Lady Meets Her Match (25 page)

Beauty is the lover's gift…

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

How did a man go about winning a woman who didn't want to be won? Especially one who needed him to look after her? His fist rose to shoulder level, rapping hard on solid English oak. Chill winds swirled against his back, goading him.

Use
the
key. Go inside
.

The shop was closed for the day; not a soul stirred inside. He checked the darkness beyond the door's window again. These two salting incidents couldn't be a coincidence. Lucinda would be safe with his nephews returning tonight, but Claire?

She needed his protection; she'd have it. Tonight.

One hand slipped inside his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the iron key, a replica of Miss Mayhew's. He'd pound on the New Union's door once more, and if she didn't show, he'd take matters into his own hands.

Cyrus had raised his fist again when he spied her through the shop door window. She walked through the shop, cupping a lone taper. Claire unlocked the door, her jeweled eyes peering from the crack.

“Cyrus. What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you're safe.” He flipped his collar high against a cool gust. “Let me in?”

Another draft blew his coattails, the noise of late-day commerce at his back. Outside was a cold place since he had failed to don a cloak and gloves in his hasty exit.

The door creaked in a wide, slow arc. He stepped inside, rubbing icy hands; an open conveyance with brisk winds blasting didn't make for a pleasant cross-town ride.

“Of course, I'm safe,” she said, poking her head beyond the door. “Where's your carriage?”

“I came in a hack.”

Red-stained lips formed an O. Did she remember what he'd said about arriving as a gentleman caller in a hack? He eyed her tempting mouth, finding a damp spot. He reached for her, his thumb brushing the plum-red mark at the corner of her mouth.

A reddish smear covered the pad of his thumb. “Have you been drinking wine?”

Claire fussed with her shawl. She looked a little…off. Her bodice slacked. One long, messy braid trailed down her back, her hair free of any mobcap. A new gust blew past the half-open door, swishing her hem. He glimpsed slender shoeless feet encased in white silk, the outline of her toes obvious.

A hot, shaky tremor rocked him.

Cyrus shut the door, keeping his hand on the knob. “Are you alone?”

“You ask strange questions, Cyrus.” She huffed. “Am I safe? And now you wonder if I'm alone? Of course I'm safe and alone, and, yes, I've had some wine. I'm a grown woman.” She spoke in a rush, pushing stray tendrils off her forehead. “This hasn't been the best of days.”

He let go of the knob, grinning. “I'm aware you're a woman full grown.”

He eyed her gaping bodice, and Claire folded one shawl-clad arm over the other. “And I'm sure you're not here to discuss my maturity.”

“You're a prickly one,” he chided, his chuckle a soft sound. “And that's good. About you being alone.” He locked the door and put the bar in place. “Because I'm staying the night.”

Her eyes followed the key back to his pocket, one brow arching. “Rather presumptuous of you. Landlord or not.”

Use of his key? Or staying the night? Didn't matter. She was right on both counts, but that wouldn't deter him. And he liked that she didn't protest much.

He lifted the taper's iron holder and grasped her elbow, steering Claire toward the back of the shop. He nodded at the shop's black lacquer benches. “I can bed down there.”

“Why do you wish to sleep on my shop's bench?”

“Because you haven't offered me a place in your bed.”

Her wine-lax body jerked to a stop near the stairs. She gaped at him, and he nudged her onward, pleased at having shocked her.

Claire's silk-covered feet moved with sluggish intent, the steps creaking beneath her. “Just because we kissed—”

“I'm here to make sure you're safe.” He raised the candle, the light jabbing at shadows. “Someone destroyed my sugar refinery at Dark House Lane last night, dumping acid and salt on the vats.” His voice firmed. “Do you understand? They used
salt
.”

She gathered her skirts in one hand and set the other on the banister, looking over her shoulder as they climbed. “And you think my mistake with the pastries, using salt instead of sugar in the glaze, somehow connects with that?”

They moved through her slender doorway and the door clicked shut behind him. If he could lock and bar it, he would, but the portal offered no such barrier to the outside world.

“Yes. It's too much of a coincidence.”

She planted a hand on her hip. “Really, Cyrus, my salted pastries?”

One of the Sauveterre sisters must've supplied her with a hearty vintage to get his proper proprietress this uncoiled. She didn't slur her words, but their prim edge was gone.

What would she look like unwound all the way…by him?

He took a deep breath, carnal wants warring with the reasonable need to assure her safety. He lost himself on those wine-stained lips…moving lips, lips saying words to him.

“…sure the salt was my error with the glaze, or it could've been Annie”—her eyes slanted away from him—“I was…distracted this morning by the thought of seeing you.”

The simple admission touched him, his chest swelling at her words. What moved between them often went from soft simmer to crackling heat in seconds. And then there was how he felt about her—completely unknown territory, as hot and mysterious as trying to grab a flame.

He'd never uttered the words
I
love
you
to a woman.

How was he supposed to do that?

Claire stood before him, her eyebrows puckering over the day's drama. The salted pastries tainted her good name, something from which she'd eventually recover. But right now she stood mired in the crisis, needing cosseting. She poured out words, talking in a muddled rush.

“…won't matter to Miss Alcott or Lady Atherton who had the unfortunate experience of gagging on something
I
made.” Her hands fretted with the seam of her shawl. “In the end, I'm sure those awful pastries have no connection to what happened at your warehouse.”

Cyrus stepped closer, his fingers brushing away fine hairs curling around her face.

“That may be, but I'll take no chances with you. I mean it. I'll sleep below if it makes you feel better, but I'm not leaving.”

“Cyrus,” she whispered, drawing out his name. Her lashes fluttered low, her body leaning closer with each luring stroke.

“For tonight at least. Until the runner has some news.” His fingers slipped into her hair, all the better to coax her to his will.

“You are gallant to be so concerned, but I'm sure it's nothing.” Her hand covered his, cupping the side of her face, the shawl slipping off her shoulders. “And what will you do here?”

“Whatever you were doing when I showed up at your door.”

Her body shook with gentle laughter. “Isn't it obvious? I had wine while finishing my laundry.” She motioned to the room behind her. “Or didn't you notice?”

He scanned the room, seeing the place for the first time. Two ropes strung diagonally from one corner of the garret to the other. Underskirts, stockings, and aprons floated from those lines, feminine garments in practical shades of black, white, blue, and gray.

A half-filled basket squatted in the center of the floor. He shouldn't have been surprised he missed the obvious. Once Claire Mayhew, his fairy-tale temptress, moved into his sphere, she consumed him.

* * *

Cyrus set the candle on a small table near the door and shrugged out of his coat.

“Why are you taking off your coat?” Her shawl slumped to her hips. Wine and tender touches had relaxed clear thinking right out of her.

He hung the coat on a hook and rolled up a sleeve, smiling wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “All the better to do laundry. Been a while, but if you promise to go gently with me, I may prove an apt apprentice.”

“
You're
going to do laundry”—Claire pointed at him, then tapped her chest—“with me.”

“You can give me lessons,” he suggested, ambling over to the first line. “Ironing, mending, and the like.”

“Lessons in laundry.”

The idea amused her, but the sight of his tightly muscled bottom going straight to her laundry line made her heart skip.

He gave her a mischievous smile while slinging white petticoats over his shoulder. “Unless you have something else we can do?”

Her mouth curved as she witnessed her brawny landlord work his way down the line with quick efficiency. The feminine clothes went along for the ride, yielding to his capable hands.

Isn't that what she wanted to do?

With seven sisters, he had surely seen an underskirt, but this was different. Those were her underskirts tossed over his shoulder. Yards of practical cambric and linen could have been winking at her like a tawdry tavern maid about to tumble in the hay. The notion teased her, messing with secret places covered by decadent, shot silk drawers.

Let
him
take
them
off.

Distinctly warmer, she shook her head and hung her shawl on a hook beside his coat. Her palms rubbed the wool in a downward slide. Her clothes beside his made a strangely intimate picture. She touched his coat, burying her nose for a second in his smell—warmth and stone.

And in the middle of her small abode, the man was busy with her laundry. For a man who liked to tell women what to do, he was thoughtful. Her unshod feet journeyed over the plank floor. She ducked under the rope to face Cyrus.

“If you wouldn't mind putting those in my ironing basket.” She motioned to the froth of petticoats and aprons tumbling over his shoulder.

She flushed at having her garments brushing his neck and jaw. Her skin within her corset and drawers kindled at having him close, helping her with the mundane task.

Who knew a man doing laundry could be so seductive?

Cyrus obliged her and dumped his burden into the basket. His hands made fast business of the first row. She worked near him, her mind connecting the places his hands touched on those lifeless garments to places on her body.

She followed his progress under her lashes. A loose tape trailing over his fingers was akin to his touching her waist. His hand straightening a hem was a skimming caress to her ankles. Her tongue slid over her lips. Between enticing male and rich wine, warmth rolled over primed and ready flesh.

And then he started plucking garments off the second line, which held more intimate items.

“An interesting stitch you have here.” Cyrus held up white linen drawers, tapping black thread. Those stitches mended a small tear on cloth meant to cover the landscape of her bottom.

A man was never supposed to see the hideous stitch work.

She snatched the drawers from him. “I'll take those, and thank you to take a seat, sir. I can finish this row.”

“Dismissed from my labors already?”

Black wool stockings punctuated the second line between the white drawers. She did her best to tame the riot of images in her head while her hands folded the undergarment into a rough square. She nodded at the sole cabinet in the room, anything to get his attention off the drawers in her hands.

“There's some wine on the table, a gift from Juliette.” Her foot scooted the basket along. “I can't offer the vintage in an air twist glass the likes of which grace your table, but if you look in my cabinet, you'll find a New Union mug.”

Cyrus ducked under the rope and poured the wine at her table. He sipped from plain stoneware, staring out her humble window. About this time of day, Cornhill's carters and drays finished their labors, yielding the road to finer carriages, men and women in pursuit of evening entertainments.

But the hum beyond her window couldn't compare to the hum inside her.

She rolled the last pair of black stockings, rotating the wool hand over hand in lethargic fashion. Having Cyrus here changed the air, lifting her spirits better than the wine had and at the same time tempting her to take a leap. With him.

He'd brought up Bow Street and the damaged vats at Dark House Lane downstairs. Yet they weren't long in her garret, attending the laundry, and the troubles at his sugar refinery and the luncheon's awful ending faded.

They were two souls craving a rest from all that went on beyond her door.

She dropped the stockings into the basket, her other hand trifling with her loose bodice. No modest neckerchief covered her, and she was part undone, saucy as any tavern maid. Earlier, she'd pulled pins and padding from her hair and, with Annie's help, changed out of the red gown. Thinking she'd be alone, she hadn't fully laced herself up in the dark blue dress she wore now.

But she wasn't alone.

And there was that black silk ribbon wrapped around his long queue—black silk in need of unraveling.

Is
this
the
wine
talking?
Or
time
I
discovered
what
happens
when
I
untie
his
queue?

Cyrus drank his wine, engrossed in Cornhill's bustle. She moved nearer to his wide shoulders on silent feet. Her hand reached for the silk-wrapped coil resting in the furrow of his spine. She stroked its thickness up and down with unhurried exploration.

He set his mug down with care, keeping his face to the window. “Finding something more to your liking than laundry?”

His voice was level, a calming tone, as though he didn't want to frighten the skittish vixen. Little did he know how often she lay in her cold bed wondering about his warm body.