Lady Meets Her Match (31 page)

“Of course,” she said, gripping her folio closer.

Had Ryland House gone mad? The entire house was off.

Her heels clicked on polished stone. She turned down the familiar hallway, taking in the splendid murals overhead. The study's carved alcove looked dim, the study dimmer.

The door was open. No one was inside.

“Here's to traveling crosstown to give the King of Commerce his comeuppance,” she uttered. “Only to find he's not here.”

She shut the door behind her.

This time, however, messy piles of papers covered the desk. His chair would make a fine depository for the key and the document of ownership she wasn't going to keep. Standing by the windows, she yanked open the curtains.

“That's better.”

“Claire?”

“Cyrus?” She whipped around in time to see him rise from the settee.

Shirt open at the neck and waistcoat gapping, Cyrus Ryland was a mess. The pristine queue, his standard, was in disarray. Hair stuck out everywhere, but his face, strong and familiar, was…endearing.

Heaven help her, but she wanted to cosset him.

He smiled in the shadows. “You came.”

“I did. To return this.” She held up the folio and peered at the settee, a once-elegant piece, now lumpy and awkward. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

Her knees wobbled on his unexpected words. The way his gaze drank her in, he could be a man adrift on the sea. Now it was agony not to touch him.

“You can't do that.”

He ran a hand through unruly hair. “Do what?”

“Say something like that…that you're waiting for me.” She rubbed the folio's leather—she needed to or else she would rub Cyrus.

“Why not? It's true.”

Her heart lurched—then painful reminders of the broadsheet's announcement and news of him leaving. She clamped her arms across her chest, hugging the folio.

“That could be a little difficult if you're not here anymore…especially with your new wife.”

He grimaced, holding a hand out to her. “I can explain.”

“Truly?” She swallowed hard, holding the folio tighter. “You can explain how you've wanted me with you despite your driving away from the Exchange, leaving me like a fool in the middle of the road?” Emotion warped her voice. The corners of her eyes stung. Tears wanted shedding, the first one trickling out.

Cyrus rushed to her side, his arms wrapping around her. Warmth and hardness enveloped her, the smell of skin like sun on stone. He plucked the folio from her and dropped it onto his desk. Then he swept her into his arms and made his way to the settee. They reclined there, entwined in silence. His strong heartbeat was the only thing she wanted to hear until…

“I'm sorry, Claire,” he murmured while kissing her hair. “I should've told you everything.”

She nodded, intent on pushing open the rest of his shirt. “The Duke of Marlborough, he's somehow behind this.”

Explanations would be required, but his skin, his chest…she needed to touch him. Above her, Cyrus swallowed hard, nodding.

“Yes. I thought I'd lost you.” His voice was thick and uneven. “It hurt to ignore you, but I hope you'll forgive me someday. I promise to make it up to you.”

Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, the place where his arm and chest met. Her fingers grazed his chest, tracing the furrow between his chest muscles.

“You don't have to make anything up to me. I choose to love you, Cyrus. All of you.”

His breath stalled and Cyrus's whole body relaxed. He needed her tender touch. She'd been determined to vent her spleen upon finding him; now she wanted to heal him.

“I love you, Claire Mayhew.” He squeezed her, his arms big and enveloping. “It is my most unpleasant flaw that I want to do right by those I love. I take charge. Too much. I've always worked better solving problems on my own.”

She tipped her head back, all the better to see his face. “Why did you leave me standing in the middle of Cornhill? Was it something to do with the salting?”

He told her everything—from Emerson's advice, to North's confession, to Marlborough's greed and threats. He held nothing back, even confessing his dislike of London. He wanted to go home to Stretford.

Cyrus talked, pulling the pins from her hair, and she listened. One by one, the pins came free, and her hair fell free.

“But why deed the shop to me?”

He played softly with a long, flaxen lock, sending shivers down her spine.

“Because I wanted you to have what you wanted most.” Tense lines framed his mouth, and he admitted, “The duke may still win. He has access to people and places I never will.”

“You can't mean to marry his daughter?” she cried.

“No.”

She gripped his shirt. “And you think I want the shop more than you?”

He chuckled and kissed her forehead, a soft chiding kind of kiss. “It was in this very room you told me there were women in England who didn't want marriage to me or any other man. You convinced me about your wish to be an independent proprietress.”

A pang settled in her chest, as she recalled her staunch words. “I don't want to be alone.”

“You don't have to be.” He kissed her forehead, and she felt his smile against her skin. “There's only one woman I'll marry. You, if you'll have me…someday.”

She scrutinized him, as if seeing another facet of the man. She studied his eyes and strong nose, the square jaw that had been struck by too many hard forces, and the cleft that drove her mad.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But what will you do about the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough? They practically announced that you're engaged.”

He pulled her close. “I've bought most of the duke's debt. That should give us enough leverage to move on with our lives.”

A sweet tremor brushed her skin. Sunshine could've burst when he said those words. She burrowed in closer to him, listening to his steady heartbeat. “Keep saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“Words like
us
and
our
lives
.” Her voice quavered and another tear trickled down her cheek.

He set her on the familiar cushion and wiped the streak of wetness. “Miss Mayhew, you are incredibly easy to seduce if a man can use simple words like
us
and
our
lives
to sway you.”

“You have me nearly flat on my back, sir.” A lazy hand unloosed his waistcoat buttons.

She opened his shirt and spread her fingers wide over his chest. She found his heartbeat, the rhythm beneath her hand beating strong and true. Like the man. Another tear sprang free and another after that. He leaned close, an aching expression on his face.

“Shhhh…” he soothed her, wiping away her tears. “I don't want you to cry.”

“I'm happy, Cyrus.”

She sat up, sniffling, and his eyes widened when she pushed him back against the settee. “These are good tears,” she said quietly, straddling his lap. “You make me very happy. But you must make me a promise.”

She pushed her skirts high up her thighs, the wool making little snicking sounds. At the juncture of her thighs, she found what she wanted. His placket. Her hands freed four brass buttons.

Cyrus was entranced, his head dipped low to follow her progress. “Anything in my power to give…I will.”

Their heads bent close and she unloosed one more button. Late fall sunlight flooded the other half of the study, leaving them in soft shadows. They had a small paradise here in this corner of the room.

“We will share our burdens.” She eyed his bruised cheek, her hand caressing the skin beneath the healing cut. “No secrets.”

His pewter stare bored into her. “No secrets.”

Cyrus pulled on the bow that tied her into her dress, working the lacing free one X at a time.

He reached for her hand, the scarred one and kissed the pink mark. “Did I ever tell you about the fairy tale that fascinated me as a boy?”

“I think you'll like it. There are lots of
us
's and
our
lives
in this one…”

And he regaled her with the finest tale of shoes and keys and forbidden fruit, a tale that lasted long past midnight.

Late Spring, 1769

“Of course I had to marry you. Someone needs to take care of you. You keep leaving your clothing everywhere.” His eyes glinted hot and tender.

“I like to think of those items as bread crumbs, leading you to me.”

They walked through the grassy field, their fingers linked together.

“I need no leading to find you,” he said.

Holding hands was a favorite part of being married to Cyrus Ryland, one of the pleasant surprises she had discovered. He welcomed daily garden walks, tucking her close to his side. Nor was he ever bothered to sneak away for a time and simply hold hands. Most interesting of all, Cyrus understood her need to keep the New Union Coffeehouse running well.

Today, he had surprised her with fishing poles and a basket lunch. They walked along the River Irwell, not far from Manchester, in thick grass, her hems dragging. The time wasn't the best for catching fish but was perfect for being alone.

And perfect for sharing secrets.

“This spot,” he said, pointing to a willow tree draping the bank. Green branches trailed the water like fingers skimming from a boat.

“It is perfect.”
Like
life
when
I'm with you.

They spread a blanket, kicked off their shoes, and stretched out side by side. She untied his queue and ran her fingers through his hair.

“You know, love,” she said, stroking his hair, “you've upset the balance of nature with your beautiful hair. If other women only knew.”

He'd already shut his eyes, forgetting the fishing poles entirely. “My valet warns me there are many more gray strands this year.” One lazy lid opened. “He claims it's because I'm a married man.”

“Aging you, am I?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled from his smile. “Something is.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm and the pale skin on her wrist. “But not you.”

Peaceful moments passed, not measured by a clock but by birds singing and the river's flow.

His chest heaved, but his eyes stayed closed. “There's no place I'd rather be than with you, Claire Ryland.”

“I feel the same about you. And? What is it you want to say to me?”

He chuckled, the sound coming from deep in his chest. “A man can hide very little from you, can he?”

She circled her finger on the skin above his nose. “This, among other signs, gives you away.”

Cyrus sat up, brushing bits of grass that clung to him. He leaned an elbow on an upraised knee, staring at the meadow beyond.

“When I think of growing old, I know I face a good future because of you,” he began. “But I want to grow old somewhere out here, not London.”

“And this is what troubles you?”

His pewter eyes pinned her, his voice soft. “Because your happiness matters to me.” A semblance of a grin stirred his lips. “The New Union…it's in London.”

Her new husband was
that
concerned for her happiness. She sat up.

“Cyrus, you make me happy, not a place.” She waved her arm over the beautiful, river touched meadow. “I'd be happy here.”

He studied her as though checking for a fissure or a fault. They'd waited months before getting married. This was new. They were new.

She leaned close and kissed his cheek, her finger stroking the cleft on his chin. “People drink coffee in Manchester.”

“I've heard they do.” His voice was a pleasant rumble against her skin.

“Cyrus, I'll go wherever you want.”

She found another bit of grass clinging to him and brushed it off. She liked taking care of him as much as he devoted himself to her.

“I've learned a few things, being married to you.”

“Such as?”

“We never really lose our flaws. Being with the people we love smooths out those flaws, makes us better, but flaws?” She batted the air. “They are boon companions for life.”

“And I'm better equipped at knowing my wife is about to deliver sage commentary for my benefit.”

She laughed softly at his insight. “Cyrus, you will work for the rest of your life to take care of others. It's ingrained in you. But it's time you do for yourself…and as your wife, I expect it.”

One brow shot up at her stern tone.

“Tell me that you want to leave London and get lost in the Midlands somewhere. That's what people do when they love each other. They share those wants and needs.”

He reached up and pulled her down to his chest. Her head tucked perfectly against his shoulder, and he proceeded to tell her many things.

There are three people who left their mark on this story. Thank you to my awesome agent, Sarah Younger, who loves a good alpha male. What woman doesn't? Sarah's encouragement and curiosity about Cyrus is a joy. Even better, I appreciate her support and loyalty. My editor, Cat Clyne, deserves kudos for pointing out the good and flushing out the excess. I appreciate her championship of the Midnight Meetings series and her gentle words along the way. I could read Cat's smile via email. Lastly, thank you Brian Conkle, for being the man who stood in our kitchen and said, “It's your turn,” and meaning it.

Thank you for reading
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Meet the Earl at Midnight

Book 1 in the Midnight Meetings series

by Gina Conkle

The Phantom of London. Enigma Earl. The Greenwich Recluse.

Half of his face, shadowed by gold and brown whiskers, showed male perfection, but the other half, a bizarre pattern of scar lines and puckered flesh. Lydia recoiled as much from the hot anger flashing in his eyes as from astonishment.

He's a mysterious recluse

Lord Greenwich is notoriously elusive. His tendency to hide his face in public has earned him some choice monikers, including “the Phantom of London.” Is he disfigured? Mad? No one is more surprised than Miss Lydia Montgomery when she is betrothed to him to save her family from penury. But if Lydia wants a chance at happiness, she'll have to set aside her fear and discover the man hiding behind the beastly reputation…

“A refreshing Georgian spin on
Beauty and the Beast
.” —Grace Burrowes,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Once Upon a Tartan

For more Gina Conkle, visit:

www.sourcebooks.com