Lady Meets Her Match (2 page)

The cushion dipped beside her, and her stomach dropped. They'd crossed paths once at Greenwich Park, when she was in service there. Would he have any recollection of her? One hand touched her mask, and she remembered: her face was half-covered in a dimly lit room.

She was safe. For now.

Mr. Ryland faced the wall, more concerned with his neckwear than the stranger in his study.

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “You'll remain anonymous until midnight, when all will be revealed.”

“Typical of these entertainments, don't you think?”

“Lovely as you are, being in here isn't a good idea. I'm not the type to marry because I'm alone with a lady.”

Mr. Ryland assumed she'd come here to entrap him? She wanted to laugh at the absurdity. The evening's ironic twist was too delicious.

“Oh, I'm no lady, Mr. Ryland.”

His keen stare slanted her way.

“And I promise not to accost you, sir.”

What possessed her to toss out those forward morsels? She may as well have dropped a succulent lure to a hungry fish
.

There was a snick of sound, velvet rubbing on chintz from his body shifting toward her.

She sat taller, drawing on reserves of coolness. Armed with enticing anonymity, her hand eased its grip on the settee. There had to be a way to extract herself from this predicament, but his inflated belief that she sought to snare him needed an adjustment.

“You may find this hard to believe, but not every woman in England wants marriage to you or any other man.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “Some women want independence, the chance to forge their own path.”

His stare locked on her. “An interesting consideration.”

But her skirt-smoothing fingers missed something.

The
signature
sheet.

Her heart lurched. The page must have slipped from her lap when she'd turned around on the settee. Her hands hunted for the paper, subtle movements over her gown and the seat beside her, but she found only air and cloth. At the bottom of her vision, the page lay on the floor, a fallen soldier in the evening's covert skirmish.

The toe of her shoe inched the damning evidence closer to her hem, all the while she faced him and held the facade of a woman at leisure. Under the circumstances, diverting small talk wouldn't be out of the ordinary.

“I see you've unmasked already.”

“It was off long ago…strap broke.” Ryland winced, yanking on the ties. “Waste of fabric.”

“The mask? Or the jabot you're about to strangle yourself with?”

A smile touched his lips. “Both, I suppose.”

His hands eased their grip on the neckwear and rested on his thighs.

“I'm guessing the evening's been a trial, and you'd rather be elsewhere,” Claire went on, looking across the room where the door marked her escape. “That makes two of us.”

He followed her sight line. “And what could possibly drive a woman of independence to hide in my study? A man?”

She balked at his amused suggestion, her fingers tugging a loose silver thread on her bodice.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. It's been a most unusual evening.”

The thread snapped, a tiny sound in the quiet study. Mr. Ryland's attention dropped to her waist.

“Rest easy. You're safe with me.”

Her busy fingers fell to her lap. She believed him. His broad-shouldered presence was like facing a nicely dressed bulwark. How gallant that he offered his protection without question. The man was sparing with his words, but his deep voice soothed her.

His eyes narrowed a fraction on her mask.

“If you're not a lady, are you a courtesan?”

Her arms clamped under her bosom, laughter bubbling up sharply. “Rather blunt, are you?”

His stare dipped to the soft, white flesh pillowing from her low-cut bodice. Her arms went stiff, and air kissed her cleavage. Despite his bold attention, she would
not
move her arms.

“A fair question,” he ventured. “A man can only wonder when he finds a pretty woman waiting in the dark. And I prefer getting to the point.”

“And this assumption of yours, is it because you divide women neatly into marriageable and
un
marriageable types, and you're not sure where to put me?”

“Never believed I thought of women quite like that,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But you could be onto something.”

She peered at him, glad for the anonymity of her mask. The harsh bracket lines around his mouth were gone, replaced by the semblance of a smile. The changes made her want to lean closer for a better look at what else might happen. Were these subtle shifts because Mr. Ryland fed on candid conversation? She was certain he wasn't at all put off by her tart tongue.

“Did it ever occur to you there's more to the fairer sex?”

“No, but Lucinda likes to argue a similar point.”

“Lucinda?”

“My sister. The ball honors her birthday. This evening's part of my
blunt
attempt to get her wed.” His tone dropped with dangerous softness. “But you'd know it's her birthday if you went through the receiving line.”

She lowered her lashes, avoiding his questing stare. He likely suspected a man sneaked her into the festivities. Now she was caught. Her status was akin to a mouse trapped in an audience with a lion. She tensed, ready to spring. The door was not too far.

“Relax,” he said. “You're welcome to stay if you free me from this noose. Bothered me all night.”

“You mean untie your jabot?”

Such a personal request, but then he believed her to be a woman who removed lots of male clothing. Freeing him of neckwear was modest by comparison.

“You did say you wouldn't accost me.” His chin tipped high, giving her access to his neck.

Claire scooted nearer to Mr. Ryland, keeping her spine properly rigid. The change in proximity spread a flush of warmth across her bare skin; probably shared body heat was all. The way he sat, assuming trust, muddled her.

She raised stiff arms, inching into unfamiliar closeness. A marionette master could be maneuvering her, so stilted were her hands. Mr. Ryland's sheer size dominated the settee, and his lopsided smile stayed in place.

“I see you're entertained.”

“More like glad to be in your company…a woman speaking her mind.”

“Oh.” He took the starch right out of her, stoking her curiosity. Faint aromas of smoke and a woman's perfume clung to him, but another indefinable essence about the man played on her wits.

“We've just met, but you're not put off by me.”

His deep voice sent a pleasant tickle down her spine.

“Should I be?”

“No.”

Her hands worked the jabot's knot. Sitting this close, his chest gave the impression of solid armor plates beneath his burgundy silk waistcoat. Nothing could knock him down. Rumors had spread concerning his youth as a farmhand. Many said he worked as a laborer, digging ditches in the early days of the Bridgewater Canal Company.

How could a man like that rise to become a major stakeholder?

His soft chuckle drew her attention upward. “I grew up with seven sisters. Never got through a meal without my ears blistered by unshakable female opinions.” His ribs expanded from a deep breath. “Something I never thought aristocratic women would lack.”

“Perhaps you haven't met the right ones.” She concentrated on the knot, surprised at wanting more conversation with him.

“I've met plenty.”

His accent was decidedly lacking the crisp syllables of Town, more Midlands or Manchester by the way he honored vowels over consonants with every word.

“I think I understand. You fear a future of dull dinners with a woman who says what she thinks you want to hear. But aren't you courting a duke's daughter?”

Ryland's chin dipped, his stare pinning her.

“Since you like bluntness,” she said, giving him a pert smile. “Besides, we are virtual strangers in a dark room.”

“As in, strangers with the freedom to say anything.”

His leg moved, his knee gently bumping hers. The contact was obvious despite layers of silk skirts.

“Something like that,” she murmured, keeping her knee against his.

Her focus went back to the knot, but the undercurrent shifted between them. Mr. Ryland's warm breath mingled with hers. The simple task of unloosening a tie threatened to dismantle her thinly veiled composure. She had caused herself enough turmoil by sneaking into his house to steal his signature on the incriminating document half-exposed under her hem.

And now she added this unexpected element to the mix? Matters weren't helped by the man's intense scrutiny either.

“Is that part of your occupational talent? Listening…to men.”

His voice rumbled strong and sure above her head. She licked her lips, concentrating on the balled fabric.

This
is
sheer
madness
.

How long since the headiness of attraction last touched her? Her throat thickened on notions of tenderness and men. She'd locked away those parts, hiding them in a safe place. Tonight, one man cracked open flirtation's door, and she was ready to skip happily forward.

No matter that Mr. Ryland thought her a woman of loose morals. She couldn't deny the charged atmosphere sparking between them.

The tip of her finger nudged his chin higher, lingering there. “I need you looking up.”

He obliged her, and the air warmed from the faint touch.

She coaxed free a loop of cloth, the slow slide of cotton against cotton matching the tenor of her voice. “I have lots of talents, Mr. Ryland. Listening is only one of them.”

His breath hitched. Her words, as potent as her tone, offered shameless encouragement. She played with fire, but she liked how Mr. Ryland was just as taken with the unusual interlude. And in the unspoken balance of power, the scales tipped gently in her favor.

He kept his head back, eyelids closed as though shutting away the world, save the two of them.

“Since we're speaking freely, the duke's daughter…the Lady Elizabeth Churchill. I'm not officially courting her. Nor do I want to.” His words flowed in the lax way of a wearied man. “But that doesn't stop her determined mother from pressing the matter.”

“I see.” Claire inched closer. “And by the way, her perfume's all over your clothes. Lady Churchill's resorting to desperate measures to gain your attention.”

Ryland's hands fisted on his thighs. “The perfume belongs to another woman.”

Who?
Her eyebrows shot up, brushing the inside of her silk mask.

“Well, at least you're honest. For a man who doesn't appreciate aristocratic women, you certainly have your share of their attentions.”

“And yet, here I sit, seeking refuge in my study.”

With
me.

The uninvited thought slipped past her defenses.

Their conversation took a peculiar turn on this already peculiar evening. Ryland's rules of business were unconscionable to her, but his directness gave an unexpected delight. She asked forthright questions; he gave forthright answers.

She adjusted her hold on the jabot, the backs of her hands brushing his neck and under his chin. Burgeoning whiskers and warm, male flesh grazed her skin.

“Careful,” he teased. “A body might think you're trying to accost a vulnerable man after all.”

She laughed softly, dipping her head closer to his chest. “Something tells me, Mr. Ryland, you're vulnerable to no one.”

“Cyrus,” he said. “At least in here…call me Cyrus.”

Was there a hint of longing in his voice?

She studied him under the veil of her lashes. England's stalwart King of Commerce, a man said to own almost every warehouse from Manchester to London, proved to have a vulnerable side.

“Aren't you on the marriage hunt for yourself?” she asked, adding quickly, “For a noblewoman, I mean.”

“No.”

The steel-hard quality in his voice brooked no further discussion. Mr. Ryland was a riddle to unfold, an attractive one at that. The lone candle flickered behind him, outlining powerful shoulders, tempting solidness she wanted to test.

“But an evening of harmless flirtation isn't out of the question.”

His gaze fixed on her. “I'd welcome an evening free of complications.”

Did
he
just
proposition
her?

Her legs relaxed under her skirts, his overture pushing open closed places. Tonight an element more dangerous than her forgery lurked. She uncurled his fist resting on his thigh and placed the bothersome neckwear in his hand.

“And now you're free,” she said softly.

His shirt's neckline opened, the cotton seams bunching and wrinkling enough to reveal the tempting flesh of his upper chest. Sitting this close, interesting details like a minute cut on his jaw drew her attention. The split marked the center of a maroon bruise the size of a ha'penny.

A hard force must've struck this strapping man to leave the deep cut. Near that mark, a cleft dented the center of his strong chin. Before she could stop herself, her fingertip touched the small cleft, then slid along his jaw to circle the bruise.

“Battles with your valet?”

He grabbed her hand, holding her fingers in his warm grip. Ryland suspended his hold midair before slowly lowering her hand to her knee.

“My turn for questions.”

They sat closer than propriety allowed, with his warm hand possessing hers. This strange meeting blurred Society's rules, but to Mr. Ryland, she was a woman of easy virtue sitting alone with him in a dark room. In these circumstances, both parties set their own boundaries, didn't they? Though he had no idea who she was, she sensed they sat as equals.