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Brandy? Whisky?

Her traitorous body swayed toward his, much like gravity pulled objects to the earth. They had no choice any more than she did at this moment.

“My concern is for the girls. Their happiness.” Stiffening her spine, she attempted to put a bit of starch in her tone and feared she’d failed dismally. “As you well know, my lord, servants do as they are bid. Go where they are told.”

If they wanted to keep their posts, that was.

“Ah, but I would have you happy as well, Mercy.” He touched a calloused fingertip to her jaw. “Tell me. What would make you happy?”

At Ronan’s brazen but soft touch, a bolt of sensation jolted through Mercy, causing her heart to beat a jagged rhythm as if she’d been electrocuted. Could a person erupt into flames from a mere touch?

He trailed that long finger along her jawbone, and she shuddered.

From the roguish smile arching his mouth, he’d felt her shiver and took it for what it was.

Scorching desire.

Yes, indeed. Mercy was in danger of incinerating. All that would be left was a pile of cinders where she’d once stood.

For one deliciously appalling moment, she thought Ronan was going to kiss her. Right there in the nursery with the girls mere feet away.

What was more, Mercy wanted him to. Her mind shouted “No, it’s wrong. It’s wicked and sinful.”

But her heart and body urged her to disregard wisdom and morality.

This was utter madness.

Clearing her throat, she stepped away. She sent the girls another sidelong glance, assuring herself they slept on, oblivious to the sensual sparks exploding but a few feet away.

Ronan played a dangerous game, and she didn’t intend to be the loser. Governesses, maids, abigails, nurses, cooks, companions… Female servants were always the losers in this sort of contest. By all that was holy, Mercy would not be counted among those feather-headed goosecaps.

“My contentment is dependent upon your wards’ happiness. I love them and would see them adapt to their new lives with alacrity and ease.” That wasn’t even an attempt to be subtle as she reminded him of both of their positions. “I should think that would be your first priority too.”

That accusation was impudent and unfair, and Mercy knew it.

“Touché, Quiritis.”

She puzzled her brow. “Quiritis?”

What in the world was he on about now?

“Aye, the Roman goddess of motherhood. You love my wards as much as any mother would or could.” Out of habit, he grazed two fingers along his scar. “I am grateful, and I’m sure they are too.”

Emotion throttled up Mercy’s throat and lodged there like a cannonball—huge and heavy.

Was he testing her again?

To see if she were qualified to teach the girls?

A thread of pride straightened her spine. Mercy knew her deity history. Quiritis was the Sabine pre-Roman goddess of motherhood.

She swallowed before saying crisply, “Latona is the Roman goddess of motherhood.” For good measure, she added, “And Leto is the Greek Titan goddess of motherhood, but so is Rhea.”

A rather devilish grin lit his brown eyes, darkened to the color of melted chocolate.

She felt as if she were melting in their depths.

“Ah, but Rhea is also the goddess of fertility,” he said with that sideways grin that did impossible things to her pulse.