Lady Meets Her Match

by Gina Conkle

  “For years we struggled, then my sister, Elspeth, married. Her husband ran the farm, but we needed more funds to rebuild the herd. We’d already lost many swine to a fever, losses caused by my mistakes.” His voice was graveled and sparse. “I did the only thing I knew. I sought fights whenever possible, took on odd jobs.”

  “And you never got hurt? From the fighting?”

  With her cheek pressed close to his coat, her voice vibrated on his skin, as intimate as a kiss. Her tender trust softened him, making him want to be the man worthy of her.

  “Knocked around some. Nothing bad,” he said. “But I found a position helping one James Brindley, an engineer. He was set on a two-month survey of Midlands territory for the Duke of Bridgewater.” His low laugh was a dry sound. “We’d heard of the duke’s half-cocked plan to build canals, some in places where no river ran. The Duke’s Cut it was called.”

  He closed his eyes a needful second. Her thumb rubbed his breastbone, and those feather-light touches led him like a bread-crumb trail through this dark forest to keep going. He needed to finish this…have her know the full truth.

  “James and I got on well. I was quick with numbers and good for moving logs.” He opened his eyes and smiled thinly.

  The heel of her palm grazed his nipple, sending jagged shocks through him. His breath caught. Of course she meant to render care—his mind knew this, but his ravaged body would not discern lust from gentle ministrations.

  Over his coat, he set his hand on the shape of hers hidden under his shirt and coat. “During those two months, James spoke to me of things beyond the world of Stretford. Of the duke’s plans to build canals all over England, of the warehouses that needed building where good men like me could get a leg up in the world.”

  Claire tilted her face to him and listened attentively, their breath mingling.

  “When construction began, I was twenty-six and my connection with Brindley gave me a good position overseeing other laborers. But I wanted more, could see this was going to be something big. Then the duke came one day to survey progress in Stretford.”

  A deep, looseness expanded his chest.

  “I’d been digging and was covered in mud, but this was my chance. Brindley had spoken of me to the duke and brought me up to meet His Grace.” He tipped his head back against the squab. “I surprised everyone by asking for a moment of his time. I had a business proposition.”

  “Then you understand bold persistence well, don’t you?”

  He could hear the smile in her voice.

  “I understand going after what you want,” he agreed. “I walked the trench line with the duke, asking how much would it take to become a stakeholder in his new scheme.”

  “He didn’t laugh, did he?”

  “The bankers with him did, but I had little to lose in the asking.” His mouth curled in a smile of a different nature. “And now those men work for me.”

  “A bit vengeful are you?”

  He snorted. “More like practical. And the duke, to his credit, listened. Too many people thought his plan for canals the mark of lunacy.”

  “Apparently, you and the duke were visionary.”

  His shoulders lifted under her praise; he was warmed that she wasn’t put off by his brashness or that he was a man who once earned his way by hard labor.

  “His Grace was at least, but the minimum starting investment was a thousand pounds.” His head rested again on the squab again. “The duke said he’d come Stretford way again in one month. If I had a hundred pounds, he’d let me in.” He snorted. “For the likes of me, he could’ve said a million…both amounts were nigh to impossible.”

  “Then you brawled your way to a hundred pounds.”

  “If it were only that easy. I fought at every opportunity. But the month was ending and I was still seventy-five pounds short.”

  “But I thought you won enough money?”

  He shook his head. “I went south to the Bristol Inn. Famous for bare-knuckle bouts. Men come from all over…Scotland, Ireland, the Netherlands, Germany…all to fight. Sailors, farmers, soldiers. A few knew of me as the Stretford Bruiser, but this was big, and I had this one night.”

  “They had me squared off against an Irish lad, younger and less experienced, but the same size as me. Everyone expected me to win.”

  “And that’s how you won the seventy-five pounds?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to face this moment.

  “No,” he said, looking into the fog beyond the window. “I cheated.”

  Claire’s body went taut against him, a tenuous change, but she didn’t move. He would finish this and lay all bare before her. An inner drive made him want no secrets between them.

  “I asked a friend to take all my money and bet steep odds against me. He wanted to leave for the colonies, so we worked out a plan. I took a punch from the Irish lad. Let him knock me out.”

  Claire’s exhale stirred his open shirt. “Then, my forging your signature doesn’t look quite so bad.”

  “More like I understand desperation and going hard after something you want. And I understand Mr. Fincher’s bold move tonight.” He reached for her, running a single lock of white-blond hair between his fingers. “Most of all, I hated how easy it was to be dishonest.”

  For a moment he was suspended, free of past failures and judgments. His evening’s toils charged his joints and sinew; the price would be stiff movement tomorrow, but tonight, he sailed with newfound freedom. There was lightness in confession, an easing of the shared burden of condemning choices.

  “Aside from my friend who left for the colonies, no one knows, save you.” He brushed hair away from her face. “Even my family thinks I managed to scrape together enough funds from my fights.”

  Claire turned her head slightly and kissed the hand touching her cheek. The innocent peck was a ray of light breaking him free of this murky part of his past.

  “I went home and met the duke soon after. I did what I had to do to help my mother and sisters,” he said, his tone striking firm. “Over time, I was able to pay for tutors for my nephews who showed interest in advancing themselves, buy a farm for another sister, and pay for a curative tea for Lucinda’s lung ailments.”

  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 h
im 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.