Lady Meets Her Match (20 page)

His voice was resolute. There was nothing heroic in what he did, but he did it.

“And what happened?”

“My friend left for the colonies, and I went back to digging the Bridgewater Canal, taking it from Stretford to Manchester with a lot of other men. I constructed warehouses for the duke first and later was able to build mine. One by one.” He grinned in the dark. “I didn't become wealthy overnight, despite the broadsheets' claims. I worked hard for years, with my bare hands by day, working my ledgers by night.”

“Ah, the ledgers,” she said ruefully.

He gave the blond lock he stroked a gentle tug. “Yes, the ledgers. Eventually, I bought land and built more warehouses. It was slow going, but I learned the law of percentages. Live on a small percentage and reinvest everything else. Something Brindley taught me.”

“And your fighting?”

Air left his lungs in a hard rush. “A younger man's dream. That pursuit dwindled…had to because of other responsibilities.”

The carriage passed buildings dotted with candle lanterns. The horses snorted at their evening's labor, and men, not so far removed from Cyrus at one time, worked to bring Miss Mayhew to her doorstep.

“I hardly fight at all…practice some at London's gentlemen's clubs, but tonight was my last bout. Bare-knuckle brawling's not best for fitting in to Piccadilly. I don't speak of it to others.”

He rested his cheek on top of her head, breathing in her scent. Claire's hair smelled of cinnamon, something far better than any fine perfume.

“The bruise on your cheek will give you away.” Amusement threaded her voice, reaching him from the shadows.

He touched the small cut.

“Tonight was a chance for a man moving past his prime to test himself one last time.”

She pinched his chest. “What I saw tonight was hardly past prime, sir.”

His sore arm wrapped behind Claire, bringing her close. “The sport favors the younger man.”

He took a deep breath, lighter, cleaner even from sharing his burden. He wanted fiercely for Claire to accept him as he was: a barely educated laborer who took a risk and won.

“Then, you're not…repulsed by me? What I've done? Or my size?”

Claire pulled away, the loss of her warmth against his side making him cold. Her blond hair trailed to her waist, an obscure light in the darkness. Did she need a better look at him?

His soul was hanging there by a thread. If she rejected him again…

She slid a finger over the cleft of his chin, rubbing the indent up and down with the softest touch. A hot twinge shot to his groin. His carnal mind equated the move to similar strokes he'd like to do inside Claire.

“No,” she replied. “I'm not repulsed by you in any way. Quite the opposite.”

He closed his eyes, aware how much he wanted her. The torment came in wanting a woman and not knowing how to express the right words in the right way. She was bent on living independently, making her own mark in the world, a woman not in need of a man.

Giving and providing was all he knew.

For him, love's lifeblood flowed when he took care of others, but to be on equal footing with a woman? And share his heart? He'd rather face a dozen brawlers than one slender midtown proprietress in the ring of words and emotions.

Claire slid forward into his lap, finding a perch there. Those perfect twin circles of her bottom burned a saucy message on his thigh.

“You plan to have me flat on my back again?” His voice was as stiff and strained as another part of him.

With her skirts bunched up behind her, only the trifling cloth of her drawers separated her bottom's cleavage from his breeches. He could
feel
the shape of her, but she squirmed against him, likely having no idea her effect on him.

His eyes shut; he was badly in need of stouthearted restraint.

“I don't think we have the room for that sort of thing,” she said, tucking her head under his chin. “But you could give me helpful insight.”

Right then, the blasted carriage bounced hard. He winced. The mishap was minor; the innocent brushing of her hip against his phallus was not. The shot of pleasure was a torment.

“You'll have to enlighten me on the nature of the”—he paused, seeking control when her hand slipped inside his open shirt again—“insight you require.”

Her middle finger discovered the tip of his nipple. A butterfly could be touching the nib of his flesh the way she toyed with him.

His muscles burned from brawling three rounds with a man nearly a decade younger. Now his sinews tensed from head to toe with hot embers teasing him everywhere, and his present opponent was willow slim and winning.

“I was thinking you could provide much-needed assistance.” Her voice purred a soft vibration against his neck. “With sensual flirtations. I seem to be lacking in experience.”

“I'd say you're doing very well.”

He had a pretty good idea what Claire wanted: to explore sensual delights, to go so far and stop. If he were a betting man, he'd wager his proprietress was finding her way and getting comfortable with saying yes to him.

Did he have the fortitude for the battle ahead?

Neck tendons strained. He worked to keep himself in check so as not to overwhelm her. And then she pulled back his coat to free the few buttons on his waistcoat that he'd fastened earlier. Determined hands pushed aside his garments with a whisper of sound.

His chin dropped to his chest, all the better to watch her. He lounged on the seat, hips slung low, his feet bracing the floor.

Outside, the candle lantern swayed, doling meager slashes of light inside. Claire stared at the dip in the middle of his chest muscles. Her intent gaze scoured him, sending waves of gooseflesh over him. Even his male nipples peaked, hungry for her to touch him again.

His breath tripped at her soft seduction. Claire had unknowingly played Eve tonight when she'd pulled back her blanket, beckoning him to sit beside her. Now, her fingers feathered his ribs, exploring the trenches and ridges of his flesh.

“I never thought of a man's torso as beautiful.” Her voice was fluttery and sweet in the darkness. “But yours is.”

Weakened as he was, he warred with his intentions to be honorable, but there was only so much a body could receive before much giving ought to be done.

Her cloak fell off her shoulders, his resolve falling with it.

His hand rooted under the blanket covering their legs. Her skirt's woolen weave brushed his hand. Claire's underskirts gathered mid-thigh, but his questing hand didn't have to work hard to find the thin cambric chemise. The flimsy fabric taunted him, dipping between her thighs…her warm, firm thighs.

Cyrus curled his hand over the spot above one knee, his fingertips pressing her flesh.

Her body shook with small tremors when his fingers traced the contours of her leg. Her one hand on his shoulder held on tight, digging in five points of pressure. Was this desire
and
nervousness?

The fact bolstered him. His proper midtown proprietress wanted him, was inviting him to touch her in this most private way. Her other hand spread across his chest as though she needed the maximum feel of him under her palm.

“I know I'm not very skilled at this.” She breathed into his neck, her lips grazing his collarbone with a tender kiss.

“My hand's under your skirt,” he said, stroking her thigh. “I'd say you've mastered the skill.”

She tittered and squirmed before sitting up straighter in his lap. Each shift, each move threw more fuel on the fire already crackling between them. He suspected they sat at a crossroads of wants—a contrary place for a man with a hard phallus and a softening heart to be.

One could so quickly overrule the other.

And his seeking fingers slipped to her inner thigh, hunting for a hot feminine place with deliberate sluggishness. He wanted her to want him. Badly.

“There is some-
thing
”—Claire's voice pitched high when his fingers traveled up the inside seam of her drawers—“else.”

Her breath huffed hard enough to stir the tendrils falling across her face. Inside his shirt, her nails dug into his chest. She held on for dear life, overwhelmed, he was sure, by the shocking feel of a slow caress. His midtown proprietress was hot and ready to explode with barely a hint of touch, and he hadn't reached the secret opening of her drawers yet.

“Shhh…” he hushed, soothing her while his fingers stalled inches from the palpable heat under her skirts. “We need to take this slower.”

Claire pulled away, blinking at him like an owl. “You mean we're going too fast?” Her chest moved up and down as though she'd been running hard.

He chuckled, finding her brand of innocence and knowing a pleasure. “Exactly how did things go with your Lord Jonathan?”

As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. She teetered on his thigh, and her hand inside his shirt went slack.

“That was ungentlemanly of me,” he said. “Forgive me.”

At least she stayed on his thigh, but his hand retreated from the trail of her drawers' inner seam. She shook her head, more hair slipping over her shoulders.

“Don't. I want no words unsaid between us. No secrets. Even if they're unpleasant.” Her hand on his shoulder rubbed back and forth. “And I rather liked what we were doing.”

“I won't rush you.” He rasped a chuckle. “Accosting you in my carriage wasn't something I planned.” They hadn't bothered to draw the curtains, though no one roamed the fog-filled midnight streets. He couldn't recall passing a night watchman.

“Accost me at will,” she murmured. “You know you haven't kissed me yet.”

Her words were a gratifying entreaty, but she needed silk sheets and soft candles, not midnight groping under a carriage blanket with his coachman bellowing outside. The wilt of her lips at their lack of kisses charmed him. His arm tucked around her backside, and his other hand left the warmth of her leg, seeking the corner of her mouth.

“Claire,” he chided, his finger stroking her cheek. “You need to be sure of this.”

She clutched his hand touching her face and kissed the center of his palm.

“I'm sure of one thing, Cyrus. You are the best treasure I've found since coming to London.” Her words curled around him with reverent confession. “I admit I don't know exactly
what
I want when it comes to you, but please tonight…
touch
me
.”

Her plea, a mix of yearning and confusion, grabbed him. Claire guided his hand lower, dragging it over her square neckline until the center of his palm nestled over her breast. She pushed her hair back, a leisured move, all while looking him in the eye.

Beneath his hand her heart quickened, but Claire placed both her hands slowly over his like an unspoken vow.

Midnight smoldered with enticement. Nothing was cold inside the carriage. The windows clouded, covering the glass as good as any curtain. Claire fixed her gaze on him and untied the neat, proper bow that closed the front of her bodice, slowly freeing herself one prim X of lacing at a time.

Languorous and heavy lidded, his fortitude crumbled under each loosened tie.

Claire's breath skipped and bumped its way in and out of her lungs when the top of her bodice drooped. Practical, pale-colored stays pushed her small breasts up with modest invitation. The allure was more appealing than any strumpet's overflowing corset.

His fingers flexed against the wool blanket with an itch to touch her, to free her. Soft, white half-moons waxed and waned above the fabric of her stays with each breath she took.

Nostrils flaring, his threadbare control snapped. He planted his hands on her ribs and plucked her from sitting sidesaddle on his leg to face him and straddle his legs. The move would undo them both.

She gasped at the sudden change of position. Sitting astride his lap, her body jiggled when his fingers pulled free the front lacing of her stays with more determination than seduction.

All thoughts of where they sat and his good intentions evaporated.

Claire gripped his shoulders, her bodice slackening under his firm intent. She tipped her head, watching his fingers do their best.

“Is this a talent of yours?” she asked saucily. “You unloosed my stays faster than I do on a bad day.”

His gaze shot up briefly from concentrating on her bodice, but he looked down again at his labors, yanking free one more impertinent X of lacing. He didn't pounce on her almost-freed breasts. Instead, his hands surrounded her body high on her ribs as though he would memorize her shape, treasuring the feel of her.

She stared at his encircling hands, white-blond tresses slipping forward, a frothy waterfall over his hands. His hands moved with agonizing slowness up her flimsy, open bodice. Wool abraded his palms as if to give fair contrast to the pearled skin he was about to touch. His hands stopped at the bottom of her high curves.

Her stare sparkled, meeting his. A message poured from her, an entrancing thread of connection. Claire's lips parted. His jaw loosened. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was with flour on her hands, giving him her opinions, how she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen in her simple dresses, but words became flimsy and insufficient.

Where words failed, touch would not.

His thumbs slipped inside her bodice, the pads brushing the small tips pointing at him. Her breath hissed. Claire's fingers dug into his shoulders, clamping him as if she feared falling off his lap. He made tender rosettes over her areolas in careful adoration. He cupped her downy-soft flesh, his eyes burning to capture every detail of what she revealed to him in the dark.

The laxness of her lower lip…the slant of her eyelids…the tiny spread of her nostrils…

Claire was unhinged by the shocking touch. Her head fell back, exposing the white column of her throat.

He moved to the edge of the seat, all the better for her to sit flush against him. The action coiled another layer of tension on their oversensitized flesh. His vixen jammed her mons against him, rubbing and searching. Her knees gripped the sides of him the way riders grip a galloping horse. His breath turned ragged at the picture of her riding him thus, and clear thoughts tumbled.