Lady Meets Her Match by Gina Conkle Read Free Book Online

flimsy barrier. It was time he saw her.
    All of her, if he had his way tonight.
    Her hands jerked free of his and bracketed her face. “The unmasking…”
    Visible parts of Miss Tottenham paled. She took a half step away from him, backing into a laughing lady.
    â€œBeg pardon…” she said, giving the reflexive courtesy.
    Moving backward, her hands framed her mask. Did she plan to keep the disguise in place?
    Around them, the crowd of dancers thinned. The colorful horde made a slow exodus around Miss Tottenham, drawn to midnight’s cooler air on the back courtyard. Outside, a row of footmen stood sentinel with trays of champagne at the ready.
    Lucinda’s birthday.
    A twinge struck him. There were duties to attend as brother and as host, duties he’d tossed aside in favor of getting lost for a time with a certain woman. Cyrus scoured the room for his sister, aware that a toast was expected. He turned back, reaching for Miss Tottenham.
    â€œStay with me.”
    But another feminine voice reached his ears. “Mr. Ryland.”
    Cyrus twisted around, looking into hazel-green eyes framed by a bronze silk mask. The young woman facing him equaled the pinnacle of London’s pursuit of perfection, her auburn tresses and good manners pinned properly in place.
    â€œLady Churchill.” He bowed.
    He was certain no saucy retort ever left her lips.
    â€œIf I may have a moment of your time,” she said, her light touch slipping from his arm. “I wanted to speak with you about what happened in the garden.”
    His neck and shoulders tensed, constricting him better than any wretched jabot. “No need. I’m the one who should apologize. That you were subject to my unsavory exchange with Lady—”
    â€œNo, Mr. Ryland.” She lowered her voice, a needless thing with all the noise. “You have always been a gentleman with me. I wanted you to know—”
    Lady Churchill quashed her words upon seeing her mother’s approach. The Duchess of Marlborough’s perceptive eyes took measure of the loose jabot. The grande dame frowned fiercely, skirts swirling about her ankles in her forward press.
    Lucinda walked a pace behind the duchess, mouthing I’m sorry .
    There was no escaping the requirement of social parley with a duchess once she had a man in her sights. His feet were rooted to the floor, and he was ready for the inevitable.
    He scanned the herd of people over his shoulder, finding Miss Tottenham melting into the mass beyond the open doors.
    â€œMiss Tottenham?” he called, but she didn’t answer.
    The mask stayed on. She wasn’t looking at him. With movements less graceful, her focus went beyond him as if he weren’t there.
    A new line of footmen marched by from the kitchens, bearing more trays of champagne. His masked guest skirted the orderly servants, skimming the wall and potted plants on the other side of the room. Where was she going?
    His body tensed, his every instinct for the chase, when a fan thumped his shoulder.
    â€œMis-ter Ryland.”
    His mouth firmed, but he turned around and bowed low from the waist. “Your Grace.”
    â€œThere are proprieties to be observed.” The Duchess of Marlborough’s stiff, imperious voice demanded attention.
    He glowered at the ivory fan, which the grand dame wielded like a scepter. She had the good sense to tuck the offending item into the folds of her skirt. His patience hung threadbare over what would be another attempt to foist her daughter on him. He had run out of gentlemanly refusals and was about to say as much.
    Lady Churchill studied the lace flaring from her elbows, tugging on impeccable threadwork. Her mouth drooped such that he guessed she was less than enthusiastic about this meeting. For that reason alone, Cyrus held his tongue from the unwise lashing he wanted to give; the young lady couldn’t be held accountable for her overbearing