Forged by Desire by Bec McMaster Page B

ceiling and most of the eastern wall were made of glass, through which one could see the denseness of London stretching into the distance.
    It was empty of Nighthawks now, for Lynch despised being a form of entertainment. Every Tuesday morning he booked the room for the pair of them, and others knew better than to enter.
    The only witnesses were Rosalind, who Lynch could never say no to, and Charles Finch, the enormous bruiser who presided over the room as the weapons master. Rosalind crossed the floor in a swish of dark green taffeta skirts and peered out through the glass windows, her leather gloved fingertips pressing lightly against the glass panes. Rain patterned the glass, distorting the view of the city.
    As usual, Lynch’s head turned to track Rosalind. He did that often. As if just the sight of his wife was a pleasure in itself. A small, wriggling worm of jealousy bit at Perry, but she’d long since accepted that no man would ever hold her in such regard. And though she might have dreamed of it, whenever Garrett looked at her lately, it was with a sense of wariness, as if he was trying to puzzle something out about her.
    Yesterday had changed nothing. For one blissful moment, there’d been a hint of something between them, a dangerously seductive glimmer of something more than friendship. He’d given her that smile, the predatory one he reserved for ladies he was pursuing, and then all of a sudden he’d reverted to the friendly distance he’d been holding her at for most of the last month.
    “Shall we begin, Your Grace?” Tension coiled within her, just begging to be unleashed in one way or the other. “Or would you prefer us to leave you alone with Rosa so you may stare at her ever so prettily?”
    Lynch shot her a long, slow look. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I’ve a mind to take you over my knee.”
    “You’re showing your age,” she retorted. “You sound like my grandfather.”
    “Father perhaps,” Lynch grunted, selecting his own blade. “I’m old enough.”
    “I’ve noticed you’re slowing,” she replied. “I’m sure Master Finch has some liniment somewhere for your aching joints.”
    Lynch’s gray eyes flashed fire and he shared a rare smile with her. It softened the hawkish features of his face, and she knew that few ever won that smile. The former Master of the Nighthawks had forged a family, a force, out of those the Echelon decreed rogues, and he’d done it by making himself into a finely honed weapon. Cold steel tempered only by his wife’s fire and the few careful friendships he’d established among his fellows—Doyle, Byrnes, herself, and even Garrett, once upon a time. “Careful, Perry. Or I shall be forced to prove just how slow I can be.”
    His rapier slashed toward her with stunning speed. Perry parried with a shriek of steel, leaping back out of the way.
    Lynch circled her. He no longer wore the leathers of a Nighthawk, but he’d not disdained black. Stripping out of his coat, he tossed it aside and rolled his broad shoulders. There was not a single sign of weakness in his flesh. He was pure muscle, built to take his enemies down.
    He’d need it, now that he served on the Council of Dukes that ruled the city.
    The pair of them settled into a slow dance of feinting. Perry’s muscles loosened, her feet seeming to float beneath her of their own accord. This was the time when she felt most alive. No time for troubling thoughts.
    “For goodness’ sake, stop playing with each other,” Rosalind called. “We have an appointment with Sir Gideon Scott for a luncheon with the Humans First Party.”
    “As you wish, darling.” As he swept in front of his wife, he shot Perry a grimace Rosa couldn’t see. He’d accepted the dukedom for the power to keep the deadly prince consort at bay, but politics tended to make Lynch’s eyes stutter shut.
    The next second, his blade was slashing toward her. Perry parried, her wrists light and fluid, almost like an artist