Lady Meets Her Match (14 page)

His hands slipped higher, more efficient in movement than seductive. Wet locks fell forward as she watched him work. His genuine concern about her welfare touched her, bringing messy wants and emotions.

A lonely ache settled on her like sand sinking to the bottom of a water-filled jar.

He peeled down one stocking and laid the black wool across the hearth. He set to work on the other leg, propping her foot on his thigh. She leaned closer, studying him with rapt fascination.

Dark brown lashes fanned stone-cut cheeks, and within his brown hair, those few silver threads glinted. Black silk wrapped around the length of his queue, a thick cylinder of hair down his back.

Why
not
one
touch?

She reached out and touched the back of his head. His hair was fine as silk against her palm.

Masculine hands stilled in the act of removing her stocking. One stroke to the back of his head was all she wanted to discover the texture of his hair. That forbidden place was harmless and hardly sexual, yet so personal.

“I notice you like to wear your hair this way. And no wig,” she said, wistful in her exploration.

Emboldened, her hand wrapped around the thick coil trailing past his shoulders. She slid her loose grip down the span of black silk twisted around his hair.

Cyrus kept his head bent. The wide line of his powerful shoulders barely moved. He could be a lion, bowing for a fine lady stroking his mane. There had to be an ancient tale of such, but her muddled mind couldn't recall the story.

His fingers encircled her calf with beguiling contact. The un-gartered stocking slid to her ankle, the undergarment dropping in collusion with the talented male fingers going up her leg.

He caressed her cool, bare skin, the effect devastating. Fingertips swirled over her shin with the lightest touch, sending hot spangles of pleasure everywhere.

Her breath stalled when he reached the tender flesh behind her knee. She let go of his queue, needing a stabilizing grip on his shoulder. Her fingers couldn't span the width of his rock solid shoulders.

“I've no need for a wig, nor do I like them,” he said, rasping his delayed response.

She'd forgotten their thread of conversation, lost in the spell of his comforting hands. Cyrus looked up, his pewter eyes darkening.

His fine mouth held her attention. Light played with his resolute jawline, where the bruise she noticed earlier bloomed purple on his skin. She ought to ask about that, but her mind was a jumble of senses, not sensibility.

Nothing about this day was going as expected. Would a kiss from Cyrus Ryland be the same? Her one hand held the inside of his coat for dear life, the other grasping his shoulder. His hand slipped out from under her hem, leaving her riotous flesh singed.

She inhaled sharply, mourning the loss. “Your hand…”

“I've another place for it,” he murmured, his breath soft as down on her cheek.

He curved his fingers around her hair-mussed nape and pulled her close. Cyrus's forehead touched hers, his silky hair brushing her face. She shut her eyes, seeking the security of darkness. If she didn't see him, she'd keep a safe distance from the threatening torrent of emotions.

Could she give in to him and will her body alone to feel, erasing her heart from the equation?

Firm, talented fingers massaged her skin beneath her hair's tangled knot, guiding her closer to him one inch at a time.

And their lips touched.

Her breath quickened. Oh, how she liked his lips on hers.

Cyrus coaxed her, his mouth stroking hers in a lingering kiss. He wooed her, tender flesh meeting tender flesh in a burst of heat and…yearning. His mouth moved over hers, a gentle brush of lips to lips, of longing and want, so astonishing, this persuasive tug on her mouth and heart.

He pulled a whisper's distance away from her. His mouth swept hers as though she was a thing to be treasured. Cold, wet tresses dangled on her cheeks as more hair came loose. Cyrus's mouth tugged gingerly on the flesh of her upper lip. Each velvet kiss lured her, reaching deep inside.

She kissed him back, finding new ways to explore the curves and planes of his mouth.

How could a man of brutish size be so careful?

One corner of her brain wanted to place Cyrus neatly on a shelf categorized as
arrogant
and
overbearing
, the kind of man who demanded and took, giving little in return. The kind of man she could ignore. This surprising part of Cyrus washed sensation after sensation over her, drowning all thought.

Her knees fell wide open under the trap of her skirts. She inched closer, needing him. His gifted, agile mouth sought hers in a delicate dance of lips stroking lips. Cyrus angled his head sideways to hers, as though he wanted to test a new position, his tongue flirting with the seam of her mouth.

He didn't invade. He beckoned. He teased and he tasted, seeking her.

His kisses weren't the claiming kind; his kisses sought connection. And this made Cyrus all the more dangerous. A tremor shook her body, and Claire loosed her hold on the enveloping coat, all the better to press closer.

She needed to rub against him.

Her mouth opened, and she tasted him back. Cyrus was warm and desirable. More than desirable.
Heart
softening
. Her hands moved over mountainous shoulders that required exploring. Needy palms stroked the broad, heavily muscled span she'd itched to discover the first night they sat together, but what she found disturbed her more than settled her.

She wanted more, not less. She wanted clothes off. Now.

She didn't know how long they sat as they did, lost in thorough kisses. Cyrus separated himself from her, a thing not to her liking. He pulled back and she leaned forward into him, mewling soft, deprived sounds when cool air touched her face.

Her hand touched her mouth. The best kind of kisses numbed the mind, leaving a body floating between heaven and earth. She wasn't ready to touch ground yet. But there were voices in the hall outside the study door. None came knocking. Were those voices what made him stop?

She opened heavy-lidded eyes, and the room glowed. With careful fingers, Cyrus brushed back the wet tendrils plastered to her cheek.

“You look like a wanton,” he said, breathing hard.

“Only because you kiss like one. We don't have to stop, you know.”

“And you speak like a wanton.” A hoarse laugh rumbled from his chest. “But this is not the time nor the place for what I have in mind for you.”

His Midlands accent was stronger, and Claire gripped the cushion to keep herself from jumping into his arms like a bawd. She was starved for him.

“I wouldn't be opposed to a small sampling.”

He chuckled, grazing his fingers over her cheek.

She glanced down at herself, registering the shameless changes Cyrus had wrought. She practically thrust her breasts at him. Within her skirts, her legs spread wide, ready to welcome him into the fold of her body. Her drawer's seam tucked between her legs was slicked with warm wetness.

How mortifying. She tucked her knees together and inched back on the seat, the first move to return to her regular, un-wanton self.

If not for those bothersome voices beyond the door, what fine use would they have made of the settee?

Her hands fussed with her disheveled hair, needing something functional and proper to do. Practical thoughts formed, reminding her that as wonderful as kissing Cyrus felt, their situation and her circumstances were changed not at all.

“I really should go.” Her voice hadn't recovered, still scraping deeper notes.

“Stay. Please.”

He'd moved around the other side of the tall chair, his hands high on the backrest. Though the chair hid more than half his body, the visible fabric of his waistcoat stretched with each deep breath he took. Did Cyrus Ryland need protection from their soul-shattering kisses too?

“I know I ask a lot, but I want you to wait here for me.” His gaze swept over her attire, the terribly mussed hair. “It would be an honor to have you sit at my table, but even I know it's not in your best interest to attend a luncheon with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough garbed as you are.” His lips pressed in a flat line. “That is…I don't want
you
to be uncomfortable.”

Was there a touch of longing in his eyes? She understood his meaning, but disappointment jabbed her, causing her lashes to flutter low. His intentions were perfect, but she wasn't dressed right. He wanted to spare her the discomfort of being ill prepared for such an event. But there was more to this than mere social separation.

He was a man who would someday marry into nobility, something she was not.

She gathered her pins, now sprinkled around the settee, and smiled, trying for humor. “I don't think I'll ever be in a dining room with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough unless it's to serve them.”

Her upraised hands removed the few remaining pins clinging in her hair and let the tresses cascade in an uncombed mess. She finger combed dampened hair as well as she could and began to recoil the knot. The simple act calmed the chaos of her flesh and nerves.

Arms raised, she was about to push a pin into place when she hesitated. Cyrus watched her hungrily, his fingertips whitening on the chair. A magic charmer could've claimed his soul, mesmerizing him the way he stood stock-still.

“I could watch you pin and unpin your hair…again and again and never get tired of the view,” he marveled.

Her heart thumped faster. If she wasn't careful, this potent thing between them could dissolve rapidly again, with more than hairpins scattered across the settee. And to what painful end?

“I really must go,” she said softly and finished her task.

It'd be easy to say yes to anything he asked right then. She leaned over and grabbed her shoes. Cyrus's glassy-eyed stare ranged over her, drinking in her face, her untidy hair, tracing her movements as she slipped one bare foot into a water-stained shoe.

“You won't stay to meet my nephews?”

She gathered her limp stockings and stuffed them in her apron pockets. “Those young men in the drawing room?”

“Yes, Peter, Zachariah, and Simon,” he said, eyes shining at their names. “My older sisters have a bent for biblical names.”

The corner of his mouth quirked when he gave the last tidbit of information. Claire picked up the second shoe, listening attentively. This reprieve washed over them, giving their lust-strung bodies a chance to recover.

“I'm proud of them,” he said, moving around the chair. “They've worked hard at their studies, and now Simon's on his way to becoming a physician, and Peter and Zach will soon become barristers. The duke is helping them to land in some high places.” His smile stretched but failed to light his eyes. “Not bad for a family of freehold farmers from Stretford.”

He wanted them to keep talking; she could tell as much by the way his voice, his gaze lingered. His tone was as tender as it was humble, playing on her heart…all the more reason for her to be gone. Conversation bred hope.

Cyrus trod a very different path from her. The want to reach higher and take more from life was common ground they shared, but their lives diverged from there.

Sluggish hands slipped on her second shoe, practical brown leather, same as she always wore.

“Those are wonderful achievements for your nephews,” she said.

Her fingers rubbed a smudge on the buckle of her shoe, hollowness growing inside her. The scuffed footwear illustrated with perfect clarity what needed saying.

“As a girl, I always wanted pretty silk slippers.” She raised her hems and tapped the worn leather toes together. “I spent my childhood with the Greenwich family, a companion to Lady Jane, the earl's sister. She let me wear her silk shoes, but by nightfall it was time for me to go home where I belonged…the humble land steward's cottage.”

Cyrus didn't move.

“Don't you see? They weren't mine. I had to give them back.” Her voice turned soft and pensive. “I never had pretty shoes of my own.”

He stood statue still, his dark lashes dropping over his eyes.

She released her skirts and sat up tall. “If I let this go too far with you, I'd be that girl wearing silk shoes for a time, pretending to live a life that isn't hers. Eventually things would end.”

“It doesn't have to be that way. I would take care of you.”

“You mean like a mistress?”

“That's not what I mean.”

“But that's what would happen.” With measured care, she stood up and passed him his coat, her tone level. “I like who I am and what I have…my life as it is.”

Cyrus slipped on his fine blue coat, fixing his shirtsleeves at the wrists. “Is there more to your message? Speak plainly.”

His jaw was rigid, a small muscle ticking on his cheek. This rejection hurt them both, but she would not let this thing between them consume her. She retrieved her cloak hanging from the mantel. The wool became the armor she wrapped around her.

“Everybody in London knows you'll someday marry a woman of high social standing, and that's something I'm not.” Claire lifted her hood. “To embark on something with you would be folly. I don't belong here. I tried mixing with a man not of my station once, and…”

“The necklace,” he demanded. “Who gave it to you?”

She stared past Cyrus and exhaled a long, soul-cleansing breath.

“Jonathan,” she said. “He taught me to climb trees, helped me laugh again after I lost my mother. He was the giver of my first kiss, receiver of my virginity, and heir to the Greenwich earldom.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “He's the only man I've ever loved, and the only man to break my heart.”

“You speak of the deceased Lord Jonathan Greenwich.”

“Yes, he led me to believe we'd marry, deceived me really. Once his mother discovered what went on between us, she made sure he found the companionship of more suitable women, while I was shamed in my home village.” Her voice was faint. “And in return, Jonathan gifted me with a necklace.”