by Gina Conkle
“What habit is that, pray tell?”
They meandered around a circular hedgerow trimmed waist high, the gravel crunching underfoot. Their arms rubbed intimately, and she was drawn to him in the curious way a magnet sucked metal into its orbit. Cyrus was right: a walk in the garden was little more than a euphemism for a new level of flirtation, one she welcomed.
“Let’s see. You’ve left your shoe on my doorstep, your mobcap in my study, and two nights ago a neckerchief in my carriage.”
Speechless, she blinked at his granite features. Her brain tried to recall those forgotten items. Images came to her piecemeal: the shoe with the broken buckle on the first night they met…the mussed mobcap she pulled off when she stormed into his home about the necklace…the neckerchief that washed grime from his face and chest after his bare-knuckle bout.
Those things had all been left with Cyrus.
A coquette’s smile touched her lips. Their garden stroll stalled from the slow burn building between them on this chilly day.
His mouth turned in a wicked smile. “Your clothes are like a trail of clues I need to follow. A man can only wonder what you might leave next.” His voice lowered with trifling softness. “Or do you have a secret wish to undress for me altogether?”
His gaze dropped to her lips while a breeze played with the black silk bow at his nape. She wanted very much to unloose his queue and explore his hair.
“For a man who once claimed he’s not a flirt, you have mastered the skill remarkably well, Mr. Ryland.”
He tipped his head to her, murmuring, “All from your gentle influence.”
They moved along the path, their gaits in unison. She talked for a time about gardens and her love of Greenwich Park’s open spaces. He shared farming tales from his youth and tales of times with his father. They wandered through his gardens, slowing when they circled around near the courtyard again.
A trio of birds chirped in a tree denuded of leaves yet beautiful in its starkness. The lowest branch was eight feet off the ground, but the structure invited the daring climber to a new adventure.
Cyrus gestured to a curved stone bench beneath the tree. “Would you like a seat?”
They shared the bench, sitting close, yet her layers of skirts couldn’t spare her bottom from the shock of cold, hard stone. The bench cooled her body from hurtling quickly into hotter climes.
The way Cyrus’s pupils darkened, she was in peril of passionate kisses in broad daylight. Was that what happened when hot flirtation turned to sharing stories of one’s childhood? Sitting thus, she noticed the black ring that rimmed the pewter of Cyrus’s eyes and the white flecks that lightened the irises she had thought were solid gray. How had she missed those details before?
The warmth of his thigh limned hers, firm and strong. His hard body might have been hewn from rock, but his hand moving over her leg was every bit welcoming flesh. He traced a pattern on her thigh, following the red on red posies woven into her gown’s fabric.
The touch stole her breath, her thighs tensing under the attention.
“Cyrus,” she said, glancing at the drawing room’s back doors. “It’s the middle of the day…your guests—”
“Are not here yet, but when they are, will see nothing improper. We’re two people sitting on a garden bench in broad daylight. But mark me, Claire, I’ve nothing against touching you be it day or night.” His voice, like his exploring fingers, wooed her.
Beneath her skirts, the silk drawers stroked her skin from her knees to her bottom, driving her mad. Her legs prickled with awareness, battling the need to spread wide for him.
Truth was she wanted him to explore higher and finish what was started on their innervating carriage ride.
Her hands folded into her shawl’s ends, and she fought a naughty smile. She grasped what Cyrus was up to directing her to this particular bench. The hedgerow obscured them from the waist down.
“Do you have this spot saved especially for garden interludes?” Her lips parted for a sharp, needful breath of new air.
His finger found a new outline of flowers on her skirt, higher up her thigh.
“You would be the first and only woman to sit here with me.”
His simple confession shot a new thrill, a tingle on her skin from her cleavage to her corset’s silk bottom.
She was the only one.
He made her bid for propriety nigh too difficult. She eyed the back doors of the drawing room again, the highly visible glass doors. To a casual witness, they probably looked like a pair enjoying a fine late-season garden. The two of them couldn’t look more proper, save the improper heat crackling around them and the indiscreet movement of one masculine hand on her skirt.
Dangerous daylight flirtation was…fun.
Her gaze shot from a vigilant watch of those doors back to Cyrus. His fingertip traced a new spray of flowers, the pressure of it seeking her inner thigh. Her fingers dug into her shawl. Bursts of pleasure tickled high on her legs.
“We could talk business if you like,” he drawled.
“Oh, now you’re really flirting with me.”
He laughed, a rich deep sound. “And you please me, Claire Mayhew.”
Her body tilted toward him, her lashes shuttering. Cyrus whispered words to her, sweet nothings about her hair, her face. She was lost in him, and the garden’s cool, peacefulness. Being with Cyrus swept her into new places, removing awareness of time. How long had their carriage ride been the other night?
Yet this wasn’t the same as being hidden away in his carriage or closeted in his study.
This was a public declaration of affections.
And here, on his garden bench, they could flirt, they could tease, but they could not touch—at least nothing beyond his covert, posy-tracing finger on her thigh.
“Being with you has turned out to be the best gift,” she said, forcing herself out of the Cyrus-induced trance. “But how far can this go?”
“As far as we want.”
His firm, cryptic words weren’t quite the answer she wanted, but neither were they unwelcome. Cyrus stopped exploring her skirt and reach for her hand gripping the shawl.
She looked down at where their fingers joined, liking the way he wanted to hold hands in the way of enamored lovers.
“Some women can give their bodies and not their hearts.” Keeping an eye to their linked hands, her breath moved with a heavy ebb and flow. “I’m certain I’m not cut from that mold.”
“Not very independent minded of you,” he mocked.
She flinched at the unexpected cut and followed a diminutive winter bird scratching the dirt. When she looked up, Cyrus’s pewter stare honed on her.
“Would it help if I confessed to thinking of you day and night?” His finger stroked the pink scar that seemed to fascinate him.
Just as I do with you.
In the haze of their garden seduction, heels clicked sharp sounds on stone, snapping their attention to the house. The luncheon. Lucinda stood on the elevated courtyard behind the drawing room, her hands clasped at her waist.
“Cyrus, Miss Mayhew,” she called out to them. “Our guests have arrived for luncheon. Will you join us?”
“Of course.” Cyrus rose from the bench in one fluid movement.
How could he acclimate so quickly? Claire’s mind and body drifted, in a muddled state from nerve-melting heat. Her legs needed a minute before they’d work right, she was sure.
Cyrus offered his hand as though he understood she needed steadying.
“You can do this.”
Standing upright, she smoothed her skirts, grateful for a few seconds to collect herself. Several pairs of female eyes peered at them from the expanse of glass doors. Poised as the two of them were, they could be a curiosity on display.
But her courage faltered. “I’m not sure I can begin this, Cyrus.”
A low laugh rumbled from his chest, sounding more predatory than humored.
There, under the garden tree for all to witness, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her, his mouth lingering on her skin. He’d as good as marked her as his with the romantic gesture, as enchanting as it was goading. His gray stare met hers over the small scar on her hand, and he planted a kiss there.
“Can’t begin this?” His deep voice was firm. “We already have.”
She opened her mouth, but no retort came. Her skin flushed, and she didn’t miss the challenge in his eyes.
“I’m not a man for games, but what goes between us is like chess. The next move is yours.”
Twelve
They come together like the Coroner’s Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
William Congreve, The Way of the World
Claire chased a piece of artichoke heart around her plate with her fork. Failing in the hunt for the errant vegetable, her gaze flitted around the table, finding the women not so different from herself. Mount Olympus wasn’t insurmountable after all. Her wandering gaze collided with the Duchess of Marlborough’s.
Well, perhaps not entirely scalable.
The beldam frowned often, bringing to mind a sharp-featured bird ready to devour unsuspecting prey. Her Grace’s pale brown eyes narrowed, hovering on Claire’s décolletage. The show of skin seemed to cause thin, ginger brows to snap together.
The luncheon, however, flowed beautifully with conversation interspersed over cream soup, ham, and a delightful variety of vegetables. Spearing the artichoke tidbit, one goal was clear: she would sail through the rest of the event with flying colors.
Nor was the day without its benefits. Tension was building for her other secret plan: another interlude with Cyrus.
Seated to the right of him, the position afforded his surreptitious caresses to her knee under the table. His foot nudged her calf with a gentle stroke all while he listened with rapt politeness to Lady Millicent Seabright, a cheerful woman as round as she was sweet natured.
Forks scraped plates and conversation floated with the aromas of delicious fare when Lady Seabright squinted at Cyrus from her spot three seats away.
“I say, Mr. Ryland. Did you know you have a large bruise on your cheek?”
Cyrus’s fork paused midair, his mouth turning in a polite, repressed line.
“Thank you, Lady Seabright. I am aware of it.” His fork resumed its travels, delivering pieces of haricot vert.
Silks and taffetas once stirring in seats paused at the mention of the wound. Surreptitious glances drifted his way, among them the self-assured Lady Isabella Foster. Claire recognized Lady Foster from the day she had stormed, dripping wet, into another Ryland House function.
Perusing the table, Claire was certain more than a few of the dozen ladies in attendance wanted to know the origins of the bruise, but social niceties gripped them in silence on the topic. No one would be so forward as to ask what had happened to his face.
Not so the persistent Lady Seabright, her roundish head angling for a better view of the maroon mark.
“How ever did you come by it?”
Cyrus smiled, the patient kind of smile one saves for a meddlesome aunt, and he speared a piece of meat. “My hard head met an equally hard force, my lady.”
Lady Seabright blinked owlishly. “Oh dear, I do hope you’ll avoid meeting with any more hard forces.”
He acknowledged her concern with a slow nod. “I promise I’ll do my best to avoid them.”
Claire dabbed her serviette to quivering lips. Glancing at Cyrus, she was certain banked amusement sparked in his eyes. How could he maintain such stoic composure?
“One can never be too careful,” the Duchess of Marlborough said, her tone oblique.
The foot under the table wandered a little higher up Claire’s hem, sending a sweet shock up her leg.
“True.” Cyrus gave a serene smile to the table of women. “But I’ve found softer forces can be more leveling to a man.”
Claire kept her serviette over her mouth, politely dipping her head. The bold scoundrel sent her a message while flirting outrageously with her leg. She tried not to squirm but she nearly burst.
Lady Seabright touched her cheek, mirroring the spot where Cyrus’s small gash marred his cheek. She opened her mouth as though she would pursue the topic, but Lucinda stood up at the other end of the table.
“Ladies, Your Grace,” she said, with a nod to the duchess. “Let’s adjourn to the drawing room, where we can enjoy a respite before we delve into the day’s meeting.”
The flock of women found their way to the elegant red-and-blue drawing room, and friends grouped together in conversation. Two footmen carried in fresh urns of coffee and another pair bore wide salvers laden with the New Union’s pastries.
The spurt of pride at seeing her baked goods served here was met with an off-balance sensation. With each step inside the grand room, her court heels sunk into plush carpeting, an oddity for someone who spent her days in practical low footwear on practical plank floors.
Cyrus excused himself to fetch a coffee. Standing by the polished urns, he was immediately surrounded by young, fluttering females—the eligible daughters of the matrons present at the luncheon. The way the young ladies postured brought to mind preening birds, their titters high-pitched chirps at everything he said.
Cyrus was the tasty morsel each wanted to devour.
He glanced across the room at her. Their eyes met, and his message—I’m coming—floated over the distance to her. She smiled, her hands resting at her sides. She was glad to be here to witness him with others. Cyrus listened with a genuine patience to the young women. And another notion hit her.
He’s truly a good man.
Claire found a quiet spot by the fine tapestry draping the wall. The large, mythological battle of man and beast called to her. A well-muscled man in a loin cloth fought a lion in what must be a cave. She moved closer to the weave when the air scented with a new perfume.
“Rather like Cyrus, don’t you think? All that brawn.”
She turned. Lady Isabella Foster. The woman’s bold perfume teased Claire with a memory she couldn’t quite place.
Her feet shifted, issuing a subtle invitation for Lady Foster to join her.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her neck stretched for a full view of the tapestry. “I’ve never seen Mr. Ryland in a loin cloth.”
Her ladyship’s fan unfurled, a delicate half circle of blue silk and cherry wood.
“Oh, very well then, a shirtless Mr. Ryland. I’m certain you’ve seen him in some state of undress. I see it in the way you look at him.”
Claire’s heels sunk in the rich pile. Was her lust that transparent? Her balance tipped wrongly as much from the carpet as the lady’s mocking words.
“No need to be coy with me, Miss Mayhew. I make a fine ally.” Lady Foster motioned to the women clustered around the room. “And I think you’ll need one.”
The vibrant blue fan matched the lady’s gown, fluttering like a lovely butterfly. Lady Foster wasn’t precisely beautiful as much as she was eye-catching, dark haired, and strong featured. Was she part Italian?
Claire’s feet moved into a wider stance; she could have been a sailor on a listing deck. “Very well, I’ll agree, there is something of a resemblance.”
“That’s more like it.” Violet eyes flashed with womanly knowing. “A bit like him too, I think, rescuing damsels in distress.”
She searched the giant piece. “I don’t see a woman.”
The fan snapped shut and pointed high. “Look there, the figure in the distance.”
Claire spied the female higher up the tapestry. “So there is.”
And the scented notes hit her. Lady Foster’s perfume on Cyrus.
If she had had a fan, this would
have been the moment to snap the thing open and watch warily from behind the half circle of silk. What was the lady about?
She fixed her stare on the woven artwork, unsure of the lady’s motives. The perfume plastered on his clothes the night of the masked ball—the woman whose attentions he didn’t want. One of those former connections of his?
Lady Foster’s fan flitted in the temperate room. Claire clasped her hands at her waist for want of something better to do. Idle conversation made for the smoothest sailing at these events. Isn’t that what these women did with their lives?
“I don’t know much about Greek mythology, but I’ve always liked Hercules.”
“You mean Heracles.” The blue fan slowed. “Hercules is Roman mythology. Heracles is Greek.”
“Oh.” Her chin dipped in the way of a child admonished for messing up her sums.
“Don’t let something like that cow you. You’ve got to be made of sterner stuff, proprietress of your own shop and all.” Diamond earbobs twinkled merrily, matching the mischief in Lady Foster’s eyes. “Of course, something happens when you cross over to the West End. Suddenly the women become too delicate for arduous labor.”
She smiled, liking how Lady Foster poked fun at her own kind. “I should be laboring at my coffee shop now. I’m only here for Lucinda’s meeting…and for Cyrus.”
The fan worked faster. “If it weren’t for Cyrus, most of the women wouldn’t be here. Most of them don’t care one fig for less fortunate women.”
Claire scanned the room, her brows pressing together. It was clear most sought some kind of connection to Cyrus. Even the matrons stalled his slow travel back to her side. Lady Foster peered at Claire.
“Oh, dear. You’re not on the hunt for this at all, are you?” she asked, one elegant hand gesturing to the grand room. “You’re one of those hopeless cases of pure infatuation. This is amusing. A shopgirl and the rich man…only you want the man, not his money.”
Something in her gentler nature snapped. She was not some novelty trotted out for entertainment purposes, nor did she care for the woman’s tone regarding Cyrus. They spoke of a person, not a bank account.