Lady Meets Her Match (13 page)

She pushed wet hair off her face. “I will not, unless you care to include your friends from Bow Street.” Her trembling voice dropped lower. “I'm sure they'd like to know about
your
thievery.”

Belker and a pair of footmen hovered outside the doorway. “I'm very sorry, sir—”

Mr. Ryland raised a halting hand to the butler, his eyes narrowing on her. “What are you talking about?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the quick-thinking host clamped her elbow, steering her firmly from the doorway into the entry hall. Mr. Ryland looked to the butler and tipped his head toward the drawing room.

“Luncheon. Take care of it.”

Those words were sufficient. The servants flew into action, which made Claire wonder: Did Ryland House receive distraught females on a regular basis?

There'd be no time to delve into that question. He guided her across the entry hall and down the royal-blue hallway, toward his familiar study. When they entered, she got a daytime eyeful of his study.

Few books lined the shelves of the plain blue-and-gray room. Worn-out folios, the spines cracked and losing color, lined shelves built into the wall. The room thankfully was well lit and warm, with enticing charcoal embers glowing from the hearth.

He led her straight to the familiar chintz-covered settee, but his gaze swept her from head to toe.

“You're drenched.”

“A very astute observation since I traveled here in a storm.”

His brows slammed together at her sarcasm, causing a small, vertical line above his nose, but he bent his powerful frame, pulling one side of the settee close to the grate. Mr. Ryland adjusted the heavy furniture as easily as one might move a small chair. Then he pointed to the seat.

“You'll want to sit here, closest to the heat.”

She looked from the inviting spot back to him. Oh, no, the greater heat frothed between them.

“I shall stand, thank you.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” The lines around his mouth tightened. “And give me your cloak. We'll hang it here to dry.”

She was about to tell Mr. Ryland the purpose of her unannounced visit when a chill snaked up her skirts, reminding her not to be a fool. With a rain-splattered cloak and her soaked hems plastered to her ankles, practical wisdom won. The cloak came off.

“I'm not staying long.” She stretched out her arm, keeping their proximity to a minimum.

Male lips curved, suppressing a smile at her staunch effort to maintain some distance. Mr. Ryland accepted the cloak, his warm, dry hands covering her icy fingers in the exchange.

His gray stare fixed on her. “Now, what's this thievery you're talking about?”

He hooked the cloak's hood on a stone carving sitting atop the mantel. The comfortable seat beckoned her to sit by the orange and amber coals. What needed saying could be done as much in comfort as discomfort. Why be miserable in the process?

Claire sidled over to the proffered accommodation, and waves of cozy warmth touched her frigid ankles, going bone deep. A sigh of satisfaction slipped.

“I speak of my necklace. Stolen.” She inched her puddle-soaked shoes closer to the hearth. “By you.”

“Steal your necklace?” He set one hand at his waist and chuckled, a rasping, ill-humored noise. “You forget. Between the two of us,
you're
the criminal here.”

She winced at the undeniable fact but pressed on, meeting his hard examination. The man would not run roughshod over her today. She scooted to the edge of the seat, her chin tipping higher.

“What you did was, was the lowest…the vilest thing.”

“I repeat: I did not steal your necklace.” His arms spread wide. “I don't need it.”

Ryland spoke in even, practical tones. His calmness and straightforward demeanor chipped away at her certainty.

“Of course you don't
need
a necklace,” she retorted. “But you'd take it. Just to prove your point. To make sure a woman alone doesn't succeed in business.”

“I'm not hard-pressed to prove my point.” His voice was dry as sand. “Nor do I spend my days pondering the activities of proprietors who rent from me. Either they succeed or they don't. You have the same opportunity as everyone else.”

She smarted from his words. Was everything so decided with him? The way he studied her, she guessed her landlord worked the facts in his head, calculating fluidly from one scenario to another.

“Let's take this one step at a time, shall we?” He hefted around a wide leather chair and sat down, facing her. “I don't want your necklace, Miss Mayhew. I want you.”

Pleasure skittered over her, the sensation like tiny pebbles skipping softly down her body.

Those simple three words—
I
want
you
—suspended clear thinking. A drop of water trickled down the side of her cheek. She swiped her hand over her face if for no other reason than a reprieve from an intent male.

“If I can't sell the necklace, paying my notes, the rent…” Her voice trailed off.

“Do you understand? If I wanted to coerce you into my bed, I would've pushed the matter of the forgery.” He leaned his forearms on his thighs, meeting her at her eye level. “But I didn't.”

Her courage burst, sinking underfoot from his honest words. And of all things, another flare of attraction sparked, seesawing with her present dilemma. Mr. Ryland spoke in the confident way of a man used to being taken at his word. Clear, gray eyes opened wide to her. Nor did he wax long, attempting to convince her of his innocence.

Why should he?

He told her the truth. She knew it in her bones.

Her chin dropped to her chest. The devil she knew seemed manageable, but the alternative carried starker, more dismal consequences. Uncertainty shifted the earth. She braced her hands on the cushion on both sides of her hips.

“I didn't want to believe Nate would steal from me. I thought you paid him to take the necklace for your own purposes.” She looked up at him again, small-voiced worry sucking the air out of her lungs. “Yesterday…the gold coin you gave him…”

Ryland's eyes flickered at the mention of the gold coin, but he said nothing. She rushed on, explaining Nate's odd absence, his hints of past thievery, but Mr. Ryland listened, emotionless as one gathering information. He didn't react at all when she mentioned Nate's scurrilous youth in St. Giles.

And he listened, truly listened, to everything she had to say.

“Circumstances may point to Mr. Fincher as the culprit, but I don't believe he stole from you. There has to be some other explanation.” Large, warm hands reached for hers. Mr. Ryland cosseted her frigid fingers, rubbing away the cold. “But the more important issue, you aren't safe there. A woman alone above a shop. You can't stay—”

“I'll be fine.” Her hands pulled free, and she started rocking on her seat.

There was no time to debate with him what a woman should or shouldn't do. Her problems were bigger than that. She looked around the room, blinking hard.

“But the shop…I have to pay the cabinetmakers seven pounds by Friday, the potter two pounds for the cups and plates, Annie still needs her wages…” She tugged the bothersome mobcap off her head. “And the rent…”

Hairpins dropped to the cushion, and more blond strands fell loose around her face. Her hair had become a bedraggled mess, its damp weight hanging on her neck. Quick fingers worked the flimsy mobcap into a ball while outside a rumble of thunder sounded.

Mr. Ryland plucked the cap from her. “I'll waive this quarter's rent and give you a loan for the rest.”

Her gaze shot up to meet his. The light played stronger on one side of his face, casting a shadow on the other.

“And you expect nothing in return?”

Mr. Ryland's bluntness must've rubbed off on her.

His head tipped with minute acknowledgment. “There are many things I want, but when you come to me, it will be of your own free will. Money will not be something between us.”

She couldn't help the sharp burst of laughter. “A bit sure of yourself, Mr. Ryland. What makes you think I'll come to you?”

His modulated tone told her one thing: the notion of holding something over her head to get what he wanted had crossed his mind, at least with her forgery.

“In here, it's Cyrus, remember?” His deep voice was smooth and assured. “And I'm confident because you're the one fighting our obvious attraction.”

Small tremors of pleasure shook her. Her body, it would seem, had already turned mutinous, ready to set sail for the deep, gray waters of the unwavering Cyrus Ryland.

“Then you have a long time to wait.” But her words held no bite.

She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. This spot by the fire would be a perfect place to curl into a tight ball and block out the day's troubles.

Cyrus removed his fine blue coat, the slide of cloth on cloth an inviting sound to her benumbed senses.

“You're not warming up sufficiently.” He leaned in and wrapped his coat over her shoulders, his deep voice like an intimate connection. “Someone needs to take care of you.”

She shuddered when his breath tickled her ear. His warmth and nearness was just as heavenly as what he draped around her. She could tell he found her refusal more amusing than deterring. Cyrus closed the coat in front of her, his body heat palpable inside. The collar's woven broadcloth brushed her rain-misted cheeks, his pleasant scent on the cloth. The coat was part of an expensive, well-tailored ditto suit: identical blue fabric with spare gold trim on the coat, waistcoat, and breeches.

“I'll ruin part of a perfectly good suit.” But she pulled the coat tighter, greedy for the snug feel.

He added more coal to the blaze. The inferno's orange light danced across white cotton stretched over his shoulders. Muscles moved under the fabric, mesmerizing her while he built a hotter fire. And then there was his offer to waive her rent and give her a loan, an offer apparently free of
unique
requirements. His act of generosity pinched her conscience.

How dare he be so…nice.

“About the rent, the loan, I cannot accept your kind offer.” She cleared her throat, trying to sound competent. “I'll find a way.”

Ryland glanced at her but said nothing to counter her refusal. Instead, he dropped to the floor, kneeling before her. Without asking her leave, he removed one shoe and then the other, and set the soaked footwear against the hearth's ash pan.

“What are you doing?” Her words, like her body, went slack, all of her too worn down.

His head bent close to her knee. One hand, large and warm, curled around her ankle, rubbing life back into her foot. A big, masculine palm moved under the arch, creating delightful friction. She pressed her lips together, holding back a moan of pleasure.

“I would think a land steward's daughter would know wet clothes are hazardous for one's health.” He flashed a devilish grin. “You ought to remove your wet clothes, cover yourself with something warm and dry.”

Such
as
covering
myself
with
you.

The way the corners of his eyes creased, she was certain what crossed her mind crossed his, but the tantalizing attention to her foot wore down her resolve.

Why argue with a man delivering such mind-melting attention?

Her laughter was skittish. “You're the only hazard to my existence, Mr. Ryland. And thank you, but my clothes will stay right where they are.”

“Cyrus,” he reminded her, but his playfulness morphed into concern. “At least, we need to get these wet stockings off. Your lips are quivering.”

Could
that
be
from
you
touching
me
in
this
most
agreeable way?

Her body slunk lower on the cushion, becoming pliable clay under his expert attentions. His fingers sapped the strength from her with each gentle circle on her foot. But he must've decided more of her needed warming, for Cyrus set one hand on her leg, just under her hem. He rested her foot on his rock-hard thigh as though he would slip a shoe on it, testing its size on her. Large, capable hands massaged her ankle and another shudder skipped along her spine.

Never had she thought of her ankle as a pleasure spot, but her skin tingled.

And those gray eyes of his asked permission to venture higher.

She didn't move, lest he stop the ministrations. Even her lips relaxed, opening softly. She wouldn't let him go higher up her leg, but his hands rubbing her ankle did things to her, made her want him to reach secret places.

And then there was her other errand: Nate. Her leg shifted, part of an attempt to regain control of a situation slipping perilously into parts unexpected.

“If you remove my stocking, that means I stay longer.” She gave him a feeble smile. “I can't. Nate. I must find him.”

His hand wrapped around her calf, inching higher with convincing caresses. “Nate's a grown lad. He can take of himself. Been doing it a very long time.”

“But he must be in some kind of trouble. I need to find him—”

“And where exactly do you plan to look for him?” Those expert fingertips drew tender circles on her stocking-covered shin. “Do you know where he lives?”

How was she supposed to respond with those hands stroking coherent thought right out of her? His touch prevented her from stringing the appropriate syllables together.

She gripped the broadcloth coat encasing her, her plans faltering under the weight of practical questions and the persuasive hands working a slow trail up her leg.

Her shoulders slumped. “I don't know where he lives.” Looking down at her foot settled on his thigh, she nodded tacit approval. “Go ahead, my stockings. Take them off.”