My Lady Quicksilver ls-3

by Bec McMaster

  “Do you ever get lonely?” The soft words were a mistake as soon as he said them.

  Rosa stilled. She glanced his way, and despite himself, his treacherous mind chose to replay the image of her on her knees, sliding those satin gloves up the naked muscle of his thighs.

  “That’s three,” she replied, her tongue wetting her lips.

  “Answer it.”

  “I have my brothers.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Fury and desire vibrated through her. The dichotomy of character intrigued him; Mrs. Marberry had been calm and flirtatious in all situations, except now, when he pushed her. He wanted to push more, to break that cool control and find out just how far the depths of her passion ran.

  Such a move was dangerous though, for he was not immune to her. Not at all. The flush of blood through his body only served to remind him that she was scant inches away, a flimsy table between the pair of them. It would be a simple matter to kick the table aside and drag her into his arms.

  If he were a lesser man.

  She glared at him, the heat of her gaze cutting through him like a knife. “Of course I get lonely. I’m a widow, not a virgin.” Jerking her gaze away, she grabbed her knight and took his rook. “The question is,” she said, tossing the rook carelessly beside his captured pieces, “whether you do?”

  “I’m a man. There are other avenues open to me,” he replied, trying to examine the board to see where the play had moved.

  “True.” He could feel her hot little gaze on him. “That’s not an answer though, but an evasion. Which you are quite skilled at, I notice. Don’t you like being under the microscope, my lord?”

  A faint tightening of the muscle in his jaw. He took a pawn and began to outline a campaign that would see her swiftly finished. “I’m too busy to think about female companionship.”

  “Now that,” she murmured, “is a lie.”

  Taking her rook, she smashed his pawn off the board. As he’d intended.

  Their eyes met.

  “You think about me,” she challenged, leaning back in the chair and rolling the captured pawn between the black satin of her fingers. A slight smile curled over her lips; whatever advantage he thought he’d taken, she’d evidently recovered. The tip of the pawn brushed against her lips, then back again, tracing that enigmatic smile.

  Lynch forced himself to shrug. “Of course I do. You’re a handsome woman of a certain age, and I am forced to spend a great deal of time in your company. I’m only a man.”

  “How…passionate a declaration.” Her smile deepened, eyes shining bright. “Do you know what I think sometimes when you’re around?”

  Danger. He accepted the challenge with a cool look. “What?”

  She curled the pawn in her palm, slowly dragging it down over the lace at her throat and across the gray French serge. It dipped over each curve and his gaze went with it. “I think about all these buttons I want to unlatch.” Her small pink tongue darted out and wet her lips. “Starting perhaps with this one?” The pawn was gone; he hadn’t even noticed the sleight-of-hand. Instead her gloves found the velvet button directly beneath her chin. One deft move and it popped open.

  Not even a hint of skin revealed, but suddenly the room felt far too small. He swallowed hard, leather creaking as his thighs clenched. What the hell had happened? How had he lost control of this entire situation?

  “I love how fiercely you control yourself,” she murmured. Her smile was entirely coy, her gaze watchful. She felt safe now, when it was he who was so evidently distressed. “Another button, sir?”

  His lips thinned and he leaned back in the chair. Curse her, but he wouldn’t cry foul. “As you wish.”

  “Mmm, not even a hint of concern. You’re very good, my lord.” The second button gave. This time skin gleamed through, warm with her body heat.

  The scent of her perfume grew stronger. Everything in him wanted to shove that fucking table out of the way and drag her into his lap. A vein in his temple throbbed. But he hadn’t learned control over all these years for nothing.

  “It’s very tempting,” he said. “Would you like more tea?”

  “I would like,” she purred, “to undo all of these wretched buttons.”

  “If you start this game,” he warned her, “I will finish it.”

  Their gazes locked. Dueled. The damned woman smiled. “I dare you, sir.”

  Leaning forward, he poured her another cup of tea, anything to keep his mind and body busy. The knuckles of his hands tightened as he heard her fingers whisper over another button. He didn’t dare look up.

  “I would like to undo all of your buttons too, my lord—”

  His hand shook and tea spilled across the polished silver tray. Fuck. He shot her a dark look and then froze at the sight of her bare décolletage. It barely revealed more than her green dress the other day, but the way she was sitting there, calmly unbuttoning her gown nearly did him in.

  “I don’t have buttons,” he replied sharply, cursing the hoarseness of his voice.

  “Not on your coat, no.” Her gaze dipped, dark lashes fluttering against her smooth cheeks. Leaning forward, her bodice gaping, she took the teapot from him and accepted her cup and saucer. “But then, I wasn’t speaking of your coat.”

  The only buttons he had were on his trousers. Mercy. His cock swelled and he shifted to hide the sight.

  “I’m more interested in yours.” He smiled tightly, determined to regain the upper hand. “Another button, my dear?”

  She sipped her tea, holding the saucer elegantly. “What will you give me?”

  Anything you wish. “What would you like?”

  Those vibrant brown eyes warmed in victory before she looked down demurely. “Tell me, why would you choose to become a rogue?”

  “You hate not knowing, don’t you?”

  “My affliction.” She smiled, fingers trembling over the next button. “How much would you like to see more?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then answer me.”

  His eyes hooded. “The year I turned fifteen, I told my father I had no intentions of dueling Alistair. He was furious, but no matter how much he raged, I would not give in. So he forced my hand. He orchestrated it so that when it came time for the blood rites, the Council offered me a choice: duel Alistair for the right of heir or be denied the rites.”

  Her fingers tensed on the button, as if surprised. “You chose to deny yourself your birthright?”

  “It wasn’t worth it. Not if I had to kill my cousin.” He gestured. “Now, I believe that has answered your question.”

  His hot gaze devoured her. Mrs. Marberry gave him a coy smile and slowly, slowly undid the next button. “Satisfied?”

  His body burned. “Hardly.”

  That earned another smile. They were almost as devastating as her slow manner of undressing.

  “Now,” she murmured, “your turn.”

  He stared at her. “I thought you didn’t like being questioned.”

  “I mean to play fair, sir.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Another enigmatic little smile that made his cock clench. She sipped her tea.

  Where to begin? Hell, what had he even asked her so far? He raked a hand through his hair. “How long were you married to your husband?”

  “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 h
imself 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 dare? Yes. “I’m having some trouble with my hooks, sir. Would you help me?”

  Lynch went still, his eyes softening dangerously. “Rosa,” he warned.

  “You did say you would finish it,” she whispered.

  One long, drawn-out moment where she thought she’d pushed him too far. Then he erupted, shoving the small table with its chess pieces out of the way and coming for her.

  Black and white pawns spilled everywhere and Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath as he parted her knees with his, kneeling on the edge of her chair. His knee trapped her skirts, pinning her. “I think you want me to finish it,” he said, cupping her jaw and tilting her face to his. “You are a devil of a woman.”

  “The hook, sir,” she whispered innocently.

  “So I see.” His gaze dropped, his spread hand sliding over the curve of her breast. “Such a difficult task. I understand why you couldn’t manage it yourself.” One deft flick of his fingers and the corset gaped.

  Her nipple slid free of the lace edging. Lynch sucked in a sharp breath. Rosalind couldn’t move. The knee between hers was dangerously alluring.

  “Ask me a question,�
�� he demanded.

  She looked up. “Do you dream of me?”

  “Yes,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His hands dropped, but hers were quicker.

  She caught his wrist. “Allow me.”

  Lynch’s hands dropped to his sides. “I dream of you with your gloves on my thighs.” The pulse in his temple throbbed. “Your fucking gloves. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

  Heat spilled through her. Wetness. Rosalind slid the palms of her hands lightly up his thighs, staring up at him daringly. The bulge in his pants was hot and hard. She couldn’t stop her fingers from brushing over it, then again, stroking harder, her right hand clenching over his heavy length.

  “My apologies,” she breathed. “I can’t quite seem to find the button.”

  Lynch speared a hand into her hair with a sharp hiss. “I should take my belt to you for this.” He spilled her back into the chair, his body driving hers into the soft cushions. His eyes were black again but she wasn’t afraid. Not this time. She knew exactly what sort of hunger she’d roused in him.

  She was winning.

  “Would you like that, my lord?” She arched her back, sliding her hands up his chest. “Would you like me to bend over your desk and remove my drawers?”

  He groaned, tilting her head back sharply. “Fuck.” His other fingers traced her lips. “You’ll pay for that. I want to kiss you, Rosa.”

  “Then do it,” she whispered, her hot breath on his mouth.

  Those hawkish eyes met hers, his cruel fingers cupping her jaw. “I shouldn’t.”

  Dangerous eyes. Had it been so long ago that she’d thought him cold and merciless? Rosalind sucked in a breath. How wrong she’d been. There was such heat in him, such passion.

  “Do it,” she whispered.

  His gaze dropped to her lips. “Not on your pretty little mouth.” Lifting his knee, he shoved her skirts up. Capturing her right hand, he slid it low, between her legs. “Part your drawers.”

  Shock sliced through her. Then heat, stirring between her thighs, wetting the linen between her legs. She almost died at the thought of what he intended. “My lord!” she whispered.