My Lady Quicksilver

Ten

Rosalind yawned as she entered her study at the guild. She’d spent half the night searching for the missing mechs. There was no sign of them anywhere in the blacksmiths, the iron foundries, or the enclaves, where they might be working steel. There were plenty of whispers about the massacres in the city, however.

Closing the door, she blinked. Something seemed out of place.

The sense of wrongness became immediately evident. Her desk was piled with a mishmash of folders, abandoned paperwork hanging precariously from the top of the pile.

The culprit was nowhere in sight.

He’d found her note. Rosalind took a step forward, surveying the scene of devastation. In the wake of all that had occurred last night, she’d quite forgotten it.

Poor timing on her behalf perhaps, though she’d been unable to help herself at the time—that rash, impulsive feeling she could never quite escape.

Control helps, she told herself, eyeing the massive pile and trying to smother her first instinct, which was retaliation. Balfour had taught her that, and while she hated him, she would use the lessons he’d given her to master her own impulses.

Finding order in this chaos, however… She sighed and reached for the top sheaf of paper. The writing was barely legible, an impatient type of script, as if Lynch couldn’t get the words out swiftly enough.

Mrs. Marberry,

Since you evidently have so little to do, I have found some old case files for you to sort. Some of them—the 1863 files, I think—refer to a rash of odd poisonings in the city. I want those files on my desk by noon. There are also lists of the blacksmiths in the city. I want them all cross-referenced against the metalworking guild’s records to see who is capable of creating bio-mech parts. The guild records are…somewhere in the pile.

Sincerely,

Lynch

P.S. I rarely sin, and when I do, it is completely intentional. I have no need of saving.

Rosalind’s lips parted as she stared at the enormous mess in front of her and then curved up in a rare smile. If he thought this was the end of it, he was wrong. Eyes narrowing, she reached for a piece of paper and her pen.

The clock on the mantel ticked twelve.

Rosalind put down the last of the files and stared at it. There’d been no sign of Lynch all morning, which should have been a good thing. It left her with time enough to dwell on her next move regarding the mechs and Jeremy’s continued absence.

Jeremy. There had to be some sign of him somewhere, some word. She couldn’t believe he’d perished in the bombing. She’d know. Wouldn’t she? He’d practically been hers to raise.

It was the first time she’d ever considered that possibility. All the bodies had been accounted for, according to the newspapers. But what if the newspapers hadn’t been allowed to know the full body count? What if, for some reason, the true body count had been kept quiet?

Her breath quickened. The unfamiliar corset clamped around her ribs like an enormous fist, slowly squeezing, and heat sprang up behind her eyes. Don’t. She shoved away from the desk, moving unconsciously toward the soft afternoon light that streamed through the window. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. Keep hunting him. You’ll find him.

Rosalind rubbed at the knuckles of her false hand, feeling the smooth join of each ball and socket through the thin satin gloves that stretched to her elbows. It ached sometimes, as if the limb were still there. Now was one of those times.

Below her, the world came and went, tiny little men in caps and coats, the ladies sporting sober bonnets and dark dresses. This wasn’t the heart of the city where the Echelon roamed in all their peacock finery. The people below her were staid, middle class, human. Her kind of people. Those she fought for. Those she’d sacrificed for.

To the point where she’d forgotten her impressionable little brother, guilt whispered. So focused on the Cyclops plan that she’d barely had time for him, focused on what she owed Nate.

Why couldn’t she find him? The ache in her chest was so fierce she could barely breathe.

Action. Take action.

Emotion crippled a man—or woman. If you couldn’t lock it away, then it was best to distract oneself with affirmative action.

Rosalind took a slow, steady breath. Lynch was the answer. She needed to get inside his head and find out what he knew about Jeremy and the bombing of the tower.

No matter what she had to do to get that information.

The observatory was cool, despite the warmth of the autumn sun outside. Lynch crossed to the north wall, with its map of the stars and the crank that opened up the roof to the skies above. Grabbing the shaft, he unlocked it with a swift flick of the finger and pulled the lever that would open it. The process had been a laborious one, featuring crank and handle, until Fitz had taken one look at the system ten years ago and mechanized it.

Probably a good thing, as the newly knit wound in his side gave a warning pull as he released the lever. Though he’d protested his fitness to his men, Doyle had taken one look at him and instructed a day of rest. Frustration had no handle on the feeling that ran through him.

His gaze narrowed on the beakers across the room and the steady drip of distillation. The observatory wasn’t only used to stargaze; indeed, with London’s smog he rarely used it for that purpose at all anymore. Instead, it had become part laboratory, part retreat. It was only here that he could force himself to stop thinking about work.

The brass dome opened with a steely rasp, like a flower revealing its petals to the sun. A fresh breeze stirred the lapel on his coat and sunlight spilled across the stone floor of the observatory, cutting off just before it reached him. Lynch skirted its edges and peered into the first beaker and the pale, tasteless liquid within. A rare poison he’d been working with for months, which could create a catatonic, almost deathlike trance.

No sign of Mercury, either on the streets or in his dreams. No, last night had been a torment of its own making, featuring the temptation that was currently sorting out his folders and keeping him from his rooms—fever dreams full of all manners of sin.

Lynch’s mouth firmed and he turned on the distillator Fitz had designed for him. The small boiler pack shuddered to life, the water within vibrating quietly. He’d give it five minutes and then steam would be filling this small corner of the observatory, quietly distilling his poisons.

Quiet footsteps caught his attention. Almost too soft to be any of the men. The first light traces of lemon perfume caught his nose.

Not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. He growled a curse under his breath and turned just as Mrs. Marberry carried a tray into the room. Sunlight spilled over her and she looked up, her eyes widening in shy surprise as she took in the open roof. The expression on her face was muted and yet struck him as more real than any other he’d seen from her.

Genuine, he thought, and wondered why that felt so right.

“Good morning,” he said, noting that the gray gown she wore fit like a glove. Black velvet buttons ran from her throat to her waist, but the fabric there curved over her hips tightly before spilling to the floor. Her bustle hinted at the soft curves of her bottom as she turned in a slow circle, looking up, and his mouth went dry at the long slope of neck revealed by the action. Coppery red hair trailed in loose tendrils from her chignon, caressing her throat. In the sunlight she was a creature of fire, her porcelain skin almost ethereal.

He wanted to put his hands on that fabric, to tear at it until he’d stripped her naked. The color slowly drained from his vision and Lynch took a sharp breath, jerking his eyes away. His pulse ticked heavily in his ears, a dull throbbing beat that should serve as warning to any blue blood.

“It’s afternoon I believe,” she said, placing the tray on a messy desk. “Doyle said you asked me to bring a tray to your observatory.” Her voice faded as she evidently turned her back on him, examining the contents of the room with interest. “What the devil is—”

Lynch looked up just as she reached for a curious spiked object on one of his workbenches. “Don’t!” he snapped, leaping across the room toward her.

His arms locked around her waist as her gloved finger brushed over the steel tips on the back of the mechanical hedgehog. Once activated, the pressure build-up caused each spine to explode outward.

Lynch ended up with a soft, warm armful of serge and velvet that gasped against his chest. Rosa caught a handful of his cravat, a steely, frightened expression on her face before it suddenly smoothed out.

“Goodness,” she said, her breath catching. “You startled me.”

The fingers of her left hand were locked around the crisp white linen of his cravat. Lynch cleared his throat. “You’re strangling me.”

Instantly she let him go.

Lynch reached for her right hand then paused. “May I?”

She considered his outstretched hand dubiously, then slowly placed her fingers within his grasp. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He tilted her hand over, reaching for the tips of her gloves. Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath and Lynch stilled, his gaze lifting to hers. “The tips are poisoned with curare, a very dangerous poison from South America.” He slowly tugged at the glove, sliding it over her hand. “I need to make sure you didn’t break the skin.”

Reluctance made her spine steel. He could feel her body trembling beneath the hand that stroked the small of her back as he dragged the glove free.

“I barely touched it,” she whispered.

“Please.”

Her hand was small and pale, the skin soft against his. Lynch slowly turned it over, examining the unmarked pads of her fingertips. Relief spread through his chest, and his thumb stroked the indentation across her palm. “No cuts.”

“I could have told you that.” The tremble was gone from her voice, but something about her tone caught his attention.

She was watching his thumb through half-lidded, wary eyes. Lynch stopped the movement, suddenly aware of how intimate this was. The blue veins of her wrist were splayed vulnerably in front of him—a temptation and a mockery. As if she were aware of where his gaze had dropped, she stiffened.

He let her go. “I don’t take my blood directly from the source,” he said, putting a step between them.

Rosa jerked her hand to her chest, meeting his gaze with smoky, dark eyes. “You don’t?”

He shook his head and crossed to the tray on his desk, heart still thundering in his ears. The world was gray, but somehow Mrs. Marberry seemed like a shining light within it, the sound of her own rapid heartbeat drawing his attention like the predator he was.

Someone—Doyle, no doubt—had seen fit to provide him with blud-wein. He poured a shot of it and threw it back, so aware of her that he could almost feel her gaze on the back of his neck.

“I’m a rogue, Mrs. Marberry. I buy my blood from the draining factories—or what’s left of them.” Blood that was taken in the blood taxes the Echelon had forced upon the populace for years. He slowly stoppered the decanter. “I don’t have the kind of living to support a thrall.”

“But surely—”

“No,” he replied firmly. “I’ve never taken from the vein.”

Silence settled heavily over the room. Lynch gathered himself and turned to face her. Rosa still clutched her arm, staring at him with that burning curiosity he often saw in her gaze.

“You want to know why,” he said, and the gray washed out of his vision suddenly.

Color flooded into her cheeks. “Of course not.”

“Surprising,” he noted, almost to himself. “You’ve shown little restraint in the past, unless it happens to involve yourself or unless you’re referring to me directly as a blue blood.” He saw the little flinch she couldn’t hide and refused to give in to guilt. “You don’t like to think of me as a blue blood.” No shock this time, but he knew he’d hit a nerve. “You make me very curious about your history, Rosa. And your humanist tendencies.”

The blood drained out of her face. “My what?”

Interesting. He picked up the glass he’d used and grabbed the decanter. Taking a seat on the settee, he cocked his boots on the table and poured himself another. Rosa still hadn’t moved, but tension radiated through her frame, as though she were prepared to flee at any moment. Her bare hand clutched the glove as if it were a lifeline.

“You read the pamphlets,” he said, taking pity on her. “You know enough to make me think you sympathize with the humanist cause if nothing else. Very few humans have an understanding of hemlock and its applications. I would also suspect an incident in your past involving a blue blood.”

Some color had returned to her cheeks. “And why would you suspect that?”

“The pistol,” he replied bluntly. “Your fear of me and my men, the way you don’t like to be touched or locked in a small space with me. The only time you weren’t frightened to be in the carriage together was when I was wounded and therefore, in your mind, vulnerable.”

She stared at him like a cornered animal. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lynch cocked a brow.

“I’m not,” she snapped, her fists clenching.

“Then you are wary. And that makes me suspect you have run afoul of a blue blood.”

She dragged her glove back on as if it were armor. “My father was a blue blood,” she told him. “My mother had been his thrall but she fled when…when my younger brother was born. Unfortunately, she passed away; the streets were not kind to her and we had to learn to make do, which should explain the pistol. Old habits die hard.” Dark lashes closed over her eyes. “My father found us when I was ten, so I have…a healthy respect for blue bloods and what they can do. That is all.”

The truth perhaps, but far from the whole of it. If her father was a blue blood, that meant she had genteel origins. Who? He forced the thought away; time for that later. He could be patient, and everything he knew about her said he would need to be.

Lynch sipped at his blud-wein, knowing that the sight of it disturbed her. “Your father hurt you—?”

“My lord,” she replied icily, “I believe this is completely outside conventional conversation. You have no right—”

“To poke and pry? Perhaps I share your curiosity, but instead of breaking into locked rooms—the means of which interests me, by the way—I am asking you.”

The look she shot him was by no means friendly. “I didn’t break in; the door wasn’t locked.”

Lynch sat forward, putting his glass down. “Now that,” he said, “is a lie. Though you do it so well I almost cannot tell.” Another sobering silence. He gestured to the seat opposite him. “Sit. Why do we not dispense with this dancing around?”

“I have work to do.”

“I’ll very generously grant you a lunch hour.”

Still she hesitated.

“And I shall offer you a truth in exchange for one,” he said, knowing that curiosity was her downfall. He reached out and lifted the lid off the tray in front of him, revealing a spread of small cucumber sandwiches, a plate of spiced cake, and a platter of biscuits. A pot of tea steamed beside it. “Besides, I didn’t request this food for myself, obviously. I have been remiss in feeding you since you started.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You mean,” he said, looking up over the tray, “that you do not wish to tell me your truths.” He watched the mutinous flare in her eyes. “I have four hundred and fifty Nighthawks, Mrs. Marberry. Don’t make me too curious. And I’ll warn you that you are most certainly stirring my interest, though I doubt that was your intention.”

She sat, though the stiff way she perched across from him indicated her mood. Lynch leaned back in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had dozens of questions and not nearly enough answers about her, and every evasive response only gave him more questions.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He observed her. “Yes, you are.”

“Are you always so accurate, my lord?”

“I have had a lot of years to learn when someone is lying to me.” He leaned forward and poured her tea. “Lemon,” he murmured. “And one sugar, I believe?”

Mrs. Marberry stared at him. “You know how I take my tea.”

“I observe everything, Rosa.” The use of her name was entirely deliberate. This wasn’t an interrogation—not yet—but there were certain questions about her that he needed to know the answer to. Certain…doubts. And while he had the time—enforced rest, so to speak—he might as well satisfy his curiosity.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the cup and saucer. She sat it on her lap, as if it were a barrier between them.

Good. He wanted her uncomfortable. He wanted her to spill her secrets.

Rosa’s hands curled around the teacup as if seeking its warmth. “May I go first then? Since I have given you many truths already.”

He spread his arms over the back of the chair and inclined his head. “I believe only some of them were truths, but as a gentleman I’ll allow my lady to go first.”

“Too kind.” She sipped her tea, consideration warming her eyes. “You loved Annabelle. Have you ever loved another woman?”

A direct volley. She was seeking to put him on the back foot. Lynch smiled lazily. “No. I learned my lesson once, Rosa. I am not so eager to repeat the experience.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But its—”

“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. “Touché.”

“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.”

A flare of temper in her eyes. Swiftly concealed. “Very well.”

“How long ago did your husband pass?”

“Eight years,” she said too quickly.

“And you never married again?”

“As you never loved again, neither did I,” she retorted.

“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 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.”