Lady Meets Her Match by Gina Conkle Read Free Book Online Page A

mother.
    â€œYou’re right. There are proprieties to observe when a brother celebrates his sister’s birthday.” He gave his sister a tight smile and motioned to the courtyard. “Lucinda, why not take our guests outside where it’s cooler? We’ll raise a glass in your honor as soon as everyone’s gathered.”
    From his peripheral vision, a lithe form in pale blue and silver silk exited the ballroom for the main hall. He bowed again.
    â€œPlease enjoy the courtyard. I’ve something to attend, but I’ll be out shortly.”
    His body moved of its own accord, pursuing Miss Tottenham. The duchess blustered at his retreating back, but her complaints were lost in the ballroom chatter. He went on alert, hunting down his mystery woman. Alarms of concern went off inside him. Did someone scare her?
    The man she hid from earlier?
    Was that the reason for her strange turn when they danced? His heels slammed the floor with his hasty exit. Protective instincts surged. He would take care of her.
    â€œMiss Tottenham.” His voice rose above the din.
    Heads turned. Cyrus threaded past those guests. Ahead of him, Miss Tottenham took brisk strides through the long, wide entry hall. She looked over her shoulder and slammed into a plant pedestal.
    Frantic hands saved the fern from falling over, but verdant fronds caught her hair. A cascade of snowy tresses fell loose. She swiped the leaves free and continued her rapid progress, greenery swaying in her wake. Two guests moved across his path, wanting some of his time, but the woman he wanted was slipping away.
    â€œClaire?” he called out again, raising a hand to hail her. “Claire, wait.” His voice boomed in the cavernous hall. He didn’t care that he broke cardinal rules of social protocol right then.
    Didn’t she know he would protect her?
    Miss Tottenham jolted to a stop. Pale blue skirts swirled wide when she faced him. She raised a hand as though she would push him away.
    â€œNo.” The single word bounced off the high ceiling.
    Her eyes, cool and remote, froze him, every muscle locked by the icy refusal. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts and ran.
    She sprinted as though the very devil nipped her heels, racing for the open front door. Her footfalls echoed. Guests mingling in the entry hall paused to witness the unfolding tableau, their hushed murmurs and curious stares following the minor drama. Two footmen milled near the open door, but when Miss Tottenham sped their way, both servants snapped to attention.
    And she ran headlong into midnight, the darkness swallowing her whole.
    He blinked at the empty doorway.
    The drive to chase her loosened his limbs, but what followed came in nightmarish seconds.
    Belker moved into the hall, the butler’s stern forehead wrinkling. The man said something, but Cyrus failed to hear words in his rush to the doorway. Blood hummed in his ears. He had to reach her.
    There was movement…a servant coming around a large support column. Then chaos struck.
    Cyrus collided with a footman bearing a full tray. The wide salver tipped, dumping the contents. Champagne showered Cyrus. Glassware splintered everywhere. The silver tray crashed on marble tiles, ringing a loud, metallic spin. Mouths gaped. Guests were shocked to silence at the display.
    â€œSir, my apologies…sir…” the footman stammered.
    Cyrus checked the footman and himself. No cuts. His heart pumped hard but not from fear of glass splitting a vein.
    â€œNo harm done.” His body ran hot but his voice was cold.
    She had vanished. He’d lost her.
    Disbelief twisted into another blazing emotion. The acrid taste of having hosted a pretty deceiver settled over him: the mysterious Miss Tottenham had played him for a fool. Oh, she was good; he’d give her that. He fell—and fell rather hard—for the ploys of an artisan of flirtation.
    His lips pressed into a grim line.