to understand what she meant. Heat flushed into his cheeks and he pinned her ruthlessly with his gaze.

Rosa sipped her tea. Patient. Waiting. Practically daring him.

If he wanted to know more, he had to indulge her—even if indulging her was the worst mistake he could ever make.

I can control this. He gave her a brief nod, acknowledging her victory, then dropped his hands to the top button of his breeches. His coat was long enough to cover himself decently, though any sense of decency had long since left this room.

Yet slipping the button free felt like the first step to the hangman’s noose. His vision was swimming again, dipping between gray tones and color, his entire body on edge. He grabbed the decanter and poured himself more blud-wein—anything to take the edge off.

“How did you become a blue blood then, if you were denied the rites?” she asked.

“It was Alistair’s idea. He said he felt guilty for what had happened to me and suggested a plan. He would infect me with his blood and we would both be blue bloods, free of our father’s influences.”

“A curious choice of words,” she murmured. “‘He said he felt guilty…’”

“I have always wondered,” he replied. “To go against Council edict was foolish and I knew that.”

“But?”

“Annabelle came to me that night professing her…her feelings for me. We could be together, but only if I were a blue blood. Her father would never allow her to forge a consort contract with a human.”

“Do you think they were working together?”

“I think the duke wanted to make sure that I could never overthrow his son,” he replied. “What had occurred with me was unusual, and there were members of the Council querying it. If I were named rogue, however, my chances were forever lost.”

Rosa sipped her tea, thoughtful. “So Annabelle gets to become duchess, Alistair remains heir—and by all means pleases a father I suspect was rather forceful—and the duke gets everything he wants. They trapped you very neatly.”

“Yes, I suspect they did.”

Rosa frowned. “You seem very calm about it all. I would be furious.”

“What good would it have done? I was very fond of Annabelle, no matter whether she lied to me or not. I had no wish to hurt her, nor Alistair. You’re right in your assessment of his father. In truth, Alistair might have gotten what he deserved—he still had to live with that monster.”

Her gaze dropped, her frown deepening. “You’re a better person than I.”

“I’ve seen revenge, Rosa. So many times and in so many different ways. I’ve pulled the bodies out of the Thames and arrested hysterical wives or husbands. Revenge is a cold, lonely place, and it consumes a person until there is nothing else left but bitterness and ashes. And it always affects so many more than the people involved.” He scratched at his jaw. “I don’t think I was ever furious. Hurt, yes. Frustrated and afraid. I’ll even admit to the odd vengeful thought against the duke, though I never took action on it.” He took a deep breath. “My father was a brutal man, and the world I walked in was a cesspit of ambition and game playing. When I walked out of the Ivory Tower, with only the clothes on my back and a rough plan of what I would do, I felt free, for the first time in my life. I could be the man I wanted to be, and I could fight them, find some sense of justice in the world.”

Rosa stared at him, the teacup forgotten in her hands.

“And now,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “I do believe you owe me some buttons. Three to be precise, for you asked three direct questions.” He smiled hawkishly, letting his gaze drop to the inch of chemise that beckoned him. “You’re going to be half naked if you keep this up.”

Eleven

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want buttons. I want hooks.”

“Hooks?” Her corset. Rosalind’s hands stilled.

“Hooks,” he repeated firmly.

“Playing for high stakes now, sir.” The words were breathless. She couldn’t believe that he was doing this. What on earth had she been thinking, to ever call him cold?

And why the devil had she started this?

If you start this game…I will finish it. A shiver went through her. She’d never felt so excited in her life.

What are you doing? He’s a blue blood. But her thoughts on what constituted an enemy were beginning to fracture. She couldn’t look at this man, with his rare smiles and his icily controlled hungers, and call him what she called the others. Lynch was nothing like the Echelon.

As if of their own resolve, her fingers slipped the first hook on her corset. Then the second and the third. Lace parted with a soft whisper; it was the palest of pinks, so creamy it was almost white. Smooth white flesh swelled over the top, tempting the straining hooks to part. A dangerous path she walked, but the rashness in her was overwhelming. She couldn’t control this. She wanted him so desperately, her thighs were wet with it.

“My turn,” he said, shifting in his chair. “How did you meet your husband?”

The equivalent of a dash of cool water to the face. Guilt was a marvelous method in controlling the baser side of one’s nature. “Nathaniel worked for the London Standard. He interviewed me for an article on one of my previous employers and asked me to dinner. We were married a week later by special license.”

“How rash of you.”

“Why are you so fascinated with my husband?”

He couldn’t answer that; Rosalind saw the truth in his eyes though and her heart dipped. Lynch wanted her. And not just in his bed. He was beginning to soften toward her, his emotions engaged. It should have been a triumphant moment, but instead she froze, staring at him breathlessly.

For she herself had forgotten one of the cardinal rules in manipulation. Don’t ever fall for your opponent. She stood on the edge of the precipice; she couldn’t stay cold against the onslaught of this.

Yes, I can. I will. Her lips compressed.

“Another button, I believe,” Lynch said, jolting her out of her shock. His hands dropped, and she stared hungrily as the second button on his pants emancipated itself.

Concentrate. She was here for a damned reason.

“My turn,” she said, taking a deep enough breath for her breasts to heave. Those gray eyes locked on her.

“Indeed.”

Rosalind licked her lips. “You said you were on the hunt for humanists. Have you ever caught any, sir?”

Though he’d been staring at her breasts, his eyes leaped to hers and she wondered if she’d taken that one step too far. This was not the type of man to lose himself so completely in staring at her. He might forget himself, but he was no fool.

“One or two,” he said.

Curse him. She couldn’t ask more, not with him looking at her like that. But at least the answer gave her hope. Summoning a smile, she set another hook loose. Her nipples strained against the tight corset, the dusky tops of them peeking over the frill of lace.

Their eyes locked. He swallowed. Hard.

“Your turn,” she prompted.

“I can’t think of a damned thing to ask.” Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he shifted in his seat again. “What’s your favorite color?”

Rosalind smiled, unable to take her eyes from his. “Right now, I believe it is gray.” Her lips parted… Did she