Free Lady Meets Her Match by Gina Conkle Page B

off.” Sharp Eddie veered close to the counter, staring at Ryland.
    The odd attention bordered on rude, but she had other things to attend than to puzzle over the lad’s lack of manners. Two more men entered the shop, footmen enjoying their half day in search of coffee and macaroons. She obliged them, relieved to see to business rather than appeasement of an angry male. Mr. Ryland moved out of the way so she could tend her counter.
    But he didn’t leave.
    That would make things too easy. Instead, arms still crossed, he leaned a hip against the counter and kept close vigil on her every move. Her jittery hands managed to pour two steaming cups for the men and scoop up the pence they left on the counter. With impish mischief, she noted Mr. Ryland wore less complicated neckwear today, but to comment on such would not be wise. She dropped the coins into her till box, her lips clamping shut.
    Beneath the till, on the bottom shelf, a basket of clean linens cried for attention. Keeping busy offered an antidote to her upset. She reached for a newly laundered cleaning rag, glad for something to occupy her hands.
    Mr. Ryland looked at the open archway leading to the kitchen. “The messengers, are they any relation to you?”
    â€œI have no brothers and sisters or cousins for that matter.” She started folding the cloth, unsure how to adroitly remove his presence from her counter.
    â€œA father?”
    â€œAlive and well,” she said, making a tidy crease. “A land steward on the Greenwich Estate.”
    Mr. Ryland’s stony stare roved the shop, finally landing on the kitchen’s entry. His gaze drifted up the narrow stairs, taut lines framing his mouth. She lived above those stairs.
    â€œA husband, perhaps?”
    She took a deep breath, her fingers fixing a messy corner. “I’m not married.”
    Her shoulders were achingly rigid while finishing the cloth, a pristine square her final product. The cloth reflected order—order that failed to reach her jumbled senses. When she looked up, Mr. Ryland’s mouth curved into a cool, discerning smile.
    â€œI see what this is about. You’re the letter writer. The one who pestered me for months to relax my rule requiring a man on the lease.”
    She snapped straight another rag in want of a good folding, all the better to keep her from doing or saying the wrong thing.
    â€œI am,” she admitted, her movement brittle.
    Her hands made rapid progress, turning the cloth into a square identical to the first. Then, she grabbed a cheesecloth requiring order and whipped straight that linen, but erupting emotions bubbled higher, refusing to be bottled. Her ruin came in mere seconds—wasn’t that always the case for a woman?—when words spouted with a life of their own.
    â€œI’ll have you know, I tried doing everything the right way”—she gave him a pointed look, the cheesecloth crumpling in her grip—“but you are impossible.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    â€œI find it hard to believe I’m the first woman to shed light on that particular corner of your character.”
    She whipped the cheesecloth straight, and he moved off the counter, staying silent.
    â€œI told Mr. Pentree I accosted you on the street outside your home and you signed the lease.”
    â€œYou…accosted me,” he repeated with some amusement.
    â€œYes. You may as well know I copied your signature that night in your study.” Her voice shook. “Your agent manages so many properties for you. I thought my shop would escape your notice.”
    His eyes narrowed as facts must’ve settled in. She’d heard he was all about lists of numbers over lists of names.
    â€œYou mean you lied to Mr. Pentree.” A harsh, dry chuckle loosened him. “And since I signed no such document, we can add forgery to your list of crimes. Now I understand why you gave me a false name.”
    â€œIt was for a good