Lady Meets Her Match (26 page)

The flat of her scarred hand slid high up his back and pulled on the black tie. “There's a strip of silk that requires my attention.”

The onyx ribbon ceded defeat, abdicating its position high on his nape.

Cyrus's chin tipped close to his shoulder. “Would this be part of my lessons in laundry?”

His deep voice melted over her hidden parts.

“This is a domestic requirement only you can fulfill.”

The glass reflected the smile playing on the corner of his mouth. “I'm of the belief a man should always be ready to fill any household needs.”

She dipped her head, biting back laughter, and inched closer. The tips of her toes nudged his fine leather shoes. One hand sought his rock-hewn bicep while her other hand unwound the ribbon of his queue. Black silk uncoiled, freeing thick brown hair sprinkled with silver threads. Her fingers trailed the length.

“How could a man have such beautiful hair?” she murmured, looking to his reflection in the window. “So many women would be envious.”

Glass panes muted his masculine angles and strong nose, but neither late daylight nor dim candles could dull the quicksilver eyes flashing back at her. A shiver danced over her skin—the same skin covered by her slackened corset, a garment she was certain would be removed by his skilled hands.

She breathed in his male scent, his skin smelling of depth and strength. Cyrus turned to face her, his hand knocking clutter off the table. Wooden hairpins clattered to the floor, the fashionable hair pad tumbled as did a piece of paper. She was too muddled to care, but Cyrus crouched near her hem to retrieve the fallen items.

With one hand, he dropped pins and the pad onto the table, but when he stood up, the paper stayed in his grasp. His brows slashed a hard line above his nose as he scanned it.

The
letter.

She squeezed her eyes shut, paper crinkling in the silence. The sound alone was accusing.

“I can explain,” she offered, opening her eyes.

The pewter stare pinning her would give no quarter. “Yes. I'd like to know why Jonas Bacon thinks he's going to the colonies with you.”

They stood nearly toe-to-toe, her skirts brushing his legs. She took the letter from Cyrus and set it on the table. The letter was short and life changing, same as the two notes Cyrus had sent her.

What
is
it
with
men
and
their
brief
messages?

Cyrus moved away, crossing his arms. She didn't like that there was too much air between them, but her life was hers and hers alone to navigate. Who was he to insinuate himself in matters?

Her nose tipped higher. “I'd be fully in my rights to tell you that my affairs are none of your concern.”

An unpleasant sting followed those tart words. At some point, the two of them had crossed a threshold. Was it the day he stood like a steadfast hero of old, promising to help her find Nate despite her silly rejection in his study? Or the moment he awoke from a flattening blow, a blow benefiting her?

“A sentiment I understand.” He nodded, his mouth flattening. “And acknowledge.”

His bruised cheek twitched. She balked at the sight of it. The wound could be accusing her of being a fickle maid.

She didn't want him closed and distant. She preferred the picture of them entwined, body and soul, and such a want meant prying open shut places.

She cleared her throat. “My secondary plan, if I was unable to obtain a shop here in London, was to journey to the colonies. New York, to be exact.”

She clasped her hands waist high, waiting.

Hard, truth-seeking eyes examined her. “And do you want to go? With your Jonas?”

“No. I want to stay.”

With
you.

His eyes widened a fraction. Did he see those words in her eyes?

“And he's not my Jonas. Never has been. I know him from my days in service at Greenwich Park. He was the earl's man of business,” she explained. “Jonas lived once in the colonies and offered to go with me for safe passage. Nothing more.”

Heart pounding, she stepped closer, setting a tentative hand on his forearm. Roped muscles jumped under her hand where his rolled-up sleeve exposed his arm. Was he restraining himself from touching her back?

“But he's not aware of your decision to stay.”

“Because I haven't had the chance to write him,” she said softly. “My mind has been otherwise occupied.”

His nostrils flared, bringing to mind a predator watching over prime territory. “Are there any more men waiting? Men wishing to see to your safety?”

“You'd be the only one.” She fought back a smile. “Seeing to my safety, that is. As to waiting, I can't imagine you doing that for any woman.”

“I've been waiting for you.” Cyrus's pupils expanded, black as midnight.

His simple words disarmed her, words delivered with banked fire in his eyes. With his hair unleashed, square jaw, and bruised cheek, the upright hero of the colorful tapestry was gone, replaced by the hard rustic from Stretford.

“It's not been that long between us.”

“You don't understand. Years I've waited. For you. Not just a woman like you.” His arms dropped to his sides. “
You
, Claire Mayhew.”

His admission, deep voiced and raw, poured over her. Emotion and want spilled from Cyrus, but he didn't move. He waited, his naked honesty drawing tightness around his eyes.

A man like that needed touching.

Slowly, she reached for his cravat, and with one gentle tug, starched cloth rustled free. His lashes dipped lower, his eyes dark and steady on her. Outside, voices rose above the wind, calling to each other on Cornhill, but inside stayed quiet. Cyrus didn't move.

Her stare dropped to his chest, her trussed breasts brushing him. “Something tells me you'll not sleep on a hard bench tonight.”

Brawny arms clenched under white fabric.

Cloth whispered against skin as her hands went to work, freeing the buttons on his waistcoat. Images of Cyrus sweating bare chested in the ring at Dark House Lane flashed before her. She wanted him bared to her again.

At the first peek of skin, she touched him like a curious maid who stole away to explore a sculpted stone statue. The top of his shirt and waistcoat parted, and her hands sought the large plates of his chest muscles. His breaths were a hint of sound above her head.

Cyrus was warm and glorious, his sprinkles of dark chest hair tickling her palms.

She unseated more buttons, stopping to graze her fingernails along his ribs. Waves of gooseflesh followed her hand. The sight gratified her, a chance to be in control of Cyrus. His catch of breath, a small moan of pleasure, his body twitching…all offered unspoken permission to keep going.

Her hands worked the last few buttons. The bottom of his waistcoat and shirt parted, the cloth crinkling softly. A strip of male flesh and a small patch of masculine hair peeked out from the folds.

Claire's gaze drifted up to meet his. Dark gray eyes smoldered. Her hands spread apart Cyrus's shirt and waistcoat, the effect on her headier than the sweetest brandy.

“You say my forbidden fruit interests you the most,” she said, her finger tracing a single rib. “This part of you interests me.”

Muscles flexed under her playful inspection. She slipped the shirt and waistcoat halfway off, pinning his arms to his sides, control over this powerful man an alluring, potent thing. His dark stare locked on her, daring her to continue.

“Or I could say these parts,” she whispered.

Her hands breezed over button-like male nipples, and Cyrus's breath hissed from the contact, his eyes glittering under sluggish lids. She pushed the shirt and waistcoat to the floor, her lips parting. She needed more air.

She took a step back, consuming him with her eyes. Iron-hard shoulders curved into rounded epaulets of muscle—the kind of shoulders a woman could rest her head against and know she was safe. Her body quivered and she was cool and hot all at once.

And there was the light whorl of brown hair surrounding his navel.

“But this one fascinates me very much.” One finger skimmed the spot, her voice coming breathy and light.

His muscles clenched under her hand. She made small circles, reveling in the contrast of smooth skin and wiry strands of hair. In her exploration, the heel of her hand bumped the placket of his breeches.

Cyrus stopped her hand mid-circle. “Claire…” he rasped. “Am I the only one?”

She blinked at him. “The only one?”

He steered her hand away from his body, keeping his grip firm. “The letter? Any more secrets or secret plans?”

“Secrets?” she repeated, her lips parting for much-needed air. His warmth and the smell of his skin blurred clear thinking.

The hazy remembrance of dancing with him at the masked ball, his fleeting moment of jealousy came to mind. Was this another chink in her hero's armor? She didn't care if he showed a hundred flaws tonight. She'd welcome them all and keep touching him; this was what she wanted. He was what she wanted.

“Cyrus, until our first midnight meeting, I hardly gave any man a moment's thought. Now there's you. Only you.”

His jaw's tightness eased, but he stayed quiet.

“Tell me you're not the terribly jealous sort.”

He looked at his grip on her wrist and let go. His heavy brows slammed together, the line above his nose pronounced. “I want no secrets between us.”

“There will be none.” She planted her bottom on the table's edge, her arms braced beside her hips. “Between us, we have a few, don't we?”

She meant the words as a gentle reminder, not to prod old wounds. Tension melted from his face.

“You have me there,” he murmured.

“More like I prefer you here, close to me.”

Cyrus reached for her, and one large hand stroked her hair down to the tip of her braid. He kissed her forehead, her hairline, her temple with little, feathering kisses, the slow, tender kind, seeking restitution.

He pulled back and looked her in the eyes, his thumb stroking her jaw. Cyrus opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something, but didn't. Instead, his mouth sought hers, hot and urgent.

He lavished attention on the wine-stained spot at the corner of her mouth, the ticklish kiss making her squirm. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her tongue rubbing his. Her legs fell open, an urgency growing inside her. His body pressed against her thigh, and Cyrus stepped slowly into the V of her legs. Skirts hampered his progress, but he was cradled close to her.

Her lungs worked hard. “Why is it when I'm near you, there's not enough air to breathe?”

His low, masculine laugh stirred her. Both of his hands trailed her spine, his fingertips rubbing up and down. She touched the flat, smaller muscles at the demarcation of skin and breeches.

This was a hot, slow consuming of each other with still too many clothes on. Her inquisitive hand slid inside his waistline, kneading smooth skin.

Cyrus sowed seeds of affection with close-mouthed pecks along her cheeks and nose, traveling to her mouth. His lips burned her with searing kisses that swung between a connection and a claim. Her mouth moved under his, glorying in his skin smooth from his late-day shave.

Then, cool air touched her shoulders.

“My bodice.” She pulled away, breathing the words more than saying them.

She looked down. Her dark blue dress drooped on her frame. The pale corset smashed her breasts high, crescents of white pulsing up and down.

“You've unlaced the front of my dress,” she said, her jaw dropping.

Cyrus's triumphant smile was dark and very male. His fingers finished off the already loose ties.

“And you're quite pleased to have accomplished that unbeknownst to me.”

He leaned down and kissed plump flesh rising from her corset. He lingered there, speaking words on her skin. “A man takes his accomplishments where he can.”

Heat stewed between her legs with their affectionate touches turning carnal. His hands splayed the sides of her corset-covered ribs, and Cyrus planted hot kisses on her high curves. Her nipples were so achingly close to his attentive mouth. She arched into him, hoping he'd find at least one, but there were too many clothes that needed to come off.

Her body, fluid from wine and sensuality, wiggled with the work of his hands. Off went the dark blue dress, along with miles of silk underskirts. He knelt before her, his gray eyes simmering with heat. His gaze locked on hers, and Cyrus hooked one finger in her garter and tugged.

Silk slid down her calf, the white stocking languid in its trail.

She watched, fascinated by the act of Cyrus undressing her. This was trust and tender care, a slow appreciation of hidden places. He cupped her drawer-covered bottom with one hand and gave one bottom cheek a gentle squeeze.

Then his dark head bent close, and Cyrus kissed her inner thigh.

She sucked in a sharp breath. His bold kiss lit a wick of heat that shot up her leg and burst hot wetness between her thighs. He did the same with her other leg, his mouth quirking when he glanced up at her.

Cyrus rose to his feet. Control was his, and she was glad of it.

She stood before him in her new corset, chemise, and silken drawers, the table's edge pushing into her backside. The wood was solid, but the world was out of kilter. This was her home, yet colors burst differently.

Those white silk underskirts puffed pretty as clouds on her plain floor. Cyrus flipped her dark blue worker woman's dress over a barren laundry line. On the wall, her strawberry-red gown hung from a peg, a glimmering splash of decadence. Underneath the limp skirt, her new red court shoes sat primly beside her brown leather footwear. She smiled at the unlikely pairing.

The loss of her shoe was why she now stood nearly naked.