Seven

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.

William Congreve, Love for Love

The necklace was gone.

Claire rubbed her forehead, pushing back her mobcap. This had to be a mistake. She missed the baubles somewhere amongst the roasted coffee beans.

Look again.

She stood on tiptoe at her counter, digging deeper in the ceramic jar. Hard, roasted coffee beans trickled through her fingers, but the pale aquamarine stones failed to show. She looked wildly around the shop, not more than a dozen patrons sat within the brick walls, sipping their midday brew.

Did someone take them?

Frantic hands dumped the weighty, earthen vessel upside down. Brown beans clattered across the counter and some fell to the floor.

Inside the jar? Nothing.

Numb, she stared into the distance, grateful for the counter holding her up. Rain blew across Cornhill, squalls of wetness smearing the front window. Outside, a few brave souls traversed midtown, hunched blurs holding down their hats as they passed her shop.

The front window. Yesterday.

Nate and Mr. Ryland. The flash of a gold coin passed between them.

Did Mr. Ryland pay Nate to steal her necklace?

She inhaled, a sharp hiss of breath. Last night…the noise below stairs. Was that when Nate searched for her modest jewels? Her pile of bad news kept growing. Everything turned bleaker without the necklace to pay her rent, the notes due. How would she secure her future?

A harsh laugh caught in her throat. Her future wouldn’t matter if she ended up languishing in debtor’s prison.

Her mind bounced between encroaching fear and mounting evidence. A tumble of facts buzzed around her head, working to lay themselves in a neat but unforgiving line.

Nate failed to show up today. Noon had come and gone. Where was he?

He’d mentioned a time or two a life of thievery in St. Giles, “small and insignificant thefts” he’d called them, the kind where no one ever got hurt. Recalling those words, she laughed darkly. A few patrons turned their heads her way before going back to their conversations.

Could such a thing be true? Crimes done, transgressions committed…and no one gets hurt?

But the dear lad had started here, working hard, making a new life for himself. Claire rubbed her forehead, her face crumpling when she looked to her rain-splattered window.

“Oh, Nate, how could you?” she whispered.

An aching throb started where her fingers made slow circles. Everything hit her, a spin of too much to absorb all at once. But she had to. And top among her problems? Nate’s theft. His betrayal of her trust hurt just as much as the knowledge that he’d gone back to his old life.

And the cascade of thoughts kept pouring over her.

Her forgery.

Mr. Ryland’s staunch belief an unmarried woman had no business being in business, putting out her own shingle.

Her mouth twisted. And there was his wish to get under her skirts.

Did Mr. Ryland use his money and influence with Nate? Did he think he’d back her into a corner? And in a desperate state she’d say yes to anything he asked of her?

If she put the parts together correctly, her landlord lured a young man scraping by, striving for a better life. Of course the temptation would be too much.

She didn’t know what hurt worse: bitter disappointment in finding Mr. Ryland to be dishonorable or Nate breaking her heart by choosing to return to his old way of life.

Oh, the choice words she’d have for Mr. Ryland.

“I say, Miss Mayhew, are you well?” a male voice spoke, pulling her from the fog.

Claire blinked, refocusing on the space in front of her. A florid face framed by an outdated, gray yarn wig, the wig of her most steady patron.

“Mr. Cogsworth,” she said, brushing coffee beans away from the counter’s edge.

“Having a fit of the vapors?” His hoary brows twitched. “Perhaps a rest would do you good.”

Dear Mr. Cogsworth, a good man and an energetic trader, married almost thirty years and raised five daughters. He’d likely seen the vapors a time or two, but this wasn’t a fainting spell about to happen.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m fine.” She gave him a brittle smile.

Mr. Cogsworth’s slack eyelids drooped all the more. The dear man didn’t believe her one second, but he nodded briskly, allowing her false assurance.

“Then let me help clean this up.” He scooped beans back into the container, flashing wary looks at her now and then.

His smile, marked by a gap between front teeth, had become a welcome sight every day. Some men could be counted on in life, sturdy and dependable. Men like Mr. Cogsworth. Together, they had most of the counter cleaned when Annie appeared from the kitchen with a large plate of warm biscuits. Her shoes crunched beans on the floor.

“Gor, Miss Mayhew, what happened here?” Annie put the plate down and grabbed the broom leaning against the brick wall.

Claire poured a fresh cup of coffee for Mr. Cogsworth, her mind spinning with what to do next. The stack of notes was due at the end of the week…three days from now. What was she going to do about that? She had no clue, but one small act of kindness deserved another, thus she slipped biscuits on a plate for her most faithful patron.

“For your thoughtful assistance, Mr. Cogsworth.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss Mayhew,” he said, balancing his plate and mug in both hands.

Mr. Cogsworth lingered, his heavy jowls clenching and unclenching as though he wanted to say more. She turned her attention to the road outside her shop, stone-like resolve forming a plan.

“There is one thing,” she said, her voice level. “I need a hack. Would you fetch one for me? I’ve an urgent errand.”

Mr. Cogsworth cast a hesitating glance at the storm beyond the front window. He mumbled something placating but did her bidding and set his mug and plate on his table. The trader girded himself against the storm, his stare beetling from her to the turbulence outside before he sought the door. Claire whipped her cloak off its peg and wrapped herself inside thin wool, insufficient armor against the tempest, but it would have to do.

Annie swept the coffee bean mess into a tidy pile. Her pale blue eyes bulged under her mobcap when Claire scooped a handful of coins from the till and dumped them in her apron pocket.

She nearly cleaned out her funds.

Then, she produced an iron key from her other pocket.

“Annie, I need you to mind the shop.” The key dangled by a makeshift cheesecloth ribbon. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

She fixed the hood on her head, preparing for the turmoil ahead.

* * *

The hack sped through London, pressing full force against the storm. Last night’s friendly clouds had turned angry, dousing those brave souls who dared to march against the watery tumult. Claire was mutinous enough to set her face against the gray wind and wet. She would save her shop, her independence, and if she could, she’d rescue one errant, green-eyed lad who’d won a soft spot in her heart.

How these tasks would be accomplished was the murky dilemma she hadn’t quite worked out yet.

The ride to the West End was perilous through near-empty streets, but less so than what would happen once she arrived at her destination. Number Four Bow Street was conveniently situated for her needs, but that wasn’t her first stop.

A certain residence in Piccadilly was first on her order of business.

The hack’s wheels had barely rolled to a stop in the horseshoe drive when she sprung from the seat and paid the driver. In front of her, the ashlar edifice of Ryland House matched its stone-hearted owner: each limestone piece had been cut and stacked into rigid, unbending lines, creating an unshakable structure.

Time someone changed that.

Her upset had failed to cool on the long wet ride; rather, the journey from midtown to Ryland House firmed her resolve all the more to hold fast to what was hers. Claire charged up the steps, stomping through puddles.

She pounded the brass lion’s head knocker three times, wind and rain whipping her skirts. Impatient, she curled her fist and banged thrice on the heavy wooden door for good measure. Pain bit her knuckles. The sting could be a slap on the hand, reminding her what happens to women who put their trust in the wrong man, a man who promised to give her a fair chance.

How many times would she repeat this lesson?

Today, she’d fight back.

Fist poised to smite the portal again, the indigo-lacquered door opened. The butler’s staid eyes narrowed at the sight of sodden, furious female on his master’s doorstep. Belker. She knew of him from her days in service.

“Yes?” The implacable butler’s mouth drooped.

“I’m here to see Mr. Ryland. Now,” she said, cool rain dripping down her cheeks.

“Mr. Ryland’s indisposed to unannounced guests at the moment, I’m afraid…” His sonorous voice trailed off when she pushed past him.

“Then he ought to dispose himself rather quickly, or I shall have his friends from Bow Street on his heels.”

At the mention of the thief takers, Belker’s lax eyes rounded. Aside from impudence and interruptions, the only thing a man in his position despised more in life was a whiff of scandal settling its odorous cloud over the house he served. His status put him squarely as the first line of defense.

Claire’s heels struck the marble floor with determined snaps. She raced to the far end of the entry hall, her head turning from one set of double doors to another. The well-lit Ryland house wasted too many candles in her opinion: light underscored each door. She cocked her ear, catching the hum of Mr. Ryland’s voice layered among others somewhere in the vicinity.

“Where is he?” She whipped around, her hood falling back. “Are you going to tell me, Belker, or do I have to open every door to find him?”

“Miss Mayhew,” the butler’s stern voice rose. “As someone once in service, you know very well this impudence of yours is poorly done.”

Belker stared at her as though she’d lost her mind, his polished shoes rooted to the floor.

So he knew of her.

There’d been gossip from other servants who patronized the New Union Coffeehouse. Some admired her, but others viewed her as an upstart, a female leaving the secure world of servitude not for stabilizing matrimony but for an independent life in business. The butler’s appeal to the common bond upper household servants shared wouldn’t work.

She shot off toward one set of double doors and flung them wide open to find a team of footmen setting a long table with the utmost care. Each man was a study in pristine, blue-and-white livery topped with blinding-white periwigs. A few of them patronized her coffee shop on their half days.

“Thomas, would you be so kind as to tell me where Mr. Ryland is?”

He blinked at her, straightening from the waist. “He’s entertaining guests in the royal drawing room.” His white-gloved hand pointed the direction. “Let me take you, miss.”

“You will do no such thing, Thomas.” Belker spoke in her periphery. “See Miss Mayhew to the door before she causes further disruption.”

But the butler’s nervous glance at a certain pair of gilt-edged doors flanked by effusive ferns gave the secret away. Before the ever polite Thomas got any closer, she sped to those doors and yanked them wide open.

A beautiful assemblage filled the well-appointed drawing room, sitting in clustered tableaus of color and perfection. One by one, their faces turned her way, all conversation fading. Her labored breaths made a conspicuous sound in the cavernous room.

She was an earthly rebel invading a gathering at Mount Olympus.

A dark-haired, violet-eyed goddess held court in the middle, her plum skirts spread wide. The lady spied Claire, her eyes turning to feline slits, but the Marquis of Northampton, who sat beside her, gaped.

A small, older man spoke to two young men of university age. His eyes were cold and colorless under the bob wig framing a thin face. The two younger men he spoke with bore the stamp of Ryland lineage. One of them smiled at Claire, his mouth curling in the same arrogant way as Mr. Ryland’s.

Apparently not all of Olympus resented her intrusion.

Lucinda Ryland held a dish of tea aloft, her mouth a perfect O. Miss Ryland briefly gawked at Claire, and then turned to look at the opposite end of the room. Claire followed the young woman’s line of vision to the commanding form standing with another broad-shouldered young man by the windows.

Cyrus.

Heaven help her, she didn’t need anyone to alert her to him. She’d find that man the way desperate sailors seek a lighthouse. Despite the storm, afternoon light haloed him like some sort of Greek god come down to trifle with mere mortals. With those infernal broad shoulders and glowing, slate-gray eyes, Cyrus Ryland dominated her senses, touching her most feminine places.

His nostrils flared. Was he scenting her? The notion was ridiculous, given their distance and the circumstances, but Claire settled a hand on her stomach, quashing the flutter.

He could very well have said aloud to the silent room: She belongs with me.

And his dangerous draw turned her legs, her resolve to jelly. She was woefully out of her depth, swimming in waters she had no business being in.

Mr. Ryland strode toward the open doors, confident as ever, greeting her like a tardy guest, not some rain-drenched, midtown proprietress with flour dusting her skirt.

“Miss Mayhew, a pleasure to see you.” He came an inch closer than courtesy dictated, blocking out the others behind him. “You will join us.”

He spoke in an authoritative tone, his close-lipped smile as smooth as you please. Standing this close, she took her fill of his tantalizing, clean smell. Plain soap must’ve earlier lathered his freshly shaved jaw, where a new thumbprint-sized bruise marked him.

She pushed wet hair off her face. “I will not, unless you care to include your friends from Bow Street.” Her trembling voice dropped lower. “I’m sure they’d like to know about your thievery.”

Belker and a pair of footmen hovered outside the doorway. “I’m very sorry, sir—”

Mr. Ryland raised a halting hand to the butler, his eyes narrowing on her. “What are you talking about?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the quick-thinking host clamped her elbow, steering her firmly from the doorway into the entry hall. Mr. Ryland looked to the butler and tipped his head toward the drawing room.

“Luncheon. Take care of it.”

Those words were sufficient. The servants flew into action, which made Claire wonder: Did Ryland House receive distraught females on a regular basis?

There’d be no time to delve into that question. He guided her across the entry hall and down the royal-blue hallway, toward his familiar study. When they entered, she got a daytime eyeful of his study.

Few books lined the shelves of the plain blue-and-gray room. Worn-out folios, the spines cracked and losing color, lined shelves built into the wall. The room thankfully was well lit and warm, with enticing charcoal embers glowing from the hearth.

He led her straight to the familiar chintz-covered settee, but his gaze swept her from head to toe.

“You’re drenched.”

“A very astute observation since I traveled here in a storm.”

His brows slammed together at her sarcasm, causing a small, vertical line above his nose, but he bent his powerful frame, pulling one side of the settee close to the grate. Mr. Ryland adjusted the heavy furniture as easily as one might move a small chair. Then he pointed to the seat.

“You’ll want to sit here, closest to the heat.”

She looked from the inviting spot back to him. Oh, no, the greater heat frothed between them.

“I shall stand, thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The lines around his mouth tightened. “And give me your cloak. We’ll hang it here to dry.”

She was about to tell Mr. Ryland the purpose of her unannounced visit when a chill snaked up her skirts, reminding her not to be a fool. With a rain-splattered cloak and her soaked hems plastered to her ankles, practical wisdom won. The cloak came off.

“I’m not staying long.” She stretched out her arm, keeping their proximity to a minimum.

Male lips curved, suppressing a smile at her staunch effort to maintain some distance. Mr. Ryland accepted the cloak, his warm, dry hands covering her icy fingers in the exchange.

His gray stare fixed on her. “Now, what’s this thievery you’re talking about?”

He hooked the cloak’s hood on a stone carving sitting atop the mantel. The comfortable seat beckoned her to sit by the orange and amber coals. What needed saying could be done as much in comfort as discomfort. Why be miserable in the process?

Claire sidled over to the proffered accommodation, and waves of cozy warmth touched her frigid ankles, going bone deep. A sigh of satisfaction slipped.

“I speak of my necklace. Stolen.” She inched her puddle-soaked shoes closer to the hearth. “By you.”

“Steal your necklace?” He set one hand at his waist and chuckled, a rasping, ill-humored noise. “You forget. Between the two of us, you’re the criminal here.”

She winced at the undeniable fact but pressed on, meeting his hard examination. The man would not run roughshod over her today. She scooted to the edge of the seat, her chin tipping higher.

“What you did was, was the lowest…the vilest thing.”

“I repeat: I did not steal your necklace.” His arms spread wide. “I don’t need it.”

Ryland spoke in even, practical tones. His calmness and straightforward demeanor chipped away at her certainty.

“Of course you don’t need a necklace,” she retorted. “But you’d take it. Just to prove your point. To make sure a woman alone doesn’t succeed in business.”

“I’m not hard-pressed to prove my point.” His voice was dry as sand. “Nor do I spend my days pondering the activities of proprietors who rent from me. Either they succeed or they don’t. You have the same opportunity as everyone else.”

She smarted from his words. Was everything so decided with him? The way he studied her, she guessed her landlord worked the facts in his head, calculating fluidly from one scenario to another.

“Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?” He hefted around a wide leather chair and sat down, facing her. “I don’t want your necklace, Miss Mayhew. I want you.”

Pleasure skittered over her, the sensation like tiny pebbles skipping softly down her body.

Those simple three words—I want you—suspended clear thinking. A drop of water trickled down the side of her cheek. She swiped her hand over her face if for no other reason than a reprieve from an intent male.

“If I can’t sell the necklace, paying my notes, the rent…” Her voice trailed off.

“Do you understand? If I wanted to coerce you into my bed, I would’ve pushed the matter of the forgery.” He leaned his forearms on his thighs, meeting her at her eye level. “But I didn’t.”

Her courage burst, sinking underfoot from his honest words. And of all things, another flare of attraction sparked, seesawing with her present dilemma. Mr. Ryland spoke in the confident way of a man used to being taken at his word. Clear, gray eyes opened wide to her. Nor did he wax long, attempting to convince her of his innocence.

Why should he?

He told her the truth. She knew it in her bones.

Her chin dropped to her chest. The devil she knew seemed manageable, but the alternative carried starker, more dismal consequences. Uncertainty shifted the earth. She braced her hands on the cushion on both sides of her hips.

“I didn’t want to believe Nate would steal from me. I thought you paid him to take the necklace for your own purposes.” She looked up at him again, small-voiced worry sucking the air out of her lungs. “Yesterday…the gold coin you gave him…”

Ryland’s eyes flickered at the mention of the gold coin, but he said nothing. She rushed on, explaining Nate’s odd absence, his hints of past thievery, but Mr. Ryland listened, emotionless as one gathering information. He didn’t react at all when she mentioned Nate’s scurrilous youth in St. Giles.

And he listened, truly listened, to everything she had to say.

“Circumstances may point to Mr. Fincher as the culprit, but I don’t believe he stole from you. There has to be some other explanation.” Large, warm hands reached for hers. Mr. Ryland cosseted her frigid fingers, rubbing away the cold. “But the more important issue, you aren’t safe there. A woman alone above a shop. You can’t stay—”

“I’ll be fine.” Her hands pulled free, and she started rocking on her seat.

There was no time to debate with him what a woman should or shouldn’t do. Her problems were bigger than that. She looked around the room, blinking hard.

“But the shop…I have to pay the cabinetmakers seven pounds by Friday, the potter two pounds for the cups and plates, Annie still needs her wages…” She tugged the bothersome mobcap off her head. “And the rent…”

Hairpins dropped to the cushion, and more blond strands fell loose around her face. Her hair had become a bedraggled mess, its damp weight hanging on her neck. Quick fingers worked the flimsy mobcap into a ball while outside a rumble of thunder sounded.

Mr. Ryland plucked the cap from her. “I’ll waive this quarter’s rent and give you a loan for the rest.”

Her gaze shot up to meet his. The light played stronger on one side of his face, casting a shadow on the other.

“And you expect nothing in return?”

Mr. Ryland’s bluntness must’ve rubbed off on her.

His head tipped with minute acknowledgment. “There are many things I want, but when you come to me, it will be of your own free will. Money will not be something between us.”

She couldn’t help the sharp burst of laughter. “A bit sure of yourself, Mr. Ryland. What makes you think I’ll come to you?”

His modulated tone told her one thing: the notion of holding something over her head to get what he wanted had crossed his mind, at least with her forgery.

“In here, it’s Cyrus, remember?” His deep voice was smooth and assured. “And I’m confident because you’re the one fighting our obvious attraction.”

Small tremors of pleasure shook her. Her body, it would seem, had already turned mutinous, ready to set sail for the deep, gray waters of the unwavering Cyrus Ryland.

“Then you have a long time to wait.” But her words held no bite.

She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. This spot by the fire would be a perfect place to curl into a tight ball and block out the day’s troubles.

Cyrus removed his fine blue coat, the slide of cloth on cloth an inviting sound to her benumbed senses.

“You’re not warming up sufficiently.” He leaned in and wrapped his coat over her shoulders, his deep voice like an intimate connection. “Someone needs to take care of you.”

She shuddered when his breath tickled her ear. His warmth and nearness was just as heavenly as what he draped around her. She could tell he found her refusal more amusing than deterring. Cyrus closed the coat in front of her, his body heat palpable inside. The collar’s woven broadcloth brushed her rain-misted cheeks, his pleasant scent on the cloth. The coat was part of an expensive, well-tailored ditto suit: identical blue fabric with spare gold trim on the coat, waistcoat, and breeches.

“I’ll ruin part of a perfectly good suit.” But she pulled the coat tighter, greedy for the snug feel.

He added more coal to the blaze. The inferno’s orange light danced across white cotton stretched over his shoulders. Muscles moved under the fabric, mesmerizing her while he built a hotter fire. And then there was his offer to waive her rent and give her a loan, an offer apparently free of unique requirements. His act of generosity pinched her conscience.

How dare he be so…nice.

“About the rent, the loan, I cannot accept your kind offer.” She cleared her throat, trying to sound competent. “I’ll find a way.”

Ryland glanced at her but said nothing to counter her refusal. Instead, he dropped to the floor, kneeling before her. Without asking her leave, he removed one shoe and then the other, and set the soaked footwear against the hearth’s ash pan.

“What are you doing?” Her words, like her body, went slack, all of her too worn down.

His head bent close to her knee. One hand, large and warm, curled around her ankle, rubbing life back into her foot. A big, masculine palm moved under the arch, creating delightful friction. She pressed her lips together, holding back a moan of pleasure.

“I would think a land steward’s daughter would know wet clothes are hazardous for one’s health.” He flashed a devilish grin. “You ought to remove your wet clothes, cover yourself with something warm and dry.”

Such as covering myself with you.

The way the corners of his eyes creased, she was certain what crossed her mind crossed his, but the tantalizing attention to her foot wore down her resolve.

Why argue with a man delivering such mind-melting attention?

Her laughter was skittish. “You’re the only hazard to my existence, Mr. Ryland. And thank you, but my clothes will stay right where they are.”

“Cyrus,” he reminded her, but his playfulness morphed into concern. “At least, we need to get these wet stockings off. Your lips are quivering.”

Could that be from you touching me in this most agreeable way?

Her body slunk lower on the cushion, becoming pliable clay under his expert attentions. His fingers sapped the strength from her with each gentle circle on her foot. But he must’ve decided more of her needed warming, for Cyrus set one hand on her leg, just under her hem. He rested her foot on his rock-hard thigh as though he would slip a shoe on it, testing its size on her. Large, capable hands massaged her ankle and another shudder skipped along her spine.

Never had she thought of her ankle as a pleasure spot, but her skin tingled.

And those gray eyes of his asked permission to venture higher.

She didn’t move, lest he stop the ministrations. Even her lips relaxed, opening softly. She wouldn’t let him go higher up her leg, but his hands rubbing her ankle did things to her, made her want him to reach secret places.

And then there was her other errand: Nate. Her leg shifted, part of an attempt to regain control of a situation slipping perilously into parts unexpected.

“If you remove my stocking, that means I stay longer.” She gave him a feeble smile. “I can’t. Nate. I must find him.”

His hand wrapped around her calf, inching higher with convincing caresses. “Nate’s a grown lad. He can take of himself. Been doing it a very long time.”

“But he must be in some kind of trouble. I need to find him—”

“And where exactly do you plan to look for him?” Those expert fingertips drew tender circles on her stocking-covered shin. “Do you know where he lives?”

How was she supposed to respond with those hands stroking coherent thought right out of her? His touch prevented her from stringing the appropriate syllables together.

She gripped the broadcloth coat encasing her, her plans faltering under the weight of practical questions and the persuasive hands working a slow trail up her leg.

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where he lives.” Looking down at her foot settled on his thigh, she nodded tacit approval. “Go ahead, my stockings. Take them off.”

His hands slipped higher, more efficient in movement than seductive. Wet locks fell forward as she watched him work. His genuine concern about her welfare touched her, bringing messy wants and emotions.

A lonely ache settled on her like sand sinking to the bottom of a water-filled jar.

He peeled down one stocking and laid the black wool across the hearth. He set to work on the other leg, propping her foot on his thigh. She leaned closer, studying him with rapt fascination.

Dark brown lashes fanned stone-cut cheeks, and within his brown hair, those few silver threads glinted. Black silk wrapped around the length of his queue, a thick cylinder of hair down his back.

Why not one touch?

She reached out and touched the back of his head. His hair was fine as silk against her palm.

Masculine hands stilled in the act of removing her stocking. One stroke to the back of his head was all she wanted to discover the texture of his hair. That forbidden place was harmless and hardly sexual, yet so personal.

“I notice you like to wear your hair this way. And no wig,” she said, wistful in her exploration.

Emboldened, her hand wrapped around the thick coil trailing past his shoulders. She slid her loose grip down the span of black silk twisted around his hair.

Cyrus kept his head bent. The wide line of his powerful shoulders barely moved. He could be a lion, bowing for a fine lady stroking his mane. There had to be an ancient tale of such, but her muddled mind couldn’t recall the story.

His fingers encircled her calf with beguiling contact. The un-gartered stocking slid to her ankle, the undergarment dropping in collusion with the talented male fingers going up her leg.

He caressed her cool, bare skin, the effect devastating. Fingertips swirled over her shin with the lightest touch, sending hot spangles of pleasure everywhere.

Her breath stalled when he reached the tender flesh behind her knee. She let go of his queue, needing a stabilizing grip on his shoulder. Her fingers couldn’t span the width of his rock solid shoulders.

“I’ve no need for a wig, nor do I like them,” he said, rasping his delayed response.

She’d forgotten their thread of conversation, lost in the spell of his comforting hands. Cyrus looked up, his pewter eyes darkening.

His fine mouth held her attention. Light played with his resolute jawline, where the bruise she noticed earlier bloomed purple on his skin. She ought to ask about that, but her mind was a jumble of senses, not sensibility.

Nothing about this day was going as expected. Would a kiss from Cyrus Ryland be the same? Her one hand held the inside of his coat for dear life, the other grasping his shoulder. His hand slipped out from under her hem, leaving her riotous flesh singed.

She inhaled sharply, mourning the loss. “Your hand…”

“I’ve another place for it,” he murmured, his breath soft as down on her cheek.

He curved his fingers around her hair-mussed nape and pulled her close. Cyrus’s forehead touched hers, his silky hair brushing her face. She shut her eyes, seeking the security of darkness. If she didn’t see him, she’d keep a safe distance from the threatening torrent of emotions.

Could she give in to him and will her body alone to feel, erasing her heart from the equation?

Firm, talented fingers massaged her skin beneath her hair’s tangled knot, guiding her closer to him one inch at a time.

And their lips touched.

Her breath quickened. Oh, how she liked his lips on hers.

Cyrus coaxed her, his mouth stroking hers in a lingering kiss. He wooed her, tender flesh meeting tender flesh in a burst of heat and…yearning. His mouth moved over hers, a gentle brush of lips to lips, of longing and want, so astonishing, this persuasive tug on her mouth and heart.

He pulled a whisper’s distance away from her. His mouth swept hers as though she was a thing to be treasured. Cold, wet tresses dangled on her cheeks as more hair came loose. Cyrus’s mouth tugged gingerly on the flesh of her upper lip. Each velvet kiss lured her, reaching deep inside.

She kissed him back, finding new ways to explore the curves and planes of his mouth.

How could a man of brutish size be so careful?

One corner of her brain wanted to place Cyrus neatly on a shelf categorized as arrogant and overbearing, the kind of man who demanded and took, giving little in return. The kind of man she could ignore. This surprising part of Cyrus washed sensation after sensation over her, drowning all thought.

Her knees fell wide open under the trap of her skirts. She inched closer, needing him. His gifted, agile mouth sought hers in a delicate dance of lips stroking lips. Cyrus angled his head sideways to hers, as though he wanted to test a new position, his tongue flirting with the seam of her mouth.

He didn’t invade. He beckoned. He teased and he tasted, seeking her.

His kisses weren’t the claiming kind; his kisses sought connection. And this made Cyrus all the more dangerous. A tremor shook her body, and Claire loosed her hold on the enveloping coat, all the better to press closer.

She needed to rub against him.

Her mouth opened, and she tasted him back. Cyrus was warm and desirable. More than desirable. Heart softening. Her hands moved over mountainous shoulders that required exploring. Needy palms stroked the broad, heavily muscled span she’d itched to discover the first night they sat together, but what she found disturbed her more than settled her.

She wanted more, not less. She wanted clothes off. Now.

She didn’t know how long they sat as they did, lost in thorough kisses. Cyrus separated himself from her, a thing not to her liking. He pulled back and she leaned forward into him, mewling soft, deprived sounds when cool air touched her face.

Her hand touched her mouth. The best kind of kisses numbed the mind, leaving a body floating between heaven and earth. She wasn’t ready to touch ground yet. But there were voices in the hall outside the study door. None came knocking. Were those voices what made him stop?

She opened heavy-lidded eyes, and the room glowed. With careful fingers, Cyrus brushed back the wet tendrils plastered to her cheek.

“You look like a wanton,” he said, breathing hard.

“Only because you kiss like one. We don’t have to stop, you know.”

“And you speak like a wanton.” A hoarse laugh rumbled from his chest. “But this is not the time nor the place for what I have in mind for you.”

His Midlands accent was stronger, and Claire gripped the cushion to keep herself from jumping into his arms like a bawd. She was starved for him.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a small sampling.”

He chuckled, grazing his fingers over her cheek.

She glanced down at herself, registering the shameless changes Cyrus had wrought. She practically thrust her breasts at him. Within her skirts, her legs spread wide, ready to welcome him into the fold of her body. Her drawer’s seam tucked between her legs was slicked with warm wetness.

How mortifying. She tucked her knees together and inched back on the seat, the first move to return to her regular, un-wanton self.

If not for those bothersome voices beyond the door, what fine use would they have made of the settee?

Her hands fussed with her disheveled hair, needing something functional and proper to do. Practical thoughts formed, reminding her that as wonderful as kissing Cyrus felt, their situation and her circumstances were changed not at all.

“I really should go.” Her voice hadn’t recovered, still scraping deeper notes.

“Stay. Please.”

He’d moved around the other side of the tall chair, his hands high on the backrest. Though the chair hid more than half his body, the visible fabric of his waistcoat stretched with each deep breath he took. Did Cyrus Ryland need protection from their soul-shattering kisses too?

“I know I ask a lot, but I want you to wait here for me.” His gaze swept over her attire, the terribly mussed hair. “It would be an honor to have you sit at my table, but even I know it’s not in your best interest to attend a luncheon with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough garbed as you are.” His lips pressed in a flat line. “That is…I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Was there a touch of longing in his eyes? She understood his meaning, but disappointment jabbed her, causing her lashes to flutter low. His intentions were perfect, but she wasn’t dressed right. He wanted to spare her the discomfort of being ill prepared for such an event. But there was more to this than mere social separation.

He was a man who would someday marry into nobility, something she was not.

She gathered her pins, now sprinkled around the settee, and smiled, trying for humor. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in a dining room with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough unless it’s to serve them.”

Her upraised hands removed the few remaining pins clinging in her hair and let the tresses cascade in an uncombed mess. She finger combed dampened hair as well as she could and began to recoil the knot. The simple act calmed the chaos of her flesh and nerves.

Arms raised, she was about to push a pin into place when she hesitated. Cyrus watched her hungrily, his fingertips whitening on the chair. A magic charmer could’ve claimed his soul, mesmerizing him the way he stood stock-still.

“I could watch you pin and unpin your hair…again and again and never get tired of the view,” he marveled.

Her heart thumped faster. If she wasn’t careful, this potent thing between them could dissolve rapidly again, with more than hairpins scattered across the settee. And to what painful end?

“I really must go,” she said softly and finished her task.

It’d be easy to say yes to anything he asked right then. She leaned over and grabbed her shoes. Cyrus’s glassy-eyed stare ranged over her, drinking in her face, her untidy hair, tracing her movements as she slipped one bare foot into a water-stained shoe.

“You won’t stay to meet my nephews?”

She gathered her limp stockings and stuffed them in her apron pockets. “Those young men in the drawing room?”

“Yes, Peter, Zachariah, and Simon,” he said, eyes shining at their names. “My older sisters have a bent for biblical names.”

The corner of his mouth quirked when he gave the last tidbit of information. Claire picked up the second shoe, listening attentively. This reprieve washed over them, giving their lust-strung bodies a chance to recover.

“I’m proud of them,” he said, moving around the chair. “They’ve worked hard at their studies, and now Simon’s on his way to becoming a physician, and Peter and Zach will soon become barristers. The duke is helping them to land in some high places.” His smile stretched but failed to light his eyes. “Not bad for a family of freehold farmers from Stretford.”

He wanted them to keep talking; she could tell as much by the way his voice, his gaze lingered. His tone was as tender as it was humble, playing on her heart…all the more reason for her to be gone. Conversation bred hope.

Cyrus trod a very different path from her. The want to reach higher and take more from life was common ground they shared, but their lives diverged from there.

Sluggish hands slipped on her second shoe, practical brown leather, same as she always wore.

“Those are wonderful achievements for your nephews,” she said.

Her fingers rubbed a smudge on the buckle of her shoe, hollowness growing inside her. The scuffed footwear illustrated with perfect clarity what needed saying.

“As a girl, I always wanted pretty silk slippers.” She raised her hems and tapped the worn leather toes together. “I spent my childhood with the Greenwich family, a companion to Lady Jane, the earl’s sister. She let me wear her silk shoes, but by nightfall it was time for me to go home where I belonged…the humble land steward’s cottage.”

Cyrus didn’t move.

“Don’t you see? They weren’t mine. I had to give them back.” Her voice turned soft and pensive. “I never had pretty shoes of my own.”

He stood statue still, his dark lashes dropping over his eyes.

She released her skirts and sat up tall. “If I let this go too far with you, I’d be that girl wearing silk shoes for a time, pretending to live a life that isn’t hers. Eventually things would end.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I would take care of you.”

“You mean like a mistress?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“But that’s what would happen.” With measured care, she stood up and passed him his coat, her tone level. “I like who I am and what I have…my life as it is.”

Cyrus slipped on his fine blue coat, fixing his shirtsleeves at the wrists. “Is there more to your message? Speak plainly.”

His jaw was rigid, a small muscle ticking on his cheek. This rejection hurt them both, but she would not let this thing between them consume her. She retrieved her cloak hanging from the mantel. The wool became the armor she wrapped around her.

“Everybody in London knows you’ll someday marry a woman of high social standing, and that’s something I’m not.” Claire lifted her hood. “To embark on something with you would be folly. I don’t belong here. I tried mixing with a man not of my station once, and…”

“The necklace,” he demanded. “Who gave it to you?”

She stared past Cyrus and exhaled a long, soul-cleansing breath.

“Jonathan,” she said. “He taught me to climb trees, helped me laugh again after I lost my mother. He was the giver of my first kiss, receiver of my virginity, and heir to the Greenwich earldom.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “He’s the only man I’ve ever loved, and the only man to break my heart.”

“You speak of the deceased Lord Jonathan Greenwich.”

“Yes, he led me to believe we’d marry, deceived me really. Once his mother discovered what went on between us, she made sure he found the companionship of more suitable women, while I was shamed in my home village.” Her voice was faint. “And in return, Jonathan gifted me with a necklace.”

His mouth’s hard line softened with her painful revelation. Did he understand the push-pull of being part of one stratum while existing in another? Repeating the old news stung her less, but not so the truth she gained from it.

Her false smile thinned. “I will not seek the companionship of a man of position.”

Square shouldered, his arms made solid lines at his side. “But I’m a commoner.”

“You are the King of Commerce, an uncommon commoner, a man who seeks high places.” With heavy hands, she tied her cloak under her chin. “Your wealth will get you there.”

And she needed to get back to her life, her accomplishments, and her problems—all of them, from the notes due, to Nate…if she could ever locate him.

“I’d be obliged if you had one of your men fetch a hack for me. Then I can leave almost as quietly as I came.” She grinned, trying for a spark of humor again, but the flare didn’t catch.

Cyrus stayed shuttered and distant. Her shoulders drooped with lagging spirits. She had been wrung dry on this wet day.

“I’ll have one of my carriages take you,” he said, pulling a bell rope beside the mantel.

A footman came and Cyrus ordered a carriage brought around to the front. Ever the gentleman, he gave her his arm and she rested her fingertips there, tentative and light. If she was thrown off kilter by the day, Cyrus was equally affected. He brooded beside her, large and silent, his well-shod feet leading the two of them slowly through his house to the front door.

Another footman pulled open the door, facing forward in the unseeing way footmen mastered. Outside, rain showered the earth, no longer a tempest but not yet a sprinkle. The carriage trundled over the drive, coming to a halt before the gray stone steps. Cyrus placed his hand over hers and led her down the steps. She didn’t expect him to go out in the rain. She had a cloak; he didn’t.

His water-splattered profile could be etched on some historic coin as a ruler of men. Strength exuded from him. Everyone looked bedraggled in the rain. Not Cyrus. The heavenly showers touched his strong cheeks with glistening drops, rolling gently away. If not for the downward curve of his mouth, she’d believe the King of Commerce unaffected by his last audience where an upstart woman refused his appeal for carnal connection.

She wanted badly to smooth away the tension around his mouth. Instead, another footman pulled open the carriage door and waited.

Time she left.

Cyrus surprised her again, dismissing the servant. He helped her up the step and helped her get settled inside, laying a wool carriage blanket over her knees with the utmost care.

“You need to keep as warm and dry as possible,” he admonished above the patter of rain.

He tarried outside the open door, bracing one hand on the carriage’s door frame. Cyrus looked to the ground a second and then his hand, palm up, reached for her. She scooted to the seat’s edge, slipping her hand in his. Rain spotted his coat, deepening the fabric’s hue. Droplets streamed down his granite-hewn face, but Cyrus held her fingers with care, the way a gentleman would a fine lady’s.

“Promise me you’ll stay inside your shop and not seek Nate.” He spoke above the rain. “I give you my word, I’ll do everything I can to find him.”

Alarmed, she pushed back her hood. “I won’t bring charges against him.”

“I didn’t expect you would.” His mouth curved in a half smile, raindrops darkening his lashes.

His deep, knowing voice calmed her, but then he bowed over their joined hands and his lips opened on the tops of her fingers, stealing one more slow, salacious kiss.

How could a woman’s hand become a territory of hot sensuality?

Her stays rubbed sensitive skin, her body agitated from the burden of too many clothes. Cyrus had turned what should have been a chaste good-bye into something fleshly and endearing all at once.

He stood upright, the rain darkening his brown hair. His smile quirked sideways, and he held her fingers another imprudent second. Strands of hair came loose from his tidy queue, turning Cyrus Ryland into a windswept, intrepid hero. Her hero. And her heart ached.

She wasn’t sure what touched her more: his promise to find Nate or his tender farewell despite her rejection.

He released her fingers and stepped back to shut the door. He nodded for the carriage to proceed. She leaned her forehead against ice-cold glass, needing to see him. Cyrus was surety in an unsure world, standing there in a wide-legged stance, one hand behind his back. He followed the carriage’s departure from the bottom step, a strong gust blowing his coattails.

Nothing could knock him to the ground.

Her palm flattened on the window. She stayed on the edge of the seat until he was no longer in sight, her soul sagging from the loss.

But Cyrus wasn’t the last face she saw at Ryland House.

The carriage rolled past the study window where a man stood in full view, his sharp-eyed stare burning with malice. At her. Claire jerked back, scalded.

It was the Duke of Marlborough.

Why did he glare at her with such hate?