Free Lady Meets Her Match by Gina Conkle

lad, Nate, plunked a bucket of coal on the floor and wiped his hands with his apron.
    â€œSir, can I get ye something?”
    Cyrus tried to see over the block counter but earned little more than glimpses of her gray-skirted bottom. She crouched on the floor, appearing to lean into what must be shelves underneath.
    Another time.
    He glanced at the tall youth. “Two apple tarts.”
    Nate set two plates on the counter, cocking his head. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
    He had a pretty good idea the source of the lad’s recollection. The tall, gangly youth had the look of an East Ender about him, but what the shop boy likely knew was something Cyrus would rather not have bandied about in midtown.
    â€œDon’t think so.” Cyrus averted his eyes to the chalkboard, rubbing the sore spot on his neck.
    The shopgirl made lots of noise rummaging through goods. He drew out coins for payment. Nate scooped the tarts onto two plates, all the while studying Cyrus behind a black forelock hanging over his eyes. Young though he was, the lad wore cleverness about him the way others wore wealth and position.
    On the other side of the counter, the woman spoke up from the floor, louder this time.
    â€œNate, have you seen a cherrywood box with a heart carved on the lid? It’s long and narrow”—there was more rustling—“about this big.”
    That voice.
    The small hairs on his neck bristled.
    Images of a laughing, blond coquette in a low-cut gown teased him. The voice went with the lithe body dancing through his memory these past weeks. He set a claiming hand on the countertop, staring at the gray-skirted bottom coming in and out of view.
    The lad picked up the plates, his green eyes hard slits on Cyrus. “No, Miss Mayhew, haven’t see it.”
    The youth idled, puffing out his chest. Protective of the woman, was he?
    â€œTo the table by the window, if you please.” Cyrus kept his voice firm and the lad moved with sullen steps.
    Stoneware clanked. The shopgirl set a steadying hand on the counter—a hand good at untying things, a hand with a pink, star-shaped scar.
    A hefty brawler could’ve knocked him in the gut for the way his stomach muscles clenched. Behind him, the shop burst with male laughter and boisterous boasts. Life went on as usual for everyone else, but where he stood, stormy silence swirled.
    â€œExcuse me. I might have what you’re looking for… Miss Tottenham .”
    The gray skirt ceased moving.
    Cyrus wasn’t a hunter, not in the conventional sense. But he recognized the moment when prey froze, clinging to a split second of freedom while deciding: fight or flight. And he waited, his pulse quickening. She hadn’t seen him standing there, but she heard him.
    The vixen remembered his voice.
    A thrill coursed through him, sharpening his wits. What would she do when she faced him?
    His quarry set her other hand, dusted with flour, on the plank counter. She rose to full height and pretty blue-green eyes met his with cool challenge.
    â€œThank you, but you have no idea what I want.”
    Her chin tipped high and a long tendril fluttered against her cheek.
    That show of bravado roused him, stoking his fire for her. He liked that she looked him in the eye. A lot of men wouldn’t do as much.
    There was probably some deeper meaning in her words, but satisfaction at having snared her settled in bone deep. The weight of power was his. One corner of his brain counseled caution: an oversized, angry man could never be easy for a woman to face.
    No matter. The flirt would get no quarter from him.
    â€œHow nice to see you again, Miss Tottenham .” He smiled, lacking all warmth. “Are you looking for your shoe?”

Four
    There is in true beauty, as in courage, something which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.
    William Congreve, The Old Bachelor
    Claire acknowledged an undeniable truth: a man always, always, always played a