Lady Meets Her Match (22 page)

The corners of her mouth curled in a private smile. Better to say she was a woman falling weightless into a gray sea, unsure where this way led.

“And you have
his
attention.” Juliette's dark eyes sparkled at Claire before she rummaged around her basket and found a thin strip of black velvet. “This works since I have no jewelry to offer.”

The slender adornment went around her neck, the velvet bow tickling her nape. Silks, velvet, and Cyrus: she was awash in sensual stimulation and she wasn't in his presence yet.

The silk drawers brushed her legs, the intimate scrape as enticing as his fingers exploring her drawers' inseam in his carriage two nights ago. What would've happened if he had touched her there? Her thighs shifted within the brazen red skirt, the chair creaking beneath her.

If her friend only knew how close she was to yielding all to Mr. Ryland after all…

“And I thought you were going to give me advice on how to have a proper dalliance,” she said, trying for humor. Claire got up and walked to the spot where she'd discarded her brown shoes before the bath.

Juliette planted a hand on her hip. “You mean with the man you keep telling me you have no feelings for at all?”

She hid her smile while slipping one foot into the worn leather. There was nothing like low-heeled footwear to proffer gentle reminders of where she came from and to where she'd return. In the act of sliding on the other shoe, Annie poked her head around the doorway.

“Miss Mayhew, Mr. Ryland's carriage awaits.” She stepped into the room and ducked past lines of hanging laundry with a box in her hands. “And this came for you too. A footman brought it to me when I gave him the pastries for today.”

She waved the cook in. “Put it on the bed, please.”

More strawberries?

There'd be no privacy for this opening. Two inquisitive females hovered close, staring at the unadorned box. Claire lifted the lid and there, amongst a soft sea of white linen, sat a pair of red silk shoes, the same damask silk as her day gown. Elegant, curved-heel court shoes, but these tied with a black silk bow.

Her lips parted on the beautiful sight. With care, she lifted one shoe, a work of art in her hands. Inside, her fingers rubbed buttery smooth leather dyed to match the red of her gown. The Waverly & Sons imprint pressed the inside heel, a circle embossed in gold…the finest cobbler in London, known for crafting footwear for Queen Charlotte and the young princess.

“There's a letter,” Annie said, pointing to folded foolscap half-buried under the linen.

Claire looked to both women, whose heads bent close. Both inched discreetly back, Annie with her eyes wide and light as pale blue glass and Juliette, another smirk on her lips. The
I
told
you
so
knowing on her friend's face couldn't dampen the heavenly lightness enveloping Claire.

“Did you know about the shoes, Juliette?”

“
Non
, but I am not surprised.”

Claire set the shoe back in the box and opened the note. What she found inside was concise and to the point, rather like the man who wrote the message.

No need to return the shoes to me at midnight or any other time. I'd have difficulty wearing them.

She laughed, pressing the note to her chest. His brand of humor was a nice surprise. She lowered the missive, the paper crinkling in her hands.

Since you have trouble keeping your shoes on in my presence, bows will save you the problem of broken buckles.

With hopes for more midnight meetings—

Cyrus

Naughty images of her patten slipping off her foot on their midnight carriage ride came to mind as did black silk bows—the same as a certain queue she wanted very much to unravel.

* * *

A pair of fine doors parted, their intricate gold-leaf etchings drifting into her periphery. Belker announced her name to the drawing room, but her mind was in a daze. She wanted to see Cyrus and, tasting the carmine on her lips, decided she would kiss him too.

How to fit a romantic interlude into a staid luncheon created a new and interesting dilemma.

Her feet moved into the vast space, but all she could see was Cyrus. He strode through the room the way a ship captain commands the deck of his ship.

Was it possible his maroon bruise made him more dashing?

He was a fine sight in a black broadcloth coat. Her salacious gaze dropped to a brass button lower on his waistcoat. The metal glimmered, winking at her with flirtatious intent very near the tuft of hair she remembered so well at his navel.

The corner of Cyrus's mouth crooked. If she looked ready to devour him, he read the message on her face, no words required.

“Claire.”

He said her name like a treasured sound. Then, her landlord bent low over her hand, kissing her knuckles and keeping her fingers in a tender hold.

Her flesh sung a merry tune recalling how she'd gripped those broad shoulders of his in a fit of passion. Was that only two nights ago? Her cheeks turned hot at the memory.

Cyrus rose to his full height, holding her hand. He planted a tender kiss on her forehead.

“Mmmm…” he hummed approvingly. “You smell of almonds.” His lips lingered on her hairline, giving her another soft kiss. “And vanilla, I think. Something you cooked?”

He breathed in her scent, standing close yet not intimidating in the least. His own smell was clean and starched with a hint of coffee. She reached high, touching his face like a woman with every right to partake of the feast he offered.

“It's face powder.” One finger stroked the smooth square of his jaw, her voice curving with amusement. “Today I join the ranks of ladies who meet for luncheon, and I can't be sure if I've been lured here or goaded by one very challenging man put on earth to harass my senses.”

She caressed his jaw, the grain of his skin smooth to the touch. He must've shaved in the last hour. His mouth quirked sideways, pressing the maroon bruise higher up his cheek.

“Something tells me you're the perfect woman to soothe such a man or put him in his place.” His pewter stare flicked over her exposed skin, settling on her cleavage. “As to your senses, I shall treat them with the utmost care.”

She laughed soft and low. Her heart swelled again, the floor turning ephemeral beneath her. Lustrous undergarments rubbed her skin, a tactile reminder that her feet were grounded next to an exhilarating man.

One feminine brow shot high. “I can't say that I approve of your purchase of scandalous undergarments,” she scolded, suddenly aware she hadn't checked if there were others in the room.

Her hand dropped to her side, and she peeked around his shoulder. Mirrored sconces lit the midday room to a brilliant glow. Her gaze bounced around the vast chamber treated with vibrant shades of blue and red. She paused on three stunning tapestries hanging on one wall. The large middle piece featured a well-muscled hero slaying a lion.

“We're alone. I wanted some time with you first.” He stood in that square-shouldered way of his with one hand behind his back. “And I want you to be comfortable in my home.”

She touched her bodice, the grandeur of Ryland House pummeling her. He wanted her comfortable in his home; she wanted to be comfortable in his home, but she wasn't.

Four polished silver tea urns lined an elegant satinwood table, ready to serve at the pleasure of a Ryland House guest.

“You look like you could use a coffee. It may not be as good—”

“No. No thank you. Though I'm sure your cook only serves the best.”

His brows snapped together. She was a little twitchy, interrupting him. If she could read his mind, Claire was certain she'd find a bolstering,
You've come this far. Don't fail me now
.

Was this in some way about him needing her here?

“A house like this makes me feel like I ought to have a rag on hand to clean something. Nothing can be out of place.” She took a bracing breath, looking to the back courtyard. “Why don't you show me your gardens?”

“When a woman asks a man for a walk in the garden, it means she's seeking kisses or escape.”

She craned her neck, viewing the ceiling's gold-leafed boiseries overhead. The elegant design curved in an elliptical pattern.

“A walk in the garden would be nice. I admit, I feel…overwhelmed in here.”

“Escape it is.” He chuckled. “I won't let your reason for a garden stroll dent my pride.”

Cyrus led her out to the courtyard. She welcomed the cool air and the relief found in this small slice of nature. The sedate garden, stretched half-undressed from fall's foliage. She couldn't help but wonder what her father would think of the Ryland House garden, smaller than Greenwich Park's but substantial for Town.

“Now, where were we?” he asked.

She adjusted her shawl and slid her hand over his sleeve, needing more of him. “You were going to show me your garden.”

“No, you were on the verge of taking me to task for purchasing your undergarments.” He steered their first steps, glancing at her hem. “And the shoes? Am I to receive a tongue lashing for those as well?”

Her free hand tugged her skirt higher, revealing the pretty footwear and a hint of her silk-covered ankle.

“For shoes this lovely, I can forgive you anything.”

“I'll have to remember that. Something tells me you may require my assistance to keep you supplied in shoes and gowns.” Cyrus wrapped his hand over hers resting on his arm. “The way you're leaving clothes behind, you'll soon be known as the
naked
proprietress
.”

“Naked?” She laughed. “Whatever do you mean?”

Their ramble took them off the pristine courtyard and onto a wide, crushed-stone path.

“You've taken on an unusual habit with me. At least I hope I'm the only man?” One brow arched high.

His bold smile told her he was already confident of the answer. If she had a fan, she'd have whisked the thing furiously to cool her cheeks despite the crisp air.

“What habit is that, pray tell?”

They meandered around a circular hedgerow trimmed waist high, the gravel crunching underfoot. Their arms rubbed intimately, and she was drawn to him in the curious way a magnet sucked metal into its orbit. Cyrus was right: a walk in the garden was little more than a euphemism for a new level of flirtation, one she welcomed.

“Let's see. You've left your shoe on my doorstep, your mobcap in my study, and two nights ago a neckerchief in my carriage.”

Speechless, she blinked at his granite features. Her brain tried to recall those forgotten items. Images came to her piecemeal: the shoe with the broken buckle on the first night they met…the mussed mobcap she pulled off when she stormed into his home about the necklace…the neckerchief that washed grime from his face and chest after his bare-knuckle bout.

Those things had all been left with Cyrus.

A coquette's smile touched her lips. Their garden stroll stalled from the slow burn building between them on this chilly day.

His mouth turned in a wicked smile. “Your clothes are like a trail of clues I need to follow. A man can only wonder what you might leave next.” His voice lowered with trifling softness. “Or do you have a secret wish to undress for me altogether?”

His gaze dropped to her lips while a breeze played with the black silk bow at his nape. She wanted very much to unloose his queue and explore his hair.

“For a man who once claimed he's not a flirt, you have mastered the skill remarkably well, Mr. Ryland.”

He tipped his head to her, murmuring, “All from your gentle influence.”

They moved along the path, their gaits in unison. She talked for a time about gardens and her love of Greenwich Park's open spaces. He shared farming tales from his youth and tales of times with his father. They wandered through his gardens, slowing when they circled around near the courtyard again.

A trio of birds chirped in a tree denuded of leaves yet beautiful in its starkness. The lowest branch was eight feet off the ground, but the structure invited the daring climber to a new adventure.

Cyrus gestured to a curved stone bench beneath the tree. “Would you like a seat?”

They shared the bench, sitting close, yet her layers of skirts couldn't spare her bottom from the shock of cold, hard stone. The bench cooled her body from hurtling quickly into hotter climes.

The way Cyrus's pupils darkened, she was in peril of passionate kisses in broad daylight. Was that what happened when hot flirtation turned to sharing stories of one's childhood? Sitting thus, she noticed the black ring that rimmed the pewter of Cyrus's eyes and the white flecks that lightened the irises she had thought were solid gray. How had she missed those details before?

The warmth of his thigh limned hers, firm and strong. His hard body might have been hewn from rock, but his hand moving over her leg was every bit welcoming flesh. He traced a pattern on her thigh, following the red on red posies woven into her gown's fabric.

The touch stole her breath, her thighs tensing under the attention.

“Cyrus,” she said, glancing at the drawing room's back doors. “It's the middle of the day…your guests—”

“Are not here yet, but when they are, will see nothing improper. We're two people sitting on a garden bench in broad daylight. But mark me, Claire, I've nothing against touching you be it day or night.” His voice, like his exploring fingers, wooed her.

Beneath her skirts, the silk drawers stroked her skin from her knees to her bottom, driving her mad. Her legs prickled with awareness, battling the need to spread wide for him.

Truth was she wanted him to explore higher and finish what was started on their innervating carriage ride.

Her hands folded into her shawl's ends, and she fought a naughty smile. She grasped what Cyrus was up to directing her to this particular bench. The hedgerow obscured them from the waist down.