The Lady Meets Her Match E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 473

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This self-made man has met his match Wealthy bachelor Cyrus Ryland usually commands respect—except for the mysterious beauty he meets at his masked ball. A night of flirtation and dancing should soften her, but when the clock strikes midnight, the lady vanishes, leaving behind a single shoe. Because this Cinderella doesn't want her shoe back Cyrus is sure he's been duped and vows to scour all of London to find her. Little does he know that not only does independent shopkeeper Claire Mayhew not want to be found, but she wants nothing to do with him at all…

Leseprobe

THE LADY MEETS HER MATCH

GINA CONKLE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Letter from the Author

Excerpt from The Lord Meets His Lady

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Gina Conkle

Copyright © 2015 by Gina Conkle

Cover art and design by Barbara of Forever After Romance Designs

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972635

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, NYLA.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

This one’s for you, Mom.

Thanks for introducing me to “The Highwayman” and Cinderella, but most of all for pushing through hard times years ago. Together we learned a thing or two about perseverance.

CHAPTER1

No mask like open truth to cover lies,

As to go naked is the best disguise.

William Congreve, TheDouble Dealer

London, 1768

A woman on the verge of moral downfall ought to be well dressed. Claire’s particular transgression was gartered to her thigh, a paper hidden by yards of silk. She walked through the empty alley, confident in one comforting truth: no one dared ask a lady what her skirts concealed.

She glanced down at her small bosom, where soft moonlight splashed a distracting display of flesh. “And no one will be alarmed by what’s revealed there, not that any will see me.”

The sparkling blue-and-silver creation would be off soon, after midnight. The ball gown was worn just in case, a costume of sorts to fit into a place she didn’t belong. Despite each well-planned detail, damp palms proved her outward calm a hoax. She’d always been a good girl—minus a slip in judgment some years ago.

What she was about to do trumped her past error. In spades.

That is, if someone catches me.

A deep breath failed to stop a tiny hiccup. Looking at the grand house ahead, this evening’s ruse proved one thing: a woman’s independence came at a price. If she wanted a different path, everything hinged on tonight’s success.

She hooked her plain cloak on a fence post. Wetness swathed cobblestones from a recent summer shower, wafting scents of washed earth. Nice for this part of London…so different from her Cornhill section of Town.

She stepped off Vigo Lane into the mews of one Cyrus Ryland, the King of Commerce. England’s celebrated commoner and landlord for much of midtown had something she wanted—his signature. Somewhere in his palatial West End sprawl of a home she’d find it, forge it, and disappear back into the late August night.

The well-laid plan sounded reasonable.

Why then did the sheer size of Mr. Ryland’s home put a lump in her throat?

“There you are,” Abigail said, pots and pans banging behind her. She passed through the kitchen doorway with a busy woman’s stride. “Didn’t see you earlier. Thought you’d lost your nerve.”

Abigail Green, housekeeper of Ryland House, jingled a set of keys. She searched out the right one as she moved along the limestone edifice toward the servants’ quarters. Overhead, brass candle lanterns chased off the night where two of Mr. Ryland’s hulking carriages claimed much space in the mews.

“Lost my nerve? No.” Claire adjusted her beaded mask. “But I admit, I’m holding on to my last ounce of courage.”

An iron key slid home in the lock. Abigail turned it with a quiet snap, but she kept one hand on the knob, her mobcap casting shadows over serious features.

“If you’re having a change of heart, now’s the time to say so.”

Claire looked at the key nestled in the lock. “No. I’m going through with this.”

The door clicked open to a stark, whitewashed hall stretching ahead. Both women marched through the lonely quarters, their footfalls echoing.

“Understand, I’ll lead you to his study, but I won’t stay with you.” Abigail opened another door, this one broad paneled and crafted to blend into the wall. “The house is in an uproar what with being two footmen plus a maid short and this grand ball going on.”

The portal offered entry into another world, the kind of place spun in fairy tales told for lesser mortals. People talked of Ryland House’s grandeur, and now Claire stood, an openmouthed witness.

Massive chandeliers cast tiny rainbow prisms high on pale walls trimmed with elaborate boiseries. For the hall to be so well lit… Were there people in this section of the house? She couldn’t imagine letting candles burn for no reason.

Lush murals of pastoral bliss covered ceiling panels, creating a wonderland. The artful display unfolded overhead like delightful pages of a child’s picture book, stretching the length of the hallway.

Abigail pushed the door shut and pocketed the keys, a dark, weighty clump in her apron. “I’m only helping you because of what you did for my sister, but if you’re caught, don’t say my name. I’ll deny everything.”

There was finality in those pale blue eyes, so like Annie’s.

“I’m only copying his signature.” A quelling hand rested on her midsection. “Then I’ll take my leave as quickly as I’ve come.”

Saying her crime aloud brought to mind awful images of Newgate, but anyone of a reasonable mind would agree tonight’s dubious errand wasn’t the same as stealing money. She was a grown woman who wished to run an honest business, have a coffee shop of her own. The intractable Mr. Ryland wouldn’t allow an unmarried woman the privilege.

Mr. Pentree, one of Ryland’s agents, rang in her head: “Sorry, Miss Mayhew. Mr. Ryland’s most insistent. It’s one of his rules. A husband, father, or brother must be on the lease, or I can’t give you the key to the property.”

In other words, she needed a man.

She didn’t have one in hand. Nor did she want one.

Mr. Pentree had pushed up his spectacles, informing her with all gentleness, “Your only recourse is to see Mr. Ryland in person. Plead your case. Get his approving signature.”

Approving signature, indeed. A grown woman beseeching a man for the right to conduct lawful business? Yet, even there, she’d tried.

One probably had better luck setting an appointment with King George. There was a four-month wait for a spot of Mr. Ryland’s time. Former housekeepers didn’t rate high enough to gain entry on his calendar. One of his secretaries always responded with the same polite refusals and delays. Claire was done petitioning.

She had snatched back the document from Mr. Pentree that day, informing him she’d find a way to get the signature from the lofty Mr. Ryland, even if it meant accosting him on London’s streets.

It was time she took matters into her own hands.

Now, Claire walked with Abigail through Mr. Ryland’s elegant beige hallway, her bravado floating away, lost in the expensive chandeliers overhead.

She’d been in grand homes before, but the lights shined…differently here. What made this place so extraordinary?

Graceful orchestral notes drifted everywhere. Conversation and laughter threaded with music, weaving the kind of noise that turned a large ball into an impersonal entertainment, yet easy for a body to get lost in the crowd. The housekeeper nodded to where lights gleamed brightest.

“Go that away, and you’ll find yourself in the ball. But if you turn left at that plant,” she said, pointing at frothy greenery in blue ceramic pots, “you’ll be in the kitchen hallway. Wait there when you’re ready to leave.”

“You don’t think that’s a bad idea? Meeting you in such a visible location?” Claire frowned. “Someone might see me and wonder.”

“Did you get a good look at yourself?” Abigail’s voice notched higher. “You’re lovely. Same as any of those fine Society ladies with their gowns and such. You could easily be one of them.”

Be one of them?

The glittering gown made all the difference. Tomorrow, she’d don her practical, starched gray broadcloth, and her conscience could lock away tonight’s aberration in judgment.

They moved down the hallway and the housekeeper turned and pushed open an elaborately carved door set in an alcove. A dark room. The study. Claire stepped inside the modest space, high ceilinged but small and unexceptional when one considered England’s King of Commerce transacted half the realm’s business here.

It was said Ryland owned every warehouse from Manchester to London. Northern goods sat in one of his buildings waiting for a ride to London’s harbor on one of his canals.

And this humble-sized room is where he labored?

“Remember, you must be out before the unmasking,” Abigail warned.

And she shut the door.

The latch clicked like a pistol cocked at her back. Claire’s fingernails dug into her palms while her vision adjusted to the dark. She dare not light a candle.

Her objective, Mr. Ryland’s desk, claimed a spot by the window where moonlight spilled through open curtains. She raised voluminous skirts and slipped the folded signature page from her garter. The paper, warm from her leg, crinkled in her grip.

She moved with care, a sweet thrill shooting through her. The prize sat atop the middle stack of papers: the bold scrawl of Cyrus Ryland.

Silk skirts brushed leather, a murmur of sound, when she slid onto his seat. A brass clock ticked a steady cadence, and she concentrated on the bold C and R dominating the page, her fingers picking at her gown’s lace.

Ryland’s signature slurred across the bottom as though he couldn’t be bothered to form the remaining letters.

“Audacious man,” she said under her breath and grabbed a quill.

Keeping the nib dry, she traced her quarry’s name on foolscap, scratching the paper again and again. To convince Mr. Pentree, this had to be an excellent facsimile. Yet, within the quiet, the bold name she copied called to her.

Her hand slowed. Ink blurred, ceasing to be lines on a page.

Those lines turned into a name…a person.

Cyrus.

Her brows knit together, brushing the inside of her mask. Could a signature reveal much about a man?

What she was about to do wasn’t simply copying a signature, nor was she on the path of faceless transgression. She set out to deceive a man, a man who was someone’s brother, someone’s son, and deception could turn ugly, as well she knew.

The moon’s telling light washed over Ryland’s black signature, the lettering strong to the point of arrogance. Yes, arrogant and unstoppable and barely educated. A man quite like her father. She stumbled over that impression, letting the inkling sink deeper.

No one will get hurt.

Her thumb pressed a new wrinkle on the foolscap. “This is just a case of nerves.”

Really, if Mr. Ryland hadn’t been so difficult about leasing his properties to an unmarried woman, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Why did men get to decide these things anyway?

She slid the original signature behind the document to be forged, paper brushing paper. Vexation dissolved into what was truly the heart of the matter: the longing for a place of her own, to make her own way in the world—a new path made possible by the single stroke of a quill.

At the moment, her success hinged on one man, or at least on stealing his name. Lips curving in a wry smile, she dipped the nib in ink and, with surprising ease, copied over faint lines.

The result produced a stunning imitation.

Once the signature was sanded, she leaned back in Ryland’s chair, her thumb and forefinger pinching the aquamarine stone hanging from her neck. Footsteps crunched on gravel outside. A carriage rolled past the study window. Voices came closer. Louder and more of them.

She peered around the chair. Footmen loitered by the window, the tops of their white periwigs visible at the bottom. If one man angled his head just so, he’d spy her at Ryland’s desk.

Slipping from the chair, she sought the room’s lone settee, a safe harbor in the shadows. She sunk down, squashing her skirts like some rustic cousin new to Town. Her head lolled against the back cushion, finding needful support.

Who knew committing a crime could be so draining?

One. More. Minute.

Then, she’d be free.

The signature page nestled on her lap. Let the form get good and dry before tucking away the incriminating piece, but behind her, the door clicked. She jerked upright and faced the door.

A bright beam of light sliced the blackness.

A man stepped forward, his silhouette tall and well dressed. She blinked at the blinding glow. Every muscle seized with the want to flee. Her fingernails dug into chintz upholstery. The commanding figure shut the door, head bent as though lost in thought. He placed a single brass candleholder on a table, oblivious to her presence.

The study’s late-night visitor took a step in her direction, tense lines bracketing his mouth. Immense shoulders shrugged off a fine velvet coat in slow, distracted fashion, the fabric rustling its intimate hush in the dark.

Excuses flew through her mind. She was looking for the lady’s retiring room…she got lost—

“Who are you?” The coat stopped halfway down sizable arms.

Claire tried a fortifying breath, but her lungs refused to cooperate while her mind absorbed a new fact: she faced Cyrus Ryland. He loomed large, waiting in the silence.

Masculine brows shot up when her lack of response stretched too long.

“I’m Claire.” The truth burst out, and she cringed as much from the social slip of blurting her Christian name as from revealing her identity.

His eyes flared, likely from her blunder of manners, but she hadn’t thought of a false identity. Mr. Ryland took his sweet time removing his coat. His unhurried gaze traced her hair, the mask, finally settling on her plunging bodice with thorough consideration.

“Just Claire?” he asked. “Not Lady Claire Something-or-other?”

“For a masked ball”—she attempted a lighthearted smile—“just Claire.”

He retrieved the candle, his granite-hard features severe behind the guttering flame. Mr. Ryland put his coat and the lone taper on a small table beside the settee. Her smile wobbled the closer he came, caught as she was in a neat trap of her own design.

Big hands spun his jabot’s lacy fall around to his nape and went to work on the knot under his chin. Glued to the seat, she couldn’t stop from staring. Little scabs marred his knuckles. She lingered on those marks before her vision drifted upward to confident gray eyes watching her. His powerful presence made the idea of him being anyone’s victim laughable.

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 unmarriageable 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.

How freeing.

She sat up straighter, aware this shared power was of a sensual nature only; there’d be no parity outside the bedroom with Mr. Ryland. He was a man who led, expecting others, especially the gentler sex, to follow. Yet his strong-boned face would appeal to most women, women who’d forgive his overbearing ways and find his rough magnetism and substantial fortune qualities of great consideration.

His riches didn’t interest her. His inviting mouth did.

A thin guise of civility covered this brute of a man who, through will or wealth, got his way. But his brotherly admission of listening to, even liking, his sisters’ opinions turned her on end—not at all what she expected. How extraordinary to be in the company of a difficult man and discover he’s not so…difficult.

She leaned back for mind-clearing space. “What do you want to know?”

He let go of her hand and stretched his arm along the back of the settee. “Who’s your protector?”

“Perhaps I’m a woman of independent means. An honest businesswoman.”

Cyrus laughed, a full sound radiating from his chest. “Sounds dangerous.”

With fluid movement, he stood up and walked across the room to his desk. She turned around on the settee, watching his broad back.

“You don’t think a woman should live a life of independence?”

“An invitation for trouble, if you ask me. Women need a man’s guiding hand. Been that way since the beginning of time. Why change what already works?” He picked up the brass clock from the corner of his desk. “What about those baubles around your neck? Made of paste?”

Her hand shot up, touching the necklace. By his inflection, she caught Ryland’s assumption that the jewels were a gift from a man. He’d be right. Her fingers rolled the largest stone, evidence of a past mistake.

“They’re real,” she said, her tone flat. “But I mean to sell them.”

“Not sentimental jewelry, then?”

“No.” She’d give no more on the necklace.

Her shoe pressed the floor, ready to grind stinging memories underfoot, when something crunched beneath her heel. Thesignaturesheet. How could she let rampant flirtation muddle her mind and make her forget the very reason for being here?

Mr. Ryland angled the clock’s face toward the moonlight. “Midnight approaches.”

Midnight. The unmasking hour. She was supposed to meet Abigail. Her glance dropped to the sheet, shot to the door, and ricocheted back to the man by the moonlit desk. Was he going to suggest she go into the ball with him?

How was she going to get out?

She bent down, the air squishing out her lungs from whalebone stays poking and prodding—her corset and false hips made touching the floor nigh on impossible. Nimble fingers folded the paper into quarters, then once more, all done in time to quick, shallow breaths.

Stuffing the incriminating piece down her cleavage, her eyes shut for a split second.

The shop, her plans…all were within reach.

The necklace swung forward at the bottom of her vision, a pendulum of sparkling aquamarine, reminding her it was time to move on with her new life. Out of the corner of her eye, polished black shoes came into view.

“You’ve got to give me more about yourself before the unmasking—” He slipped on his coat and started to bend low. “Is something wrong?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” she said, breath huffing and moving upright again. “My hem needed fixing.”

Mellow candlelight touched Ryland’s brown hair, the queue restrained in a black silk wrapped ribbon. He adjusted his sleeves, and the bottom seam of his fine waistcoat skimmed well-formed thighs. The man was granite hard without an ounce of excess. She stroked a white-blond lock of hair curling against the top of her left breast. The coy move was unintentional, but caught his eye all the same.

She could be any woman she wanted to be tonight.

Wasn’t she doing that already?

Free, masked, unknown—a woman once in service, now wearing a ball gown, playing a part she’d never play again. What woman didn’t want a taste of the forbidden at least once in her life? The chance to masquerade as someone else if only for a night?

And then she’d leave, escape as harmlessly as she came. No one would be hurt. What better place to slip away unnoticed than in a crowded ballroom? Tomorrow would bring the beginnings of her more reliable adventure as midtown proprietress of a humble coffee shop.

“What were you saying?” she asked, champagne-like giddiness pouring over her.

She’d sipped the stuff twice in her life, and tonight’s victory made her feel as though she had consumed the sweet, golden nectar again.

Growing up a steward’s daughter on the grand Greenwich estate afforded her many opportunities. But life changed one fateful night, a reminder of who and what she was. Since then, she labored hard, building calluses anew on her hands and heart, all in an effort to fall into a deep sleep every night and forget what had happened years ago. Many more years of hard work stretched ahead of her.

Why not sip champagne once more?

What harm could come of that?

CHAPTER2

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,

To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

No man courted a fine woman’s favor without paying a price. Alluring women always demanded their due in one form or another. Cyrus understood this, even ran his life on a constant balance sheet of costs and rewards, whether in his head or on paper. But women? He didn’t fully understand them. What man did?

This masked blond with her bold tongue equaled a wealth of trouble. She wasn’t a prudent candidate to become Mrs. Ryland, but he wasn’t looking for anyone to fill the role. Claire’s undeniable hint of mystery and playful daring touched him like welcome caresses in all the right places.

And an evening of hot flirtation that could lead anywhere? A timely reprieve.

He liked that his mystery guest wasn’t intimidated by him, but he couldn’t say if she was or wasnot after money. Such were the limits of trying to read a woman in a dimly lit room.

And he had to admit, he wasn’t thinking entirely with his head.

But if she wasn’t chasing gold guineas, what was she in search of?

In recent years, he’d met his share of courtesans, and his enigmatic guest struck him as too proper and too pert to be a refined lightskirt. Could she be a newly fallen woman exploring that mode of employ?

When they touched on the subject of women and independence, his guest became tart tongued and emphatic, meeting him word for word, qualities that stoked his interest, among other parts clamoring for better acquaintance with her.

He would know more of the secretive beauty named Claire, if that was her true name, and there was no better way to coax the fair sex into openness than a festive atmosphere. Women thrived on entertainments.

“We ought to return to the ball.”

“So soon? And here I thought you wanted a reprieve from the crowd.”

“True,” he said, offering his arm. “But the evening’s improved considerably.”

Claire’s fingertips rested lightly on his sleeve, her silk skirts stirring a seductive sound as she stood up. Glittering silver embroidery drew his attention to cream-white curves moving with the strong ebb and flow of her breathing.

“And I’d like to further our conversation in the light.”

The curl on her breast swayed from her gentle laughter.

“The light has no bearing on our conversation,” she asserted, making a point of dipping her head to restore eye contact with him. “I’d venture to say the lack of it has been freeing.”

He grinned like a lad caught ogling a tavern maid.

“If I said I’d like to dance with you, would that make a difference?”

Her charmed smile was his reward. He strained to see Claire’s eye color, but couldn’t. Candlelight sparkled off the beads around her eyes. Her visible features rounded with pure merriment.

“Since you put it that way, how can I resist?” She reached over and lifted the jabot off the settee. “You’ll need this.”

He turned around and crouched low for her to retie the bothersome neckwear. “Please be kind with the knot. My valet is new and was overanxious when preparing me for tonight.”

She leaned close to his ear. “I’ll do my best.”

Cotton skimmed his neck, and her nearness tantalized him…her warmth at his back, the allure of her gown brushing his legs. Agile hands worked efficiently at his nape, tying the jabot, and he couldn’t help the wicked thought: Whydon’t men hire women as valets?

The air cooled behind him and he rose to full height. Claire was at his side, setting her hand on his arm.

“Shall we?”

They made their way out of the study’s intimate atmosphere, into the bright hallway.

Standing on the royal-blue carpet, light shocked his system. His fair-haired guest looked to him, waiting for him to lead the way no doubt, but his limbs locked.

Her lustrous white-blond hair appeared that unique shade by nature, not artifice of paste or powder. Her face, though covered with a demi-mask, promised symmetry of the kind poets waxed on about. His breath caught on the singular yet insufficient word beautiful.

“Beg pardon?” Her head tilted, artful and feminine. “What did you say?”

Did he say the word out loud?

One corner of his mouth curled up. He wasn’t smooth with words, nor was he the fawning type.

Clearing his throat, he led their amble to the ball. “I was wondering how the evening progresses.”

His constitution needed balance on this already off-kilter night since ahead lay the battle zone of a London ball. He wasn’t bred on these events the way others lived and breathed the social whirl.

Why the gluttonous need for grand entertainments? Do London’s refined citizens exist under a constant cloud of boredom?

His teeth clenched in the manner he suspected a soldier’s would as he bore down in battle. He could hardly tolerate these things, but one footfall after the other led them to the blast of festivities.

An explosion of unsavory odors pummeled him, the result of too many hot bodies together for too many hours. The orchestra plied their skills with frenzied vigor for throngs of colorful dancers. Discordant laughter jangled through the room. Most of the guests had been dipping rather deep in the free flow of his wine.

A perspiring earl, his bagwig askew, spun past. The man squired a masked, guffawing woman through a fast-paced courante, her face paint streaking down one cheek. Layers of pomp and dignity had long ago deserted the tipsy crowd.

He wanted to wipe the room clean and finish a quiet evening in his home, but that wouldn’t aid his quest to find a fine place in Society for Lucinda. He needed the good graces of these people to arrange the most advantageous marriage for her—and someday for himself.

His sister, masked in purple silk, chatted amiably with two of Society’s matriarchs at the far end of the hall; her cheerful composure showed she was none the worse from the evening’s earlier drama.

A ravaged refreshment table provided breathing room near double doors flung open, allowing cool air to reach the perimeter of the ballroom. Empty glasses littered the table. Clusters of grapes had been devoured, leaving skeletal vines poking up from a silver tray. Only a small bowl of luscious red berries remained untouched, tempting the eye.

“Oh, strawberries. How lovely,” his mystery guest cooed. “My favorite.”

He made sure to steer closer to the succulent fruit, ready to engage his guest in private conversation. But as they approached the table, so did his good friend, the Marquis of Northampton, with his younger brother, Lord Marcus Bowles, at his side. The pair stepped through the open doorway from the back courtyard, North scowling his displeasure.

Out of sorts from Lucinda’s refusal of his marriage proposal? Or taxed by the burden of rescuing his half-sprung brother yet again? Lord Bowles’s walk was steady, but his queue was near undone. A crumpled, brown silk mask dangled from his fingers, and the man reeked of whiskey. The former soldier’s brash stare, however, lost no time settling on Claire.

“Ryland. Wondered where you went.” Lord Bowles’s voice dropped with suggestion. “But I see what’s occupied your time.”

Cyrus’s mouth firmed at the younger man’s encroachment. North moved closer to his brother as though proximity could bring the younger man to heel. A pair of dancers, loose with laughter, bumped the marquis’s silk-clad arm.

“As it is, we’re on our way home.” Within his black silk mask, the marquis’s dark, assessing stare moved from Claire to Cyrus. “I’d hoped to speak to you, but the evening’s deteriorated, an—”

“And he’s got to run home with his tail between his legs.” The younger man cut in, directing his last words to Claire. “That, and make sure I don’t cause trouble in exalted circles.”

North’s frown stretched. If Cyrus were a betting man, he’d have laid odds on the sibling being the thorn in his friend’s side, not Lucinda’s rejection. The brothers together often made a powder keg waiting to explode.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Cyrus promised North and began to steer away from the table.

“What?” Lord Bowles stood taller, smoothing the front of his brown silk waistcoat. “Dismissed without so much as an introduction to this tempting armful?”

“Marcus,” North snapped. “You forget yourself.”

The former soldier perused the flaxen-haired woman, lazy eyed and curious. Most women found the irreverent second son appealing, no matter that he lacked two pence to rub together. He offered little more than dashing looks and the occasional witty remark, yet ladies flocked to him.

Cyrus placed a possessive hand atop the feminine fingers resting on his arm. Lord Bowles’s hazel eyes caught the maneuver, one corner of his mouth curling up. Though in his cups, the man read the universal message, one man to another.

She belongs with me.

Lord Bowles’s daring, heavy-lidded gaze drifted from the claiming grip to meet Cyrus’s rigid stare. The reprobate raised a challenging eyebrow. The former soldier liked to push the limits, especially under the influence of strong drink.

When would the evening’s absurdity end?

Cyrus wasn’t getting any closer to uncovering more about the mystery of the woman at his side. In those jarring seconds, Bowles must’ve reassessed his position. He backed down, ceding with the barest of nods. Cyrus wanted the fair lady to himself, but he grudgingly accepted good manners meant introductions were in order.

“Gentlemen, I forget my manners. Please allow me to introduce Miss…Miss…” He stalled, his brows slamming together.

Bad enough he reemerged with his jabot loose. He couldn’t introduce a woman as MissClaire—to do so would all but put her in the worst possible light.

“Miss Claire Tottenham,” she interjected, pinching her skirts and dipping low.

North nodded at the pretty curtsy, but his brother’s eyes kindled with shrewd assessment. Unfazed, his MissTottenham held her head high, sidling closer to the strawberries.

Cyrus motioned to his friend. “This is Lord Northampton, the Most Honorable Marquis of Northampton.” His eyes narrowed. “And his brother, Lord Bowles, formerly an officer of the Eightieth Regiment of Light-Armed Foot.”

Both men bowed. Lord Bowles placed his crushed mask over his heart, the reprobate’s stare hovering indecently on Miss Tottenham’s neckline.

“I live only for peaceful pursuits now. My latest heroic service is rescuing damsels in distress.”

“When I find myself in dire need, I shall call upon you, sir.” She gave them both a bright smile and plucked a ripe red berry from the bowl. “And is this a family endeavor, your rescuing damsels in distress?”

“You mean me and Lord Perfect here?” Lord Bowles angled his head at his brother. “No. Gabriel’s too busy saving the family to bother with life’s finer pursuits. I’m your best bet.”

The marquis stiffened when his Christian name was bandied about, but Miss Tottenham smoothed his ruffled feathers with another glowing smile before looking again to Lord Bowles.

“Then your brother’s the archangel to your…darker heavenly being.”

Cyrus’s jaw ticked at the soft tempo of her voice. This flirtatious back and forth between the two served little to get him closer to the enigmatic woman. And simply put, he wanted to be the sole recipient of her smiles and soft, playful words.

The former soldier’s eyes darkened with keen interest. His voice, rough from smoke and liquor, dropped to an intimate note. “Wherever did Ryland find you?”

“I’m afraid that will have to stay our secret.”

The saucy Miss Tottenham slipped the strawberry into her delectable mouth, all the while looking at Cyrus. His thigh muscles tensed inside the velvet prison of his breeches. Hot pleasure shot through his body at the sight of the red berry slipping through her lips. Adding to his misery, a spurt of juice from the tender morsel painted her bottom lip red. He nearly groaned.

Tradition named the apple as the fruit of man’s downfall, but tonight he’d argue mightily for the dangers of a ripe strawberry on a certain woman’s lips.

Lord Bowles laughed, his face alight with fascination. “I like this one, Cy. She’ll keep you hopping.”

Cyrus’s body hummed between charmed interest and the sharp edge of frustration. He had more than hopping in mind where Miss Tottenham was concerned.

With perfect timing, the first notes of an allemande played, and the dance floor thickened with new revelers full of laughter. The allemande was the last dance before the midnight unmasking, a decadent rout, allowing some close contact between partners—something he wouldn’t miss.

He set a firm hand on Miss Tottenham’s elbow. “I plan to, starting with this dance.”

“But you don’t like to dance.” The startled admission came from North in the middle of pulling off his mask.

“I do tonight.” He bade them farewell and steered his guest away from the younger man’s poaching stare.

No doubt Bowles would pounce on any opportunity to assert himself with the fair lady. Tonight, however, Cyrus was the hunter who would claim Miss Tottenham. He drew her as close as her wide skirts allowed, finding pleasure in her graceful sway. He maneuvered through the crowd, nearer to the open, cooling doors, where partners pranced the allemande.

He positioned himself beside Miss Tottenham, and with a light handhold, they ventured into their first steps. Bodies pressed everywhere, the hot, noisy swarm expanding and contracting. But his lovely guest caught the joy, laughing with delight. His every sense went on high alert, honing in on her: her scent, her feel, her sound. He hungered for details of this woman, but words of a hot nature sprang out first.

“Are you always a flirt?”

Her eyes sparkled within the demi-mask. “Flirting, you say? I take it you refer to the conversation with the marquis and his brother?”

“Exactly.” Miss Tottenham’s fingertips moved across his palm. The tantalizing connection quieted him, bringing to mind a cool breeze soothing overheated skin. What she did was correct for the dance, but on the fringe of propriety with so much fleshly contact.

“I like to think I helped calm obviously stormy waters between those two. Simply another one of my talents, if you will.” Her head tilted, revealing a flirtatious stretch of her neck. “And I am dancing with you.”

The procession stopped, and Miss Tottenham twirled under his upraised arm, smiling at him over her shoulder. Her reminder of the obvious calmed the covetous beast within. Miss Tottenham glowed, a mix of the coquette and a woman lost in the fluid freedom of dance. Dark blue-green eyes trifled with him, vibrant within her mask. Now he knew their color.

“Is it true?” she asked over the loud hum of music. “You don’t like to dance?”

Their hands switched for another rotation. Her silk skirts brushed against him, sending a thrum of pleasure across his legs.

“I don’t. Usually,” he admitted. “Never had the occasion until coming to London last year. And then I had to learn.”

She came out from under the arc of their arms, her body moving in time to the music. “Then I should feel especially honored.”

He bent his head, all the better to hear her, but it was her scent he craved. He tried breathing in her skin’s perfume. Instead, Miss Tottenham circled away, her unique fragrance eluding him.

His body quickened when her lithe form spun around in front of him with both hands overhead. Her gown’s false hips kept her from coming too close. The way Miss Tottenham’s eyes shined, she grasped very well her maddening effect.

Two could play this game.

He wasn’t good with words. Never had been. Nor was he ever the handsomest man in the room or the ugliest. His well-muscled size drew as many of the fair sex to him as repelled them. Yet he understood the power of the right stroke with a woman. Where flowery words failed him, touch succeeded.

They swayed together, their hands joining in a high arc. One hand slipped free and slid under the sack portion of her gown. The cloth draped high from her shoulders to the ground, hiding his calculated move. Throughout the room, partners paraded side by side…one, two, three. Behind the swath of fabric, he caressed the contours of her back, her sweet warmth flowing from the bodice.

Her torso stiffened under his hand. She kept their forward progress at his side, but jeweled eyes slanted his way, glittering brighter than the beads on her mask. Her pink-red lips opened a fraction as though she needed more air.

His veins drummed an insistent rhythm. The flat of his palm brushed a slow, meandering trail down her spine, finding small, silken ties. The single row cinched her bodice shut, each fascinating X softly abrading his fingers.

He imagined loosening each lace…one by one…all the better to explore the tender landscape of her body.

The move lured him into deeper enchantment. His vision went hazy on Miss Tottenham’s blue-and-silver bodice. They turned and faced each other, their bodies closer than other dancers around the room. He didn’t care. His limbs hummed with sizzling awareness.

He leaned in and whispered, “Tonight, with you, has been the best conversation with clothes on.”

Her pink-red mouth opened. “Because it’s something of a sexual nature when clothes are off, Mr. Ryland.”

He stumbled, missing a dance step. His phallus clenched. Hard.

Recovering, he chuckled. “Indeed, it is.”

Miss Tottenham circled slowly for the dance, her skirts rubbing him, and glad he was for the longer, concealing waistcoat. His mysterious guest grasped well the game he played, giving better than she got.

His lungs expanded, drinking in much-needed air. There seemed to be so little of it in the room. He wanted to be alone with her in his dark study again. He hungered for connection with the woman beneath maddening layers of cloth, something physical and yet…something else.

Then, she took a deep breath, her small breasts straining the lace of her plunging neckline. The simple movement snared his vision.

Was she just as affected?

He itched to test the smoothness of her pearl-colored skin, and not only the plump parts about to spring free. He wanted to test her shoulders, her back, the legs hidden by voluminous skirts. Would the rest of her feel as soft as she looked?

Chattering dancers took two steps forward. He slipped his hand again under the sack and splayed his fingers across the small of her back. The silk gown slid against his skin. The scandalous move was lost in the crowd, but her dark lashes fluttered low within her mask.

“Should I worry you’ll take advantage of me, sir?”

“Something tells me that doesn’t happen easily with you,” he said, eyeing a lock of her hair falling loose.

His hand traced her spine to her shoulder, finding the warm flesh where the white-blond curl settled on her collarbone. Her body quivered, and the tender reaction shook him. Another arrow of heat shot to his groin at the image of his mouth planting a hot kiss where the curl met skin.

Miss Tottenham’s blue-green stare reached his, dark and liquid. Her lips parted for him and him alone.

Across the room, violins sought soaring notes. Music stretched. Strained rhythms reached for high peaks, as taut as Cyrus was from head to heel. His abdomen squeezed behind the placket of his breeches.

Miss Tottenham’s mouth was accessible…tempting. His head bent lower. The small, dark space between enticing pink lips captivated him—lips that said saucy things, lips that needed kissing. Her warm breath came faster, brushing his chin.

He inched closer. Ever so slowly, her mouth softened, opening more. His lids drooped. A fraction of space separated her lips from his.

A baron’s booming laughter blasted them apart. The man spun by, his elbow hitting Cyrus.

He jerked his head upright, taking a half step backward. The oblivious man saved him from doing the unthinkable—kissing a woman for all to see in the middle of a ball.

Blood rushed his ears. He tugged his jabot, his body hot and constrained. His impulses galloped near out of control, running roughshod over rational thought. He stretched his neck and blinked at the ceiling, sucking in more air. The crowd of dancers pressed them. Everywhere light and noise jangled his singed nerves, and he lost the allemande’s movements.

They weren’t in a wharf-side tavern, nor was his dance partner a woman of coarse manners to be kissed in public display.

“Miss Tottenham…I…” His voice trailed off, his mouth pressing into a sober line.

She surprised him, taking a half step nearer to begin the next intricate turn. “Don’t.”

She looked to where their hands joined for the dance, curling her fingers intimately with his. This was no delicate crossing of fingertips, but holding hands. Her simple, affectionate act wrapped around him.

Violins and voices, noise of a hundred shoes scraping the floor enveloped them, but Miss Tottenham’s breath came heavier too, moving the inviting flesh plumped high from her bodice. She was just as caught up in the moment as he, yet offered tender forgiveness.

Her smile was part country maid and pure temptress.

“Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn’t she?”

Her voice came low and warmly textured to his ears. Was she trying to take back some semblance of control? Encourage more blatant behavior? He grinned, ready to cede the night to the beguiling enchantress and find his way to the nearest bed with her.

His pulse throbbed. Flirtation spiraled in the space of one dance, turning the ground beneath his feet into hot and perilous quicksand. And he liked it. Each step invited another curious touch, another flirtatious move. He wasn’t sure who had the advantage, but he wasn’t about to back away from his intrepid exploration.

Short of kissing her now, how far could he go?

Emboldened, Cyrus traced one finger over the architecture of her collarbone. Her body twitched with a delicate shiver; a faint flush painted the upper curves of her breasts. Within the silken mask, her dark-fringed eyes turned a deeper hue.

They raised their joined hands for a new arc, all part of the dance, but they pushed the limits of contact that polite Society allowed. Intimacy shrouded them. He dipped his head close to hers, his breath fanning flaxen wisps of hair.

“If I had to trust a woman…let her have the advantage,” he murmured, “I’d choose you.”

Miss Tottenham gasped. Her lashes shuttered her eyes and she turned her face from him.

Is she in pain?

“Mr. Ryland,” she whispered. “Please…”

His head jolted at the sudden change. Gone was the coy, confident woman. She slipped away in spirit as did her unfinished plea. In those few seconds, hot flirtation cooled. Rapidly. The rest of his body, however, hadn’t gotten the message, his bollocks clenching with painful want.

Miss Tottenham looked beyond the doors into the black night, withdrawing from him though their bodies engaged in the dance.