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

Had she marked him as an easy target, the Midlands rustic fairly new to Town?
    Her practiced seduction had him panting after her in his own home no less. An ugly, guttural laugh rumbled from him when he pictured moments ago how he’d raced after her like some besotted swain.
    He picked up the chase again, this time with measured steps. Glass crunched underfoot. No, he’d not find a trace of her, but that didn’t stop him from moving past gawking men and women gathered in his hall, all witnesses to his folly.
    He needed to check the obvious for himself.
    Behind him, Belker issued terse commands and profuse apologies that fell on deaf ears. Cyrus stepped through his open doorway, scanning the night. Clouds covered the moon, casting darkness everywhere.
    Liquid clung to his lashes, and he became aware of how much he’d been doused. Cold champagne soaked his waistcoat and shirt. He swiped wetness from his face and shook the excess from his fingers. The nectar seeped into the corners of his mouth but failed to sweeten him.
    Carriages lined his driveway; many more waited on Piccadilly. Their candle lanterns dotted the blackness with yellow points of light. Somewhere out there, London hid a lone woman on the escape. His fists curled at his sides. He would hunt down the vixen and find out what game she played.
    She hadn’t run from another man tonight. She ran from him. Him . Why?
    A coachman cleared his throat on the bottom step, clutching a brown object to his chest.
    â€œBeggin’ yer pardon, sir.” The man tipped his head in deference to Cyrus and held up a shoe. “The lady who just ran out left this.”
    Cyrus moved down the steps. The coachman stretched out his hands, offering a brown leather shoe of middling quality—a commoner’s shoe, not a silk slipper.
    â€œThe lady wore this?” He turned the flat-heeled footwear in his hands, examining scuffed leather and a broken tin buckle.
    â€œFell off her foot on this spot, it did.” The coachman nodded with conviction. “Saw it meself. So’d Harry over there.” He jabbed a thumb at another coachman who bobbed his head in agreement.
    â€œShe came flyin’ out yer house wearin’ a blue gown.” Harry spoke into the fray, waggling his finger at the bottom step. “Right there, the lady almost tripped. Then she ran that away.” The coachman tipped his head toward the east.
    Cyrus stared blankly in that direction. On ground level, much was obscured by the black shapes of carriages and horses.
    â€œThank you,” he said, nodding curtly to the men.
    He climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, twin hazes of anger and bafflement battling in his mind. His fingers slipped inside the shoe, meeting grainy leather warm from her foot. He turned the shoe with its ruined buckle over in his hands, hunting for evasive clues but finding none. The cobbler’s imprint had been worn down, the impression unreadable.
    What did he know of women’s shoes? Their footwear had never fascinated him, but he held an important key to the secret life of one Miss Claire Tottenham.
    More like he burned to get his hands on her.
    To do what? Shake her? Kiss her? He scoffed aloud and the two coachmen glanced his way. Yes, he wanted to test her lips—claim them was more like it—if only for the satisfaction to take what she brazenly offered when they danced. Any tenderness was crushed the moment Miss Tottenham looked at him, aloof and rejecting, before running away. He needed to find out why she played him falsely, for that was most assuredly what went on tonight.
    Her words rang in his head: Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn’t she?
    He turned, facing London’s midnight sky. Cool night air caressed his champagne-soaked skin. His flaxen-haired guest shunned silk slippers under her skirts…an interesting choice for a courtesan. One surprising question pushed hard, a