Lady Meets Her Match (3 page)

How
freeing.

She sat up straighter, aware this shared power was of a sensual nature only; there'd be no parity outside the bedroom with Mr. Ryland. He was a man who led, expecting others, especially the gentler sex, to follow. Yet his strong-boned face would appeal to most women, women who'd forgive his overbearing ways and find his rough magnetism and substantial fortune qualities of great consideration.

His riches didn't interest her. His inviting mouth did.

A thin guise of civility covered this brute of a man who, through will or wealth, got his way. But his brotherly admission of listening to, even
liking
, his sisters' opinions turned her on end—not at all what she expected. How extraordinary to be in the company of a difficult man and discover he's not so…difficult.

She leaned back for mind-clearing space. “What do you want to know?”

He let go of her hand and stretched his arm along the back of the settee. “Who's your protector?”

“Perhaps I'm a woman of independent means. An honest businesswoman.”

Cyrus laughed, a full sound radiating from his chest. “Sounds dangerous.”

With fluid movement, he stood up and walked across the room to his desk. She turned around on the settee, watching his broad back.

“You don't think a woman should live a life of independence?”

“An invitation for trouble, if you ask me. Women need a man's guiding hand. Been that way since the beginning of time. Why change what already works?” He picked up the brass clock from the corner of his desk. “What about those baubles around your neck? Made of paste?”

Her hand shot up, touching the necklace. By his inflection, she caught Ryland's assumption that the jewels were a gift from a man. He'd be right. Her fingers rolled the largest stone, evidence of a past mistake.

“They're real,” she said, her tone flat. “But I mean to sell them.”

“Not sentimental jewelry, then?”

“No.” She'd give no more on the necklace.

Her shoe pressed the floor, ready to grind stinging memories underfoot, when something crunched beneath her heel.
The
signature
sheet.
How could she let rampant flirtation muddle her mind and make her forget the very reason for being here?

Mr. Ryland angled the clock's face toward the moonlight. “Midnight approaches.”

Midnight. The unmasking hour. She was supposed to meet Abigail. Her glance dropped to the sheet, shot to the door, and ricocheted back to the man by the moonlit desk. Was he going to suggest she go into the ball with him?

How was she going to get out?

She bent down, the air squishing out her lungs from whalebone stays poking and prodding—her corset and false hips made touching the floor nigh on impossible. Nimble fingers folded the paper into quarters, then once more, all done in time to quick, shallow breaths.

Stuffing the incriminating piece down her cleavage, her eyes shut for a split second.

The shop, her plans…all were within reach.

The necklace swung forward at the bottom of her vision, a pendulum of sparkling aquamarine, reminding her it was time to move on with her new life. Out of the corner of her eye, polished black shoes came into view.

“You've got to give me more about yourself before the unmasking—” He slipped on his coat and started to bend low. “Is something wrong?”

“Fine. I'm fine,” she said, breath huffing and moving upright again. “My hem needed fixing.”

Mellow candlelight touched Ryland's brown hair, the queue restrained in a black silk wrapped ribbon. He adjusted his sleeves, and the bottom seam of his fine waistcoat skimmed well-formed thighs. The man was granite hard without an ounce of excess. She stroked a white-blond lock of hair curling against the top of her left breast. The coy move was unintentional, but caught his eye all the same.

She
could
be
any
woman
she
wanted
to
be
tonight.

Wasn't she doing that already?

Free, masked, unknown—a woman once in service, now wearing a ball gown, playing a part she'd never play again. What woman didn't want a taste of the forbidden at least once in her life? The chance to masquerade as someone else if only for a night?

And then she'd leave, escape as harmlessly as she came. No one would be hurt. What better place to slip away unnoticed than in a crowded ballroom? Tomorrow would bring the beginnings of her more reliable adventure as midtown proprietress of a humble coffee shop.

“What were you saying?” she asked, champagne-like giddiness pouring over her.

She'd sipped the stuff twice in her life, and tonight's victory made her feel as though she had consumed the sweet, golden nectar again.

Growing up a steward's daughter on the grand Greenwich estate afforded her many opportunities. But life changed one fateful night, a reminder of who and what she was. Since then, she labored hard, building calluses anew on her hands and heart, all in an effort to fall into a deep sleep every night and forget what had happened years ago. Many more years of hard work stretched ahead of her.

Why not sip champagne once more?

What harm could come of that?

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,

To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

William Congreve,
The Mourning Bride

No man courted a fine woman's favor without paying a price. Alluring women always demanded their due in one form or another. Cyrus understood this, even ran his life on a constant balance sheet of costs and rewards, whether in his head or on paper. But women? He didn't fully understand them. What man did?

This masked blond with her bold tongue equaled a wealth of trouble. She wasn't a prudent candidate to become Mrs. Ryland, but he wasn't looking for anyone to fill the role. Claire's undeniable hint of mystery and playful daring touched him like welcome caresses in all the right places.

And an evening of hot flirtation that could lead anywhere? A timely reprieve.

He liked that his mystery guest wasn't intimidated by him, but he couldn't say if she
was
or
was
not
after money. Such were the limits of trying to read a woman in a dimly lit room.

And he had to admit, he wasn't thinking entirely with his head.

But if she wasn't chasing gold guineas, what was she in search of?

In recent years, he'd met his share of courtesans, and his enigmatic guest struck him as too proper and too pert to be a refined lightskirt. Could she be a newly fallen woman exploring that mode of employ?

When they touched on the subject of women and independence, his guest became tart tongued and emphatic, meeting him word for word, qualities that stoked his interest, among other parts clamoring for better acquaintance with her.

He would know more of the secretive beauty named Claire, if that was her true name, and there was no better way to coax the fair sex into openness than a festive atmosphere. Women thrived on entertainments.

“We ought to return to the ball.”

“So soon? And here I thought you wanted a reprieve from the crowd.”

“True,” he said, offering his arm. “But the evening's improved considerably.”

Claire's fingertips rested lightly on his sleeve, her silk skirts stirring a seductive sound as she stood up. Glittering silver embroidery drew his attention to cream-white curves moving with the strong ebb and flow of her breathing.

“And I'd like to further our conversation in the light.”

The curl on her breast swayed from her gentle laughter.

“The light has no bearing on our conversation,” she asserted, making a point of dipping her head to restore eye contact with him. “I'd venture to say the lack of it has been freeing.”

He grinned like a lad caught ogling a tavern maid.

“If I said I'd like to dance with you, would that make a difference?”

Her charmed smile was his reward. He strained to see Claire's eye color, but couldn't. Candlelight sparkled off the beads around her eyes. Her visible features rounded with pure merriment.

“Since you put it that way, how can I resist?” She reached over and lifted the jabot off the settee. “You'll need this.”

He turned around and crouched low for her to retie the bothersome neckwear. “Please be kind with the knot. My valet is new and was overanxious when preparing me for tonight.”

She leaned close to his ear. “I'll do my best.”

Cotton skimmed his neck, and her nearness tantalized him…her warmth at his back, the allure of her gown brushing his legs. Agile hands worked efficiently at his nape, tying the jabot, and he couldn't help the wicked thought:
Why
don't men hire women as valets?

The air cooled behind him and he rose to full height. Claire was at his side, setting her hand on his arm.

“Shall we?”

They made their way out of the study's intimate atmosphere, into the bright hallway.

Standing on the royal-blue carpet, light shocked his system. His fair-haired guest looked to him, waiting for him to lead the way no doubt, but his limbs locked.

Her lustrous white-blond hair appeared that unique shade by nature, not artifice of paste or powder. Her face, though covered with a demi-mask, promised symmetry of the kind poets waxed on about. His breath caught on the singular yet insufficient word
beautiful
.

“Beg pardon?” Her head tilted, artful and feminine. “What did you say?”

Did he say the word out loud?

One corner of his mouth curled up. He wasn't smooth with words, nor was he the fawning type.

Clearing his throat, he led their amble to the ball. “I was wondering how the evening progresses.”

His constitution needed balance on this already off-kilter night since ahead lay the battle zone of a London ball. He wasn't bred on these events the way others lived and breathed the social whirl.

Why
the
gluttonous
need
for
grand
entertainments? Do London's refined citizens exist under a constant cloud of boredom?

His teeth clenched in the manner he suspected a soldier's would as he bore down in battle. He could hardly tolerate these things, but one footfall after the other led them to the blast of festivities.

An explosion of unsavory odors pummeled him, the result of too many hot bodies together for too many hours. The orchestra plied their skills with frenzied vigor for throngs of colorful dancers. Discordant laughter jangled through the room. Most of the guests had been dipping rather deep in the free flow of his wine.

A perspiring earl, his bagwig askew, spun past. The man squired a masked, guffawing woman through a fast-paced courante, her face paint streaking down one cheek
.
Layers of pomp and dignity had long ago deserted the tipsy crowd.

He wanted to wipe the room clean and finish a quiet evening in his home, but that wouldn't aid his quest to find a fine place in Society for Lucinda. He needed the good graces of these people to arrange the most advantageous marriage for her—and someday for himself.

His sister, masked in purple silk, chatted amiably with two of Society's matriarchs at the far end of the hall; her cheerful composure showed she was none the worse from the evening's earlier drama.

A ravaged refreshment table provided breathing room near double doors flung open, allowing cool air to reach the perimeter of the ballroom. Empty glasses littered the table. Clusters of grapes had been devoured, leaving skeletal vines poking up from a silver tray. Only a small bowl of luscious red berries remained untouched, tempting the eye.

“Oh, strawberries. How lovely,” his mystery guest cooed. “My favorite.”

He made sure to steer closer to the succulent fruit, ready to engage his guest in private conversation. But as they approached the table, so did his good friend, the Marquis of Northampton, with his younger brother, Lord Marcus Bowles, at his side. The pair stepped through the open doorway from the back courtyard, North scowling his displeasure.

Out of sorts from Lucinda's refusal of his marriage proposal? Or taxed by the burden of rescuing his half-sprung brother yet again? Lord Bowles's walk was steady, but his queue was near undone. A crumpled, brown silk mask dangled from his fingers, and the man reeked of whiskey. The former soldier's brash stare, however, lost no time settling on Claire.

“Ryland. Wondered where you went.” Lord Bowles's voice dropped with suggestion. “But I see what's occupied your time.”

Cyrus's mouth firmed at the younger man's encroachment. North moved closer to his brother as though proximity could bring the younger man to heel. A pair of dancers, loose with laughter, bumped the marquis's silk-clad arm.

“As it is, we're on our way home.” Within his black silk mask, the marquis's dark, assessing stare moved from Claire to Cyrus. “I'd hoped to speak to you, but the evening's deteriorated, an—”

“And he's got to run home with his tail between his legs.” The younger man cut in, directing his last words to Claire. “That, and make sure I don't cause trouble in exalted circles.”

North's frown stretched. If Cyrus were a betting man, he'd have laid odds on the sibling being the thorn in his friend's side, not Lucinda's rejection. The brothers together often made a powder keg waiting to explode.

“We'll talk tomorrow,” Cyrus promised North and began to steer away from the table.

“What?” Lord Bowles stood taller, smoothing the front of his brown silk waistcoat. “Dismissed without so much as an introduction to this tempting armful?”

“Marcus,” North snapped. “You forget yourself.”

The former soldier perused the flaxen-haired woman, lazy eyed and curious. Most women found the irreverent second son appealing, no matter that he lacked two pence to rub together. He offered little more than dashing looks and the occasional witty remark, yet ladies flocked to him.

Cyrus placed a possessive hand atop the feminine fingers resting on his arm. Lord Bowles's hazel eyes caught the maneuver, one corner of his mouth curling up. Though in his cups, the man read the universal message, one man to another.

She
belongs
with
me.

Lord Bowles's daring, heavy-lidded gaze drifted from the claiming grip to meet Cyrus's rigid stare. The reprobate raised a challenging eyebrow. The former soldier liked to push the limits, especially under the influence of strong drink.

When would the evening's absurdity end?

Cyrus wasn't getting any closer to uncovering more about the mystery of the woman at his side. In those jarring seconds, Bowles must've reassessed his position. He backed down, ceding with the barest of nods. Cyrus wanted the fair lady to himself, but he grudgingly accepted good manners meant introductions were in order.

“Gentlemen, I forget my manners. Please allow me to introduce Miss…Miss…” He stalled, his brows slamming together.

Bad enough he reemerged with his jabot loose. He couldn't introduce a woman as
Miss
Claire
—to do so would all but put her in the worst possible light
.

“Miss Claire Tottenham,” she interjected, pinching her skirts and dipping low.

North nodded at the pretty curtsy, but his brother's eyes kindled with shrewd assessment. Unfazed, his
Miss
Tottenham
held her head high, sidling closer to the strawberries.

Cyrus motioned to his friend. “This is Lord Northampton, the Most Honorable Marquis of Northampton.” His eyes narrowed. “And his brother, Lord Bowles, formerly an officer of the Eightieth Regiment of Light-Armed Foot.”

Both men bowed. Lord Bowles placed his crushed mask over his heart, the reprobate's stare hovering indecently on Miss Tottenham's neckline.

“I live only for peaceful pursuits now. My latest heroic service is rescuing damsels in distress.”

“When I find myself in dire need, I shall call upon you, sir.” She gave them both a bright smile and plucked a ripe red berry from the bowl. “And is this a family endeavor, your rescuing damsels in distress?”

“You mean me and Lord Perfect here?” Lord Bowles angled his head at his brother. “No. Gabriel's too busy saving the family to bother with life's finer pursuits. I'm your best bet.”

The marquis stiffened when his Christian name was bandied about, but Miss Tottenham smoothed his ruffled feathers with another glowing smile before looking again to Lord Bowles.

“Then your brother's the archangel to your…darker heavenly being.”

Cyrus's jaw ticked at the soft tempo of her voice. This flirtatious back and forth between the two served little to get him closer to the enigmatic woman. And simply put,
he
wanted to be the sole recipient of her smiles and soft, playful words.

The former soldier's eyes darkened with keen interest. His voice, rough from smoke and liquor, dropped to an intimate note. “Wherever did Ryland find you?”

“I'm afraid that will have to stay our secret.”

The saucy Miss Tottenham slipped the strawberry into her delectable mouth, all the while looking at Cyrus. His thigh muscles tensed inside the velvet prison of his breeches. Hot pleasure shot through his body at the sight of the red berry slipping through her lips. Adding to his misery, a spurt of juice from the tender morsel painted her bottom lip red. He nearly groaned.

Tradition named the apple as the fruit of man's downfall, but tonight he'd argue mightily for the dangers of a ripe strawberry on a certain woman's lips.

Lord Bowles laughed, his face alight with fascination. “I like this one, Cy. She'll keep you hopping.”

Cyrus's body hummed between charmed interest and the sharp edge of frustration. He had more than hopping in mind where Miss Tottenham was concerned.

With perfect timing, the first notes of an allemande played, and the dance floor thickened with new revelers full of laughter. The allemande was the last dance before the midnight unmasking, a decadent rout, allowing some close contact between partners—something he wouldn't miss.

He set a firm hand on Miss Tottenham's elbow. “I plan to, starting with this dance.”

“But you don't like to dance.” The startled admission came from North in the middle of pulling off his mask.

“I do tonight.” He bade them farewell and steered his guest away from the younger man's poaching stare.

No doubt Bowles would pounce on any opportunity to assert himself with the fair lady. Tonight, however, Cyrus was the hunter who would claim Miss Tottenham. He drew her as close as her wide skirts allowed, finding pleasure in her graceful sway. He maneuvered through the crowd, nearer to the open, cooling doors, where partners pranced the allemande.

He positioned himself beside Miss Tottenham, and with a light handhold, they ventured into their first steps. Bodies pressed everywhere, the hot, noisy swarm expanding and contracting. But his lovely guest caught the joy, laughing with delight. His every sense went on high alert, honing in on
her
: her scent, her feel, her sound. He hungered for details of this woman, but words of a hot nature sprang out first.