A reckless challenge. He was curious as to how she thought she might stop him, but all he said was, “Just don’t try to avoid me—trust me, that won’t work.” He wouldn’t allow it.
She studied his eyes for a moment more, as if hearing, and reluctantly accepting as true, the words he hadn’t said, then she sniffed and elevated her nose.
Content enough, he handed her over the threshold, and at her direction escorted her to where Amelia was rising from a chaise, shaking out her skirts and gathering her shawl, preparing to depart.
Leaving Mary with her sister, he didn’t dally but quickly left the ballroom; better that any interested observers thought nothing specific had come of that interlude on the terrace, and that he was heading off supremely unconcerned as to Mary’s passage home.
Allowing his protective instincts to show at this point would, he felt certain, be counterproductive. And she was safe enough with Amelia.
From the corner by the terrace windows, Lavinia watched her stepson quit the ballroom—and presumably Bracewell House—without a backward glance. Eyes narrowing, she swung around and focused on Mary Cynster. “I don’t believe it! How dare that dastardly knave try to poach the young lady I’ve selected for Randolph?”
Alongside Lavinia, Claude Potherby, an old friend and Lavinia’s escort that evening, was engaged in shaking out and refolding his lace handkerchief. “Now, now, my sweet. There’s really no reason to get so het-up. As you haven’t informed your stepson of your plans for dear Randolph and so can hardly accuse Raventhorne of intentionally interfering, perhaps you should view his interest in the young lady as confirmation of your astuteness in choosing her for your son.”
Lavinia scowled at Potherby. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care what Ryder thinks.”
Potherby glanced at Mary, presently walking beside Amelia toward the ballroom steps. “Regardless, from all I can see your stepson’s agency met with little success. The young lady does not appear enamored.”
“Mary Cynster has too much sense to tangle with Ryder. He’s too much a hedonist for any sane lady’s taste.” Lavinia waved dismissively, then rearranged her shawl, preparing to join the stream of departing guests. Potherby gallantly offered his arm. Lavinia took it, then leaned closer to whisper, “But you’re right. There’s no reason I need to worry about Ryder. It won’t be he who fronts an altar soon, at least not with Mary Cynster by his side.”
Potherby’s smile was both wry and cynical. “Of course not, my dear. Perish the thought. Your plans will doubtless succeed wonderfully. How could they not?”
As she had with Amanda at Hopetoun House, Mary parted from Amelia on Lady Bracewell’s steps and climbed into her parents’ town carriage. As the footman, Peter, shut the door, she lowered the window, leaned out, and waved to Amelia as her sister, about to be handed into the Calverton carriage further along the line of carriages drawn up at the curb, looked back to check on her.
Satisfied, Amelia waved back, then climbed up.
Closing the window, Mary sat back; a second later, the carriage jerked, then started to roll slowly along the cobbles. Bracewell House was in Berkley Street, just south of Berkley Square. Given it was the height of the Season, countless balls, parties, soirees, and dinners had been held that evening in Mayfair; judging by the chaos of carriages surrounding the square, many events had finished at much the same hour.
Accustomed to such delays, Mary sank back into the comfort of fine leather and welcomed the darkness and relative coolness. The carriage rocked and managed the turn onto the south side of Berkley Square, only to immediately halt again. Glancing through the window, Mary glimpsed the Calverton carriage pull free of a snarl of carriages and roll at a decent clip up the west side of the square; Amelia, at least, was well on her way home.
Alone and with no real distraction, Mary embraced the moment, drew in a deeper breath, and, finally, let her thoughts free. From the moment she’d stepped back into the ballroom she’d kept them and her reactions contained, restrained, suppressed; she hadn’t wanted to alert Amelia or anyone else to the sudden and cataclysmic uncertainty that now ruled her.
Ryder had just changed the rules of her world, in the process shaking her to her foundation; she needed to deal with the ramifications, the questions of where she was now, and where she truly should aim to go, and that sooner rather than later.
Drawing in another breath, she let it out slowly, waiting for the whirl of her thoughts to subside. No matter what Ryder thought or did, she remained in charge of her own life—the decisions that would define her future were still hers to make.
Gradually, her customary self-confidence returned. Growing calmer, she turned her mind to her new situation, to the new landscape Ryder had created between them.
Recalling all the details, visual as well as verbal, she revisited and reexamined all they’d said on the terrace—and all they hadn’t. He’d stated his intentions, baldly and unequivocally, and although he hadn’t underscored the point, he wasn’t about to accept any dismissal.
But the possibility he’d raised . . . oh, what a dizzingly tempting prospect. A prospect made even more enticing by him being him, the man, the nobleman he was.
To have a man of his stature, his character, his traits, make an offer like that—to change whatever he needed to change to accommodate her in his life . . .
“Well!” She blew out a breath. “At the very least, that’s impressive.”
And oh-so-tempting, especially to her. Not just because she was a Cynster but because of the well-nigh irresistible challenge of taming a man like Ryder Cavanaugh.
He’d agreed to allow her to at least make the attempt.
Whether she succeeded or not was a different matter.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” she murmured to the shadows. “If I discount his obvious personality defects and calmly assess him on the usual criteria as a possible candidate for my hand, would he make my list?”
It didn’t take long to decide that in the affirmative; Ryder’s title, family, wealth, estates, social standing—all were the pinnacle of what a lady such as she, the youngest daughter of a major house, might think to claim.
“Society and the grandes dames would definitely approve.” She thought, then added, “But I don’t really care about them. And the family will agree with whoever pleases me, so what do I truly want?”
Would filling the position of the Marchioness of Raventhorne please her? Satisfy her?
Be to her liking?
“That’s not so easy to answer.” She glanced out of the carriage window, but they were still on the south side of Berkley Square. Deciding it was nice to be able to think aloud without risking anyone overhearing, she continued her ruminations.
“Being Ryder’s wife. That’s the issue here. Whether as his wife I’ll be able to be as I wish to be . . .”
She grimaced into the dark. “And although that’s not at all easy to decide, deciding one way or another is not something I’m going to be able to avoid. I’m going to have to accept him or refuse him . . . and refusing him is going to be a battle, because he won’t accept that readily.” Denying Ryder would demand a degree of strength and a wealth of conviction. “A lot of certainty, which at present I’m not sure I have.”
Could she trust in what he’d said? “I’m sure he meant every word—that he would try to find ways to accommodate my wishes—but what if he fails? He might be willing enough to attempt it, but will he actually be able to”—she gestured in the dark—“make the necessary adjustments?” Even if he wanted to, could the lion change?
No matter how she viewed it, accepting his proposal would be a massive risk—for her. Not for him.
“If I accept him, regardless of how matters play out, he will have got what he wants.”
Her. As his bride. She frowned. “Why has he settled on me?”
A highly pertinent question,
but he’d told her at least one reason. She was the last Cynster girl unwed; given his age, for him she was the only possible chance of forming an alliance with her family.
Added to that, she had to admit that, somewhat to her surprise, they rubbed along fairly well together. Their similar backgrounds made it easy for her to stand alongside him socially, and her far-more-extensive-than-was-customary acquaintance with and experience of men like him—namely all the men in her family—was also undoubtedly a boon in terms of her understanding him.
And, to some extent, making allowances for certain behavior that other ladies might find trying.
It wasn’t that she wouldn’t find the same traits annoying but more that she would understand that, in some situations, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. “For instance, with Francome.”
She dwelled on all she’d sensed in the incident, then shook aside the distraction. “Where was I? Ah, yes. He clearly finds me amusing, and I have to admit he’s more than passably entertaining, and he can certainly waltz. As for the rest . . .” The way he made her feel, the effect he had on her that she habitually ignored, given she’d never been able to suppress it.
“Hmm . . . I’d wager Grandmama’s pearls that he has the same effect on every woman with functioning senses, so I don’t think I can deduce anything from that.”
The carriage had been inching forward; now it rocked and canted on its springs as the coachman turned the horses north along the west side of the square. Gradually, the carriage’s speed increased to a steady walking pace.
Refocusing on the dimly lit seat opposite, Mary replayed her thoughts. By all the customary social and familial measures, she and Ryder were well suited. “But none of that says anything about love.”
And that was her biggest question, her stumbling block, her highest hurdle. Not by any stretch of the imagination could she believe that Ryder was in love with her. Not now. But the big question was: Could he be?
If she gave him—them—the chance, could he fall in love with her, and she with him?
Could he, Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, possibly be her true hero, the man who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss?
She gnawed on the question as the carriage gradually picked up pace. As the coachman slowed the horses to negotiate the entry to Davies Street, Mary reached up, found the necklace about her throat, and drew the rose quartz pendant from between her breasts.
In the faint light cast by a streetlamp, she studied the pendant, turning it between her fingers. She’d thought it would be so easy. That finding her one, her true hero, would simply be a matter of wearing the necklace, and he would promptly present himself and bow before her. . . .
She blinked, her mind reeling back to the night she’d first worn the necklace. The first gentleman she’d had any real interaction with . . . had been Ryder.
She’d dismissed him, walked around him and away.
If he gets under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .
Angelica’s description of how her hero might appear to her.
Under such a definition, Ryder qualified.
She stared at the rose quartz pendant, then, lips tightening, tucked it back under her bodice. She believed in the powers of The Lady’s talisman—she truly did—but she hadn’t expected her quest for love and her true hero to require her to court the sort of risks that walking into the den of an acknowledged lion of the ton would entail.
Sitting back as the carriage rolled around the corner into Mount Street, she grimaced. “I suppose it comes down to whether or not I’m convinced that there’s no other true hero out there for me—that Ryder is truly my one.”
Sudden movement outside the carriage had her glancing out. As if her use of his name had conjured him, Ryder stepped out of the mouth of an alley just ahead . . .
No, not stepped—reeled.
As the carriage drew level, she watched as he staggered, slowly pivoted, then collapsed facedown on the pavement.
He might have been drunk, but she knew he hadn’t been, that he couldn’t be.
Leaping to her feet, she thumped her fist on the trapdoor in the ceiling. “John! Stop! Stop!”
Chapter Five
She leapt out of the carriage while it was still rocking. Her heart in her mouth, she raced back along the pavement. The shouts from John and Peter for her to wait seemed distant, far away.
Even before she reached Ryder, she knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.
Blood glinted, fresh, ruby red, by his side.
She fell on her knees beside him. “Oh, God!” One glance at his face confirmed he was unconscious. An unsheathed rapier, the blade stained with blood, lay weakly clasped in one hand.
Frantic, she tried to push him onto his back, to find where he was wounded. There was too much blood . . . but he was too heavy for her to shift.
Peter reached her. She didn’t even glance up. “Quickly! Help me!”
With Peter’s assistance, she managed to heave Ryder onto his back.
An ugly gash on his left side, near his waist, was steadily pumping blood.
Her heart stopped. “No.” She pressed a hand over the wound, then as blood immediately seeped through her fingers, she slapped her other hand over the first, trying desperately to staunch the flow.
Glancing up and about, she realized Peter had circled around; he stepped cautiously into the alley. He came out almost immediately, his face ashen. “Two ruffians in there, miss. Reckon as they’re dead. Must’ve set on him.” Dragging in a breath, he nodded at Ryder. “Gave a good account of hisself, but they’d already stuck him.”
“Yes, well, don’t just stand there!” When Peter did just that, looking mournful, she snapped, “He’s not dead yet!”
The warmth flooding under her hands assured her that was true, but for how long? “For God’s sake!” Wild panic gripped her. Looking around, she saw John Coachman, who had had to brake the coach and find some urchin to hold his horses, running toward them. “Thank heaven.” She raised her voice. “John—it’s the Marquess of Raventhorne. He’s been badly wounded, but his house is just there.” Without taking her hands from Ryder’s side—was it her imagination, or was the steady stream slowing, and was that good or bad?—she hauled in a breath, swallowed her fear, and nodded to the houses on the opposite side of the street. “It’s the one with the iron railings—go and summon his staff immediately!”
“Yes, miss!” Skidding to a halt, John turned and raced across the street.
Despite the traffic about Berkley Square, and a conglomeration of carriages some way down the street, there was no traffic passing along that stretch just then. Mary didn’t know whether to be thankful for the lack of distraction or annoyed not to have had more help.
She looked down and attempted to take stock. The closest source of light was the streetlamp several yards beyond Ryder’s feet. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure the gash she was pressing on was his only wound. “Peter, can you see any other cut? Is he bleeding from anywhere else?”
“Not that I can see, miss.” Peter had retrieved Ryder’s hat and his cane—the empty outer sheath of the rapier—from the alley. Coming to stand opposite her again, he shifted, clearly nervous. “Is there anything else you want me to do, miss?”
Her mind seemed to be operating on two levels simultaneously. One was a tumult of emotions; the other was surprisingly clear. Just as well; this was no time for panic—Ryder couldn’t afford it. Holding her emotions at bay, she clung to what needed to be done—to what she was good at. Taking charge. “Yes. Go across the road and tell his lordship’s people that he’s unconscious and they’ll need a door, or a gate, or a stretcher of some sort to move him. And they must send for his physician immediately.”
“Ah—I don’t think I should leave you—”
“There’s no one about. Just g
o!” She used the tone of voice with which few argued.
Peter wasn’t proof against it; he ducked his head and went.
She refused to think about how much blood lay on the pavement beside Ryder, let alone had soaked into his clothes and was turning sticky around her hands. As she registered the cloying warmth about her fingers, instinct shrieked at her to draw her hands away; ruthlessly she quashed it. Her senses drew in; her gaze locked on the rise and fall of Ryder’s chest, she followed the rhythm until it became her own heartbeat. . . .
His heart was higher than where she was pressing; she could sense the faint thump through her fingers.
Dragging in a ragged breath, she raised her gaze to his face, that unbelievably beautiful sculpted face, now pale in the moonlight and so still, devoid of its customary animation—the glint in his hazel eyes, the inherently wicked curve of his chiseled lips, the languidly suggestive arch of his brows.
Something in her chest shifted; her vision blurred. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ryder,” she whispered, fierce and low. “Not now.”
Ryder sensed hard pavement beneath him. He felt cold all over, chilled; he wasn’t sure he could actually feel much of his body. Everything seemed far away.
But he sensed warmth beside him. He would have liked to get closer.
He remembered getting stabbed, and wondered why fate, who had never been fickle to him before, had suddenly deserted him.
He tried to lift his lids—and was surprised when they rose a fraction.
An angel with lustrous dark hair was leaning over him. His vision swam into focus and he recognized Mary. Not an angel then, but for him even better.
Her normal skin tone was alabaster, but she looked even paler. Her brows were drawn. She looked worried, anxious . . .
Why? His lips were oddly dry, his tongue leaden. “What . . . ?” More breath than speech.
She looked at him, startled, but she didn’t move her arms, her hands. Then her expression grew fierce and her blue eyes burned. “Stay with me!”
He blinked—would have told her he had no intention of doing anything else, but then his lids wouldn’t rise again, and everything grew dim, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.