Lady Meets Her Match (21 page)

He planted his mouth, hot and open, on her neck. It wasn't quite a kiss, more insatiable hunger for Claire. His body rattled hard against the squab when her rubbing turned to a desperate grind. His hips followed nature's rhythm, his aching erection rubbing against her.

If there were noises outside, if his carriage stopped, if London had been invaded, he wouldn't know for the pounding in his ears and scorching heat in his breeches.

In a flash, his hand went to his placket, loosening a button.

Claire's body quaked, tremors wracking her torso. She rubbed against his hand slipping between them, stirring up flames with her mewling cries. He knew what she craved…and he groaned, unable to deny her. He angled his knuckles at her damp heat seeping through her drawers, glad for her most secret place to abrade the back of his hand.

“
Cy-rus…
” Her plea was soft and high.

“I know,” he said, his voice ragged against her skin.

Grace of movement was lost. He fumbled with his placket, springing free one button and then another. With his other hand, he grabbed her hip, trying to stay the wild, bucking ride. Their panting, staccato breaths drummed a muffled noise.

His questing mouth kissed her collarbone on a trail to her nipple, the color of that, desired circle a pale contrast in the dark. She cried out when his lips encircled her petite nipple, and he sucked. He buried his face in her gentle cleavage, kissing and nipping heavenly flesh when his mouth banged something hard and metallic.

He jerked back. The object dropped from her bodice and clattered on the floor.

Claire clamped a hand on her gaping bodice, her breath heavy, meeting his effort for effort. His hair was hot at the back of his neck, same as during his bout.

“What was that?” he asked.

“My key.”

“To your heart?” he teased, his lips brushing the underside of her breast where the metal had rested.

Her hand slipped from his shoulder, pressing his head close to her. “My shop.”

Cornhill. Their destination…a place they'd be at soon.

Her breath skipped as hard as her heart. He kissed her breasts, lingering on one pale side curve. The tip of his tongue tested the smoothness of her skin there. She was perfect, and she needed calming. He needed calming to get a better grip on this rampant, unintended seduction.

He pulled away, gulping down air. They teetered on some edge—one he had to draw them both away from. His fingers stroked her hair and grazed her collarbone, wanting connection of some kind to ease them both. Claire's sensitized body shook with delicious shivers under his hands, a tantalizing excuse not to stop.

Outside, more establishments with vague dots of lights passed his window…midtown.

“We've got to be close to your shop.” He brushed the back of his hand high on her chest, caressing her skin.

His hands banded her ribs, and he set her on the opposite seat. The blanket and her cloak slid to the floor. Claire covered her bodice with a limp hand. Her head and shoulders lolled against the squab, and with her hair flowing to the seat, she made a perfect picture of a temptress in a bawdy house painting.

The carriage jolted to a stop. Men called to each other outside. Slowly, his hearing became attuned to the outside world, his coachman and the attendants. The sound of slogging footsteps through mud approached. Cyrus jerked the curtain shut, light peeking through the sliver of opening at the curtain's end.

The voice outside called, “Sir, the New Union Coffeehouse.”

“Wait,” he called back, grabbing the door's handle from the inside just to be sure. He spoke in a hush to Claire. “Your cloak.”

Cold seeped in little by little, the sudden stop dousing him. Both of them were dazed by the flare of passion that had been near out of control. Claire tugged her bodice higher, yanking her laces together to tie a makeshift bow. She fumbled on the floor for her cloak. When she sat up, her bodice gapped loose and low.

She looked nothing of the properly clothed proprietress, but she swept her cloak around her, the dark shape hiding her form. Her nimble fingers tied a quick bow under her chin, and she dropped lower, her hands patting the carriage floor.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“My key, my patten…”

He let go of the door to help her, and his hand brushed iron. “I found it.”

He gripped the key in one hand and stuffed the blanket on the seat beside him, closing his waistcoat and placket with a few buttons. He had very nearly turned his carriage into a makeshift bed. The notion made him smile. This was no different than foolish times when, as an eager young man, he'd sought secret places to tup a willing maid.

Claire found her patten and slipped on the outer shoe after a second attempt. Her awkward, fumbling movements had to be born of frustrated flesh. His own body rioted from lack of fulfillment.

Cyrus checked her and took a deep breath. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She gave a shaky nod and lifted her hood.

Her smile, likely meant to reassure him, floundered. She needed soothing. He reached across the short chasm and brushed back her hair. Her lashes fluttered low, her body drooping into his calming touch. When she looked at him again, Claire nodded.

“Open the door,” he ordered.

His body strained at having to unbend from the seat and step into the cold. From sore muscles to his stiff phallus, discomfort was his. They exited the carriage, walking in a fog no less thick and gray as when they'd left Billingsgate. The heavens swirled their mysteries as stirring as what went on with Claire.

At the shop door, Cyrus winced from the erection raging in his breeches, one part of him resenting the evening's intrusive end. He was grateful the mist concealed his unruliness; the placket of his breeches bulged fiercely in want of the temptation beside him.

Claire was an enchantress within her dark hood, his fairy-tale maiden looking up at him with sparkling eyes. A white hand reached up and the backs of her fingers caressed his jaw.

“Thank you,” she whispered, glancing at his cheek. “You took a blow for me tonight, even if you didn't mean to.”

The swelling was high enough to push skin into the lower plane of his vision, a fact that had eluded him in the swelter of sensual groping. He grinned wide, his body sore yet invigorated to his marrow at the light shining from her eyes.

There was something good in being the man, the hero, she needed. He'd take a hundred more blows for her, but he couldn't resist the sexual thread that bound them together this night.

“There are parts of me that hurt more.” He braced one hand high on the door frame of her shop and looked down at his placket. “Parts only you can soothe.”

Her lips pressed together, fighting the brazen smile bursting forth. Her fingers slid to the cleft in his chin, an indent that seemed to fascinate her.

“You tempt me, Mr. Ryland. You truly do, but…” She glanced at the carriage and her lashes dropped.

Her shop was frequented by some of his servants. The midnight carriage ride was already questionable, but sending the carriage home without him in it would besmirch her in the worst way. Her reputation deserved to be honored.

He squared his shoulders and put her key into the lock. “Then, if I come again, I must arrive as an anonymous caller in a hack.”

She said nothing, brushing close to his arm, smiling quiet encouragement from the edge of her hood. The metal lock sprang free, and he pushed open the door.

Claire stepped past the doorway. He pulled her heavy coin pouch from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to her. The horses snorted their impatience behind him, a good reminder all needed to be abed. Her blue-green eyes flickered with unknown emotions, as though she would say more. She searched his face, and he imagined her wanting to pull him inside and shut the door forever.

In that sweet state of confusion, he did the gallant thing and stretched out his hand.

“Your key,” he said quietly.

Her fingers grazed his palm, and his hand closed in a gentle grip. He bent over her receiving hand, kissed the star-shaped scar, and let go. Before he did something regretful, he shut the New Union's door.

He stood in the cold, dampness clinging to his face. The lock slid into place and Claire barred her door. On the other side of the door's window, she hesitated, clutching the key to her chest. Her face through the wavy panes brought to mind an angel etched in stained glass.

Was there longing in her eyes? He wouldn't know, for she turned and the shop's darkness swallowed her form. Walking back to his empty carriage, his head hung heavy. He would find his way back to Piccadilly and soak his pained parts in the finest copper tub in his well-appointed room. His hand covered his heart—this part of him hurt worse.

The woman he wanted slept alone by choice in a sparse garret meanly furnished above a coffee shop, a woman content with her life as is…a woman not on the hunt for wealth or position.

He climbed back into his carriage. The attendant shut the door, but Cyrus couldn't bring himself to knock on the ceiling, signaling time to leave. He waited, keeping a careful eye on the window above the shop until scant light flickered on the other side of the glass. Then he knocked twice on the carriage roof.

Sitting in the dark, he was cold. No fire, no blanket could warm him. A scrap of white pooled on the floor. He picked it up. Claire's neckerchief, the same one she used for her tender ministrations.

His hand slipped inside his coat, the neckerchief in his grip. The ache in his chest raged. Claire had full grasp of her desired independence. She didn't need him at all.

Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation…

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

Temptation was a red damask day gown,
strawberry
red
to be exact.

There'd be no mistaking the luscious shade or the intent of the gown's purchaser.

Claire clutched a bowl under one arm, voices and the clink of stoneware buzzing beyond her kitchen. Nate had the shop well in hand, leaving her to the sanctity of her kitchen and the blessed relief of baking. Doughy ingredients folded into chaste submission under a wooden spoon, her instrument of choice.

Above stairs the siren's silk spread across her bed, lace-trimmed elbows and lush skirts daring her to don the decadent fashion.

And then there were
those
undergarments.

Shot silk drawers shimmered with sensual promise—demure white, no less.

“Humph.” The sound burst through the kitchen's warmth while her footsteps trod a well-worn path.

“What's that, miss?” Annie skimmed a paring knife over an apple, her blue eyes cautious from under her mobcap.

Claire stopped her pacing. “Did I say something?”

A long, green curl of apple skin dropped into a bucket.

“You didn't exactly say anything, but you've been beatin' that dough like it's your worst enemy.” The freckles around her mouth twitched. “Are you angry?”

Claire set the bowl on the table and sank into a chair. “I'm not angry. It's…it's today. I don't have time for the luncheon.”

She had no predilection for frivolous lady's luncheons or meetings meant to convince pampered women that trouble existed for others of their sex. But did she have time for Cyrus? Time to fritter away the afternoon in search of melting kisses? Since the carriage ride two nights past, a particular shirtless, bare-knuckle brawler invaded her mind.

Annie denuded another apple, the skin coiling like a thin, green snake.

“Then something's got you afraid.” Annie said the words as though matters boiled down to a few simple emotions. “But I can't picture that bein' you.”

Claire's hand froze on its journey to the sugar bowl. “Afraid? I'm not
afraid
of this luncheon. It's as simple as eating food with other women. What I lack is time.”

“Ahh, then if it's as simple as you say”—Annie nodded sagely, dropping another naked apple into her bowl—“you won't be afraid to go upstairs and put on that pretty gown a certain man bought for you, a man who wants you to be comfortable dining with other fine ladies. No one has to know how you got the gown.”

Annie made a “certain man's” purchase of clothes for Claire sound like a reasonable thing. But the gown above stairs was not the same as a gift of lush strawberries.

Claire's fingers dipped in the sugar bowl, the fine grain rubbing her skin. She sprinkled the sugar into the glaze meant for the apple turnovers fresh from the oven. Cyrus was meant to have one of these desserts at the luncheon.

“Or is it the man himself that's got you flustered?” Annie eyed the doughy mass. “'Cause I've never seen you give dough such a thrashing.”

She was about to chime in something about the shop being so busy, but a rattle of footsteps shook the stairs and Juliette's embroidered hems flounced into view.

“Claire,” she called into the kitchen. “You must come up
now
.”

Juliette bent over the rail, her volume rising on the last word. One hand clutched the rail with the other fanning a dozen hairpins.

“A few more minutes. The tarts aren't wrapped. The turnovers need sugar—”

“I'll do it,” Annie said. “Go on and have your bath, miss. I can sprinkle sugar just as good as you and wrap the pastries when their ready.” Her russet head tipped toward the shop. “And don't worry about the shop. Nate and me have a good hand on things.”

Juliette muttered rapid French under her breath as she stormed up the steps, flashing saffron underskirts in her charge. Claire tugged off her mobcap, eyeing the plump, golden turnovers lined up for the luncheon. This would be good for business, but business wasn't what drove her today.

Cyrus Ryland did. The image of his carved stomach muscles was forever branded in her memory. Her fingers would suddenly touch things, needing something tactile when the fascinating circle of hair around his navel came to mind.

She lived with a curious push-pull over her rough-edged landlord. He fought life hard, not giving up, and he carried familial responsibility on his substantial shoulders, thinking of others over his own wants.

It was his want of her, that was nothing less than dangerous.

She squeezed Annie's arm. “Thanks.”

“You havin' a good time's the best thanks I need. Besides,” the cook said, winking, “I want all the news of what's what with your Mr. Ryland come Monday.”

She sped upstairs, one corner of her mouth curling in a conspirator's smile. “He's not
my
Mr. Ryland.”

In her room, the tub sat near her fire grate. Stockings, underskirts, and patched drawers hung on clotheslines strung across the room, the common woman's laundry.

“We must get you out of those clothes and cleaned up.” Juliette's nose wrinkled prettily. “I cannot have one of my creations smelling of coffee and sugar.”

Her friend played lady's maid, making quick work of helping her into the bath. She piled Claire's hair high on her head, speaking under her breath about no time to wash the tresses, tresses Claire was sure smelled of flour and sugar.

“The bath is tepid,” Claire said, hugging herself in cooling water.

Juliette handed over soap and a cloth. “Hot water is for the timely bather.”

“I'm duly chastised.” She splashed and scrubbed and surrendered herself to drying and dressing.

The transformation would have to be a quick one. Fine silk drawers and a chemise came first, followed by a corset strong enough to stand on its own. Claire held fast to the bedpost while the Frenchwoman tugged the silk corset from behind with the insistence of a sergeant-at-arms corralling a new recruit.

“I'm sure you don't have to cinch me”—Claire's voice wheezed from another heave from behind—“that tightly.”

“I'm sure I do.”

The red gown spread across the white coverlet, a brazen slash of color in her sober garret. The daring neckline was pure Juliette in design; the sedate damask's pattern of red on red posies and a small trail of white lace rimming the neckline saved the fashion piece from pure licentiousness.

Juliette spun Claire around, her brows snapping together while she assessed the shape she wished to form. For the Frenchwoman, fashion was built from the first layers, artistry to be taken seriously.

Claire touched the decadent white silk drawers. “Rather audacious for a man to order undergarments for a woman, don't you think? For that matter, ordering garments for me at all is highly inappropriate.”

“He wishes only for you to be comfortable and dressed well for the event.” Black brows winged high. “I do not understand this need of yours to argue about a man's gifts. There is no such thing as appropriate or
in
appropriate. You are a grown woman. There is only what you want or do not want from a man.”

A Gallic shrug followed her friend's reasoning. Passion and beauty trumped propriety in Miss Sauveterre's mind. Claire laughed, a jittery sound.

“But, Juliette,
undergarments
?”

Lush lips turned a familiar moue. “Do you like wearing them?”

Her hesitation added fuel to Juliette's argument, those dark eyes flaring wide at Claire.

“You see? That is what this is about. Besides, your Mr. Ryland and I were of the same mind when it came to the ensemble. My finer creations begin with what's underneath.”

She would argue that he wasn't
her
Mr. Ryland, but everything was blurring in a sea of wants. One thing was certain: boundaries of friendship and loyalty and confidences had shifted these past few weeks.

“And you never breathed a word to me. You and Elise, sewing clothes for me.”

“You would too if he offered you the same outrageous sum. He bought my talent
and
my silence.”

Was all of midtown up for sale? Mr. Ryland tried to buy Nate's silence with a gold guinea, and now her friends. She studied the salacious red cloth.

Juliette's gaze slid to the gown. “It is not such a bad thing to be wooed thus by a man. He was most emphatic about the gown's color.”

The
strawberry
-red color. Her friend smirked at her.

“Step into this.” Juliette held out a white shot silk underskirt, the iridescent fabric shimmering with the palest shades.

Claire had seen the fine, woven silk on ladies of the highest water. Her fingernails scraped the cloth, playing a whispered tune as Juliette secured the tapes.

“Did he specially request the shot silk?”

“
Non
, but he paid for it.” Juliette peered around Claire's shoulder, her mouth curving in a wicked smile. “The man could not possibly know the undergarments he sought. So I helped him. All in the name of seduction.”

Seduction, indeed.

The red damask gown came next, beautiful enough to lure any woman into sensual territory. It was seduction masquerading as a proper day gown: practical in length, for showing pretty ankles, and a bodice trimmed with a dainty line of white lace. There'd be no modest disguising of her bust today. Three flounces decorated the back of the skirt, a visual diversion for a gown lacking substantial false hips.

They had to move to the center of the room with the laundry lines crowding them.

“Raise your arms,” Juliette ordered.

A red cloud descended over Claire's head, and another layer of silk slipped provocative softness over her body.

“Today is not about seduction.” Claire's fingers skimmed the low, scooped line. “Though there seems to be a dearth of fabric here…”

Juliette fussed with the fitting before lacing Claire from the back.

“Trust me, if a man requests a woman wear a red dress, he has only sensual pursuits on his mind. And there will be
non
neckerchief to ruin the lines of this bodice.” She worked efficiently at tying Claire into the dress. “Now for finishing touches. Hair and cosmetics.”

“I don't need cosmetics.”

The Incognitas sprang to mind, with their towering hair and tiny, red bow lips. High-priced strumpets, Nate had called them. She opened her mouth to say as much, but arguments stalled under Juliette's sharp glare.

“Of course,” she conceded. “Where do you want me to sit?”

Juliette pointed to the table laden with pins, tiny ceramic pots, and a brush and hair pads of varying sizes. Dutifully, she perched on the chair and let her friend brush her hair from scalp to waist. Though this was a simple daytime luncheon, she couldn't help but feel she was being armed for a battle of a different sort.

Juliette's snappishness was edgier than usual. The mantua-maker cum lady's maid, stepped back, assessing the architecture of what she would create.

“We will have to go with a simpler style,
non
?”

A smaller, cushioned piece crowned the middle of Claire's head, but this modest pad gave her hair tasteful inches of elevation. Juliette coiled locks in a modest pile, covering the accessory. Pins scraped Claire's scalp. Juliette stepped back again to assess her work, dark brows slashing downward. Her lips pursed before fingers tugged loose wisps here and there. Small scissors snipped, creating dainty strands of hair.

“A little white powder for your skin, some kohl, a touch of rouge for your lips and cheeks would do you good,
non
?
Très à la mode
.”

Claire tipped her chin high, grinning. “I thought you wanted a man to put color in my cheeks?”

Juliette didn't rise to the bait. She sat in the chair facing Claire, brushing a white powder of smashed vanilla, cacao, and almonds onto her palette. The powder's aroma at least was pleasant. Claire closed her eyes, surrendering to the artistry. The gentle smells and the soft brushing on her skin calmed her.

Outside, Cornhill burst with carts and carriages, a colorful buzz beyond her small window. Inside her garret, the soft clink of small ceramic pots sounded as Juliette worked. A brush tapped a jar, the music of a different kind of artist. A scrap of clean wool dipped in a tiny pot of carmine, and the Frenchwoman rouged cheeks and lips. Kohl rimmed the edges of Claire's eyelids, giving the final touch.

“Today is not simply about the art of fashion. I prepare you also for battle,” Juliette said, her voice hitting melancholy notes.

Claire's spine stiffened, already properly rigid from the whalebone corset. She opened her eyes, surprised at the faint lines etched around her friend's mouth and eyes.

“Juliette?”

The Frenchwoman set down the slender kohl brush with deliberate care.

“You, my friend, will lunch with some of London's finest ladies today. They will not take kindly to one such as you walking in their midst.” A furrow slashed her forehead. “Especially because you've caught the eye of a man they covet for themselves or their daughters.”

“It won't be all that bad.”

“You don't understand.” Juliette sighed. “You are beautiful and you don't
need
them. You don't obey the rules of their world.” She patted Claire's hand. “These things make you a dangerous woman. The power you have, and you aren't even aware.”

Covered in decadent silks and arrayed as a woman of fashion and leisure wasn't her natural state. This was stiff and new, the same as her mind thinking constantly about a certain man was new.

But
powerful?