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 was not 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: Why don’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 Miss Claire—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 Miss Tottenham 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.
The sensual hunt was over.
What happened?
They made another rotation, this time in silence. Miss Tottenham twirled, coming back to him with a smile pasted on her face. An unseen wall erected itself between them.
Why couldn’t he make the pieces to this puzzling woman fit?
Courtesan or not, he was certain the potent attraction was mutual. Equally diverting was his ease with her, an instant comfort. He wanted more.
Had he played his hand too much? Come on too strong? Or did something else vex her? Women were complex creatures, requiring a deft hand. Was her change because he’d been too forward in so public a place? Or because he said words of a more personal nature?
His limbs moved stiffly, compensating for the ache inside his breeches, but he’d take his time, alter his strategy. And that took him back to his original plan: learn more about his elusive guest.
“By looks and speech, you’re a woman who can hold her own. But other than your name, hair color, and eyes, I know next to nothing of you.” They stepped together again, and he grinned at her. “Even a hunter gets a scent of the prey.”
“Want to sniff me, do you? I suppose that makes me the fox to your hound.”
She’d snapped out of her brief fracture of distance, but his fair-haired guest was decidedly cooler, despite the flush touching the exposed parts of her cheeks. Her life vein throbbed low on her neck. His stare fixed on the inviting spot, a spot in need of much kissing. He’d find a way to warm Miss Tottenham up again. Tonight. The first moment they were alone.
Their bodies brushed together. He breathed her in, or tried to. All of him knotted with want and frustration, causing his legs to move with sluggish determination through the allemande’s steps. Patience, he needed patience.
“You’ve got to give me something before the unmasking. It’s only fair.”
“Fair?” she asked, her eyes flaring. “Is that word in your vocabulary?”
Maybe she had him there. His gaze locked onto her lips and the tempting, creamy skin not covered by the mask. Miss Tottenham’s skin…her softly angled jaw, her slender neck, down to her small breasts pressed upward—all of her glowed.
She vibrated with life and something indefinable he couldn’t name. Around them the music swelled, reaching for another crescendo. This time the turn of her body was not the practiced move of a flirt, simply the loose flow of a graceful woman.
“Very well. I can toss a tidbit.” She looked to where her fingertips crossed politely with his. “See that?” She tipped her head at their hands. “The scar near my thumb?”
He turned his attention to their hands, the allemande’s final notes drifting over them. His fingers curled under her hand, cupping her loosely.
She angled her thumb to give him a better view, and he honed in on the star-shaped scar. Dancers jostled around them, bumping her closer. Little more than an inch of space separated them. More loose blond wisps fell from their pins, framing her dance-flushed cheeks. With each breath, her body made contact with his.
His thumb stroked the unusual pink mark at the base of her thumb, and then slipped around to massage her palm. When she looked into his eyes, another shock went through him. Miss Tottenham’s strawberry-painted mouth opened a fraction with definite invitation. Again. His mouth curved triumphantly: he was regaining lost sensual territory.
“You’re very thorough in your study, Mr. Ryland,” she said, breathy and soft. “I don’t think my hand’s ever had such tender attention.”
Her skirts caressed the length of his legs. The music stopped. They weren’t moving, but he held her close as though the dance would continue, her breath’s rhythm melding with his. The floor thronged with men and women, revelers laughing and mingling. Many removed their masks.
Surrounded as they were, he settled in a private world with Miss Tottenham.
He liked having her in his thrall, just deserts for the way she tempted him. Long brown lashes rimmed her darkened eyes. He searched her face, the small tip of her nose; her mouth curved and open.
“The scar,” he reminded her. “You were telling me about it.”
“The scar?” The pink-red flesh of her lips rounded gently.
Was she as lost in the moment as he? He squeezed her hand, and one finger tapped the star-shaped mark. She dipped her head, cheeks flushing anew, but when Miss Tottenham looked at him again, her tender smile was open.
“When I was seventeen, I cut my hand climbing a tree.” Her body brushed his, but her small, rounded chin snared him, the pert feature tipping up. “And despite the scar, I’ve no regrets. That day was wonderful. A woman who seeks to look and be perfect like some doll on a shelf hasn’t lived.”
“A bold proclamation,” he said, warming to her haughtiness. “But I’ll have to bow to your wisdom about dolls on a shelf. Never bothered with them.”
Her laugh whorled between them. The white tips of Miss Tottenham’s teeth nipped her lower lip. He glanced at her hand again, his thumb rubbing careful circles over the mark.
A scar. Women weren’t supposed to have them. They were supposed to be soft-skinned, elevated creatures with men mucking through the hard places. But life left marks, those seen and unseen.
Of all the things she could have said, Miss Tottenham shared an imperfection, a flaw over an accomplishment, which made her all the more fascinating. The picture of a proper young woman teetering between girlhood and the demands of maturity warmed him. He savored the image of her laughing in a tree, and he wanted more of the grown woman before him.
His eyes narrowed on her demi-mask. “It’s midnight. Time for the unmasking.” He was done with the flimsy barrier. It was time he saw her.
All of her, if he had his way tonight.
Her hands jerked free of his and bracketed her face. “The unmasking…”
Visible parts of Miss Tottenham paled. She took a half step away from him, backing into a laughing lady.
“Beg pardon…” she said, giving the reflexive courtesy.
Moving backward, her hands framed her mask. Did she plan to keep the disguise in place?
Around them, the crowd of dancers thinned. The colorful horde made a slow exodus around Miss Tottenham, drawn to midnight’s cooler air on the back courtyard. Outside, a row of footmen stood sentinel with trays of champagne at the ready.
Lucinda’s birthday.
A twinge struck him. There were duties to attend as brother and as host, duties he’d tossed aside in favor of getting lost for a time with a certain woman. Cyrus scoured the room for his sister, aware that a toast was expected. He turned back, reaching for Miss Tottenham.
“Stay with me.”
But another feminine voice reached his ears. “Mr. Ryland.”
Cyrus twisted around, looking into hazel-green eyes framed by a bronze silk mask. The young woman facing him equaled the pinnacle of London’s pursuit of perfection, her auburn tresses and good manners pinned properly in place.
“Lady Churchill.” He bowed.
He was certain no saucy retort ever left her lips.
“If I may have a moment of your time,” she said, her light touch slipping from his arm. “I wanted to speak with you about what happened in the garden.”
His neck and shoulders tensed, constricting him better than any wretched jabot. “No need. I’m the one who should apologize. That you were subject to my unsavory exchange with Lady—”
“No, Mr. Ryland.” She lowered her voice, a needless thing with all the noise. “You have always been a gentleman with me. I wanted you to know—”
Lady Churchill quashed her words upon seeing her mother’s approach. The Duchess of Marlborough’s perceptive eyes took measure of the loose jabot. The grande dame frowned fiercely, skirts swirling about her ankles in her forward press.
Lucinda walked a pace behind the duchess, mouthing I’m sorry.
There was no escaping the requirement of social parley with a duchess once she had a man in her sights. His feet were rooted to the floor, and he was ready for the inevitable.
He scanned the herd of people over his shoulder, finding Miss Tottenham melting into the mass beyond the open doors.
“Miss Tottenham?” he called, but she didn’t answer.
The mask stayed on. She wasn’t looking at him. With movements less graceful, her focus went beyond him as if he weren’t there.
A new line of footmen marched by from the kitchens, bearing more trays of champagne. His masked guest skirted the orderly servants, skimming the wall and potted plants on the other side of the room. Where was she going?
His body tensed, his every instinct for the chase, when a fan thumped his shoulder.
“Mis-ter Ryland.”
His mouth firmed, but he turned around and bowed low from the waist. “Your Grace.”
“There are proprieties to be observed.” The Duchess of Marlborough’s stiff, imperious voice demanded attention.
He glowered at the ivory fan, which the grand dame wielded like a scepter. She had the good sense to tuck the offending item into the folds of her skirt. His patience hung threadbare over what would be another attempt to foist her daughter on him. He had run out of gentlemanly refusals and was about to say as much.
Lady Churchill studied the lace flaring from her elbows, tugging on impeccable threadwork. Her mouth drooped such that he guessed she was less than enthusiastic about this meeting. For that reason alone, Cyrus held his tongue from the unwise lashing he wanted to give; the young lady couldn’t be held accountable for her overbearing mother.
“You’re right. There are proprieties to observe when a brother celebrates his sister’s birthday.” He gave his sister a tight smile and motioned to the courtyard. “Lucinda, why not take our guests outside where it’s cooler? We’ll raise a glass in your honor as soon as everyone’s gathered.”
From his peripheral vision, a lithe form in pale blue and silver silk exited the ballroom for the main hall. He bowed again.
“Please enjoy the courtyard. I’ve something to attend, but I’ll be out shortly.”
His body moved of its own accord, pursuing Miss Tottenham. The duchess blustered at his retreating back, but her complaints were lost in the ballroom chatter. He went on alert, hunting down his mystery woman. Alarms of concern went off inside him. Did someone scare her?
The man she hid from earlier?
Was that the reason for her strange turn when they danced? His heels slammed the floor with his hasty exit. Protective instincts surged. He would take care of her.
“Miss Tottenham.” His voice rose above the din.
Heads turned. Cyrus threaded past those guests. Ahead of him, Miss Tottenham took brisk strides through the long, wide entry hall. She looked over her shoulder and slammed into a plant pedestal.
Frantic hands saved the fern from falling over, but verdant fronds caught her hair. A cascade of snowy tresses fell loose. She swiped the leaves free and continued her rapid progress, greenery swaying in her wake. Two guests moved across his path, wanting some of his time, but the woman he wanted was slipping away.
“Claire?” he called out again, raising a hand to hail her. “Claire, wait.” His voice boomed in the cavernous hall. He didn’t care that he broke cardinal rules of social protocol right then.
Didn’t she know he would protect her?
Miss Tottenham jolted to a stop. Pale blue skirts swirled wide when she faced him. She raised a hand as though she would push him away.
“No.” The single word bounced off the high ceiling.
Her eyes, cool and remote, froze him, every muscle locked by the icy refusal. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts and ran.
She sprinted as though the very devil nipped her heels, racing for the open front door. Her footfalls echoed. Guests mingling in the entry hall paused to witness the unfolding tableau, their hushed murmurs and curious stares following the minor drama. Two footmen milled near the open door, but when Miss Tottenham sped their way, both servants snapped to attention.
And she ran headlong into midnight, the darkness swallowing her whole.
He blinked at the empty doorway.
The drive to chase her loosened his limbs, but what followed came in nightmarish seconds.
Belker moved into the hall, the butler’s stern forehead wrinkling. The man said something, but Cyrus failed to hear words in his rush to the doorway. Blood hummed in his ears. He had to reach her.
There was movement…a servant coming around a large support column. Then chaos struck.
Cyrus collided with a footman bearing a full tray. The wide salver tipped, dumping the contents. Champagne showered Cyrus. Glassware splintered everywhere. The silver tray crashed on marble tiles, ringing a loud, metallic spin. Mouths gaped. Guests were shocked to silence at the display.
“Sir, my apologies…sir…” the footman stammered.
Cyrus checked the footman and himself. No cuts. His heart pumped hard but not from fear of glass splitting a vein.
“No harm done.” His body ran hot but his voice was cold.
She had vanished. He’d lost her.
Disbelief twisted into another blazing emotion. The acrid taste of having hosted a pretty deceiver settled over him: the mysterious Miss Tottenham had played him for a fool. Oh, she was good; he’d give her that. He fell—and fell rather hard—for the ploys of an artisan of flirtation.
His lips pressed into a grim line. Had she marked him as an easy target, the Midlands rustic fairly new to Town?
Her practiced seduction had him panting after her in his own home no less. An ugly, guttural laugh rumbled from him when he pictured moments ago how he’d raced after her like some besotted swain.
He picked up the chase again, this time with measured steps. Glass crunched underfoot. No, he’d not find a trace of her, but that didn’t stop him from moving past gawking men and women gathered in his hall, all witnesses to his folly.
He needed to check the obvious for himself.
Behind him, Belker issued terse commands and profuse apologies that fell on deaf ears. Cyrus stepped through his open doorway, scanning the night. Clouds covered the moon, casting darkness everywhere.
Liquid clung to his lashes, and he became aware of how much he’d been doused. Cold champagne soaked his waistcoat and shirt. He swiped wetness from his face and shook the excess from his fingers. The nectar seeped into the corners of his mouth but failed to sweeten him.
Carriages lined his driveway; many more waited on Piccadilly. Their candle lanterns dotted the blackness with yellow points of light. Somewhere out there, London hid a lone woman on the escape. His fists curled at his sides. He would hunt down the vixen and find out what game she played.
She hadn’t run from another man tonight. She ran from him. Him. Why?
A coachman cleared his throat on the bottom step, clutching a brown object to his chest.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” The man tipped his head in deference to Cyrus and held up a shoe. “The lady who just ran out left this.”
Cyrus moved down the steps. The coachman stretched out his hands, offering a brown leather shoe of middling quality—a commoner’s shoe, not a silk slipper.
“The lady wore this?” He turned the flat-heeled footwear in his hands, examining scuffed leather and a broken tin buckle.
“Fell off her foot on this spot, it did.” The coachman nodded with conviction. “Saw it meself. So’d Harry over there.” He jabbed a thumb at another coachman who bobbed his head in agreement.
“She came flyin’ out yer house wearin’ a blue gown.” Harry spoke into the fray, waggling his finger at the bottom step. “Right there, the lady almost tripped. Then she ran that away.” The coachman tipped his head toward the east.
Cyrus stared blankly in that direction. On ground level, much was obscured by the black shapes of carriages and horses.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding curtly to the men.
He climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, twin hazes of anger and bafflement battling in his mind. His fingers slipped inside the shoe, meeting grainy leather warm from her foot. He turned the shoe with its ruined buckle over in his hands, hunting for evasive clues but finding none. The cobbler’s imprint had been worn down, the impression unreadable.
What did he know of women’s shoes? Their footwear had never fascinated him, but he held an important key to the secret life of one Miss Claire Tottenham.
More like he burned to get his hands on her.
To do what? Shake her? Kiss her? He scoffed aloud and the two coachmen glanced his way. Yes, he wanted to test her lips—claim them was more like it—if only for the satisfaction to take what she brazenly offered when they danced. Any tenderness was crushed the moment Miss Tottenham looked at him, aloof and rejecting, before running away. He needed to find out why she played him falsely, for that was most assuredly what went on tonight.
Her words rang in his head: Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn’t she?
He turned, facing London’s midnight sky. Cool night air caressed his champagne-soaked skin. His flaxen-haired guest shunned silk slippers under her skirts…an interesting choice for a courtesan. One surprising question pushed hard, a question he was certain contained the answers he needed.
Why would a woman wear common brown shoes under a ball gown?
“I’ll hunt you down,” he vowed under his breath. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I’ll find you.”