The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

  “Right then.” Lady Eccles turned toward the ballroom steps. “Let’s be off.”

  After one last, quietly delighted glance at the tableau across the ballroom, Lavinia followed.

  Mary, meanwhile, had struck the first serious hurdle along her path to wedded bliss. Namely Randolph’s—and his friends’—lack of conversational depth. She was an excellent horsewoman, loved riding, and was reasonably fond of horses as well, but there was more to life than horse races, curricle races, and the hunt. After Miss Melchett’s exposition of the play at the Haymarket, George Richards had reseized the conversational reins and rather bluntly drawn Randolph from their discussion of playwrights to ask him about some mare who had won the last race at Newmarket two weeks before.

  Randolph had replied to George’s query with far greater alacrity—and detail—than he had to her own. Randolph had then swung the conversation to the latest sale at Tattersalls.

  With the air of one driven beyond bearing, Miss Fotheringay had spoken up the instant Randolph and Julius Gatling had finished exchanging views on the nags sold and the sums paid. “Has anyone visited Kew Gardens recently? The new conservatory is particularly fine.”

  Despite the obvious desperation and consequent weakness of the gambit, Mary, Miss Melchett, and Colette did their level best to keep the conversation on plants, herbs, and anything other than horses.

  Mary had a strong suspicion that Julius knew precisely what he was doing when he seized on the mention of feverfew to swing the conversation back to the poultice his stableman recommended for a bruised hock.

  Jaw setting, Mary glanced around the circle. Exasperated desperation—or was it desperate exasperation?—shone in the other young ladies’ eyes. Were all young men really this . . . young?

  This immature?

  Randolph, she felt sure, was not—could not be so—but thus far she’d only interacted with him in the presence of his cronies. Clearly, she needed to separate him from his pack.

  As if in answer to her need, the strains of the first waltz of the evening floated out over the room. Brightening, she turned expectantly to Randolph, only to see a positively hunted expression flash across his face. He looked across the circle, to where Colette had turned, as expectantly as Mary, and was waiting for Grayson to ask her to dance.

  Grayson looked at Randolph, then glanced at George, for all the world as if none of them had ever waltzed before, which was nonsense.

  Looking back at Randolph, Mary saw his features briefly shift, signaling to his friends: If we must, we must.

  But before she could do more than blink, Randolph smiled and bowed. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Cynster?”

  If his bow was a poor imitation of Ryder’s, and his voice held no subtly suggestive undertones, at least he’d asked. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you, Lord Randolph. I would like to dance.”

  Taking her hand, Randolph smiled. “Please—just Randolph.”

  Telling herself that it was unrealistic to expect to feel any flash of awareness from his perfectly correct holding of her hand, Mary allowed him to lead her to the floor. She stepped into his arms, eager anticipation bubbling in her veins.

  It would happen now. Whatever needed to spark would surely come alive as they waltzed.

  Taking her in his arms, Randolph stepped out and whirled them into the circling throng. He was a creditable dancer, but she’d expected nothing less.

  Yet as they revolved down the room, sedately twirling, entirely within the constraints of the strictest mores, she realized she had, in fact, expected more, but that was Ryder’s doing. She had to stop comparing Randolph to his godlike older brother.

  Just thinking of Ryder was enough to bring to life her all-too-vivid memories of the exceedingly intense waltz they’d shared the night before . . . she’d finally got what she’d wanted—Randolph, more or less alone—and courtesy of Ryder, her mind was wandering.

  Determinedly, she refocused on Randolph’s face—a face of nice features, not yet as strong or as distinguished as they one day would be. “It’s already May—do you have any special expectations of this Season?” When he looked surprised, then somewhat at a loss, she elaborated, “Any goal you would like to achieve before summer arrives and we all quit the capital?”

  “Ah . . . well, I had hoped to find a new pair for my curricle—”

  “Beyond horses.”

  His eyes widened at her tone, but he kept his gaze fixed above her head, using the need to steer them through the revolving crowd as an excuse not to meet her eyes.

  Ryder had barely glanced anywhere else throughout the waltz they’d shared.

  “Actually . . . no.” Randolph cleared his throat, and finally met her gaze. “I know . . . realize that some see my attendance, and that of the others, at events like this as indicating some . . . specific interest—one beyond horses.” He drew breath, briefly glanced up as they negotiated a turn, then looked back at her and faintly grimaced. “The truth is we come purely to please our mothers, and the hostesses, and the grandes dames. Well”—a roguish grin surfaced, a charming twinkle briefly lighting his eyes—“that, and to provide dance partners for young ladies such as you, of course.”

  Mary studied his face, that twinkle, his grin. Was there hope? But then she replayed his words, his weak attempt at gallantry . . . and couldn’t quite convince herself there was.

  This wasn’t right. Or something was wrong.

  She quashed an impatient urge to haul the rose quartz pendant from its nest between her breasts and look at the damn thing—hold it up between them and see if anything happened.

  Before she could think of her next conversational thrust, the music wound down and the waltz was at an end. But due to the dance, she and Randolph now stood at the other end of the room, and she realized the open windows Amelia had alluded to were in fact French doors, propped open and giving access to a paved terrace.

  As she rose from her curtsy, Mary noted several couples strolling in the moonlight.

  “That’s your sister over there, isn’t it?” Randolph nodded toward Amelia, seated on a chaise nearby. “Do you wish to head back with me, or . . . ?”

  “Actually . . .” With one hand, Mary lightly fanned her face. “I wonder if we might stroll on the terrace for a few minutes and get some air. It’s rather stuffy in here, don’t you think?”

  Stuffy, and increasingly noisy and crowded; to anyone the terrace would appear an oasis.

  Randolph looked past her, through the French doors, but made no move to fall in with her suggestion. “I, ah . . . I really don’t think . . .”

  She smothered the impulse to frown and swung toward the French doors. “There are others out there—it’s perfectly acceptable.” She took one step, willing him to join her.

  “Yes, but . . .” He teetered, literally teetered, then pulled back. Stepped back—away from her and the terrace. He met her gaze as, amazed, she looked back at him. “They’re all couples—older than us.”

  Baffled, she glanced again at those ambling on the terrace, drenched in moonlight and clearly visible through the long windows. “They’re not that much older.”

  “But they’re . . . courting.” He said the last word as if it was one not uttered in polite company.

  Mary stared at him. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She couldn’t count the number of times gentlemen—admittedly not quite as young as Randolph—had attempted to inveigle her out of ballrooms onto shadowy terraces.

  Now she’d engineered such an interlude in a perfectly acceptable way, and offered it up to Randolph—her hero—and he was balking?

  No—worse—he was backing away!

  “I, er . . .” Randolph gestured over his shoulder, up the ballroom. “I should get back or they’ll send the cavalry . . . well, you know what I mean.”

  She was, indeed, starti
ng to see the light. Randolph and his ilk were frightened of . . . young ladies like her.

  Young ladies seeking a husband.

  “Ah . . .” As if realizing that just leaving her standing there after she’d voiced a wish to stroll on the terrace probably wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, Randolph halted his backward drift but, if anything, looked even more hunted. “I suppose . . . if you really want to—need to—get some air, then . . .”

  For a fleeting instant, hope bloomed.

  Randolph raised his gaze and looked around. “Perhaps we can find someone to walk with you.”

  Mary dragged in a breath. Held it. Spoke through her teeth. “Randolph—”

  “Aha!” Randolph’s eyes lit. “Just the person!” His heartfelt “Thank God” didn’t need to be said; his expression relaxed as he looked past her. “Miss Cynster’s feeling faint—she needs some air.”

  Mary’s eyes widened as her suddenly jangling senses informed her just who had materialized behind her left shoulder.

  “Indeed?” rumbled a deep drawl she recognized only too well. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  Turning her head, she looked up, up, into Ryder’s handsome face. She met his eyes, read the amusement therein, and hung on to her temper. “Good evening, Ryder.”

  “Mary.”

  His eyes, a crystal medley of intense greens and browns, held her gaze . . . and as had happened the previous evening he seemed to effortlessly snare her senses so that the rest of the world fell away. . . .

  Abruptly blinking free of his spell, she tartly stated, “Randolph and I were—”

  She glanced at Randolph, only to discover him already gone; all she could see was the back of his head as he cleaved his way through the increasingly dense crowd, hurrying up the ballroom to the safety of his friends.

  Ryder murmured, “I did warn you.”

  She was still staring after Rand, but he heard a distinct humph.

  He allowed her a moment to stew on her failure. Despite his focus on her, on his pursuit of her, he’d arrived at Castlemaine House late, as gentlemen of his ilk normally would; he had no wish to alert anyone to his novel direction. As with Lavinia the previous night, if he adhered to his normal practices, all would assume, or could easily be led to believe, that he was merely looking for his next lover.

  Rather than his wife.

  Given he now knew that he could play on Mary’s senses, that she was susceptible and, even more enticing, wanted to play at resisting, one part of him had been eager to reengage with her, yet he’d recognized the wisdom of a strategic delay; as he hadn’t been present when she’d arrived, he’d run no risk of being tempted to monopolize her from the instant she’d appeared.

  That would have alerted too many observers, at least to the point of raising questions he would rather never surfaced.

  If the grandes dames got the slightest glimpse of his true intent . . . well, given his eye had settled on Mary, the grandes dames most likely wouldn’t interfere, but his primary motivation for embarking on his search for a bride at the unexpectedly young, at least for such as him, age of thirty had been to remain free to choose and pursue the lady of his choice without the entire female half of the ton insisting on assisting him with that choice.

  In society’s collective mind, at thirty he was yet too young to have accepted the need to marry and sire an heir, but after a few more years, every grande dame would have turned her lorgnettes on him; he’d seen the value in undertaking a preemptive covert mission, so to speak.

  Given his promise to his father, he was slated to marry anyway; giving up a few years of his bachelor existence—an existence that had grown rather wearying of late—seemed a small price to pay for the freedom of making his own choice, of directing his own hunt.

  Especially for the position of his marchioness, a person he regarded as critical to his future.

  To the future he was determined to have.

  Attuned to Mary as he now was—as his quarry, she was the cynosure of his senses—he knew when she reached the point of turning away from Rand and moving on. Physically, at least.

  Her face was a study in disillusioned disappointment.

  “Come on.” He offered his arm. “You probably genuinely could do with some air now.”

  She humphed, but in disgruntled resignation rather than disagreement, and consented to lay her hand on his sleeve. Even that light touch he felt to his marrow.

  “Actually,” she said, as he turned her to the French doors, “I truly did want to stroll outside. It’s quite cloying in here.”

  “No fan?” He held aside the filmy curtains and angled her through the door onto the flags.

  She shook her head. “Too bothersome.”

  He’d noticed she had little affinity for the usual frills and furbelows; she carried a reticule, but even that was more practical than fanciful.

  Resisting an urge to close his hand over hers, he steered her slowly along the terrace, adjusting his stride to hers. Trying to imagine just where she thought she was in her pursuit of his half brother.

  Typically, he didn’t have to imagine too hard—she told him.

  “This simply isn’t right.” Eyes on the flags ahead of them, lips set in a mutinous line, with her free hand she waved at the terrace around them. “Why the devil couldn’t Randolph escort me for this stroll out here?”

  He heaved a histrionic sigh. “Put simply, because you’re too much for him. A dish too rich for his blood.”

  She cast him a narrow-eyed look. “You don’t seem to find me so.”

  He smiled; the notion was nonsensical. “Of course not.”

  “But if you don’t—if you can interact with me—why can’t he?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I’m thirty and he’s twenty-four. In the ages of man, that’s a significant difference.”

  “Would you have scurried off like he did when you were twenty-four?”

  He gave the matter due thought. “Truth be told, I’m not sure I remember what I was like at twenty-four, but . . . probably not.”

  She humphed more definitely; she could infuse a wealth of emotion into the simple sound.

  Rand, he suspected, had managed to get fairly seriously in her bad books, but she couldn’t really blame his brother. She seemed to have no appreciation of her own strength—of the sheer power of her personality, something she projected without any mitigating screens.

  That was one of the things he found attractive—that lack of screens or veils—but men like Rand, regardless of age, would run; in fact Rand had merely demonstrated that he had a functioning sense of self-preservation.

  They reached the end of the terrace. Lifting her hand from his sleeve, Mary executed a crisp about-face. “Right, then. I suppose I’d better get back to it.”

  She set off for the French doors, striding along a great deal more purposefully.

  Left standing, bemused, by the balustrade, he swung around and with a few quick strides caught up with her. “Back to what?”

  “Back to finding some way to speak with your brother—half brother—in private.”

  “Ah—I see.” They reached the French doors and he held back the gauze curtains so she could march through unimpeded.

  As he followed her back into the fray of the ballroom, he debated whether he should allow her to chase Rand, and possibly mark his brother for life, or . . .

  He glanced at the dais on which the musicians sat—just as they started to play. “Mary.”

  Halting, she glanced back at him, her expression clearly stating that she didn’t appreciate the delay in her headlong quest. “Yes?”

  “Come and dance.” He didn’t make the mistake of asking but simply caught her hand, drew her the two paces necessary to gain the clearing floor, and swirled her into his arms and directly into the dance.

  He ha
dn’t given her time to resist. Once they were traveling smoothly amid the swirling couples, he glanced at her face and was skewered by twin daggers of intense blue; with her eyes narrowed to shards, her gaze was beyond sharp.

  He smiled at her.

  Her eyes flared. She hauled in a huge breath—causing her breasts to swell beneath her silk bodice, an interesting and rather arresting sight.

  One that made him realize that, surprisingly for him, despite being unrelentingly focused on her, he hadn’t really paid that much attention to her physical attributes. It had been her character, her emotions and actions that had captured his attention, and were still what most entranced him, but there was no denying that her figure was alluring, too.

  He refocused on her eyes and found them spitting sparks.

  “That was . . . was . . .” She was lost for words and appeared staggered by the fact.

  “Insupportable?” he offered. “The biggest piece of impertinence you’ve ever been subjected to?”

  “Yes! Exactly.” Eyes—could blue burn?—locked with his, she drew in another fulminating breath. “And if you recognize that—”

  “You needed deflecting.”

  “What?”

  “There’s absolutely no point in you tearing after Rand. You’ll only scare him further and send him fleeing into the night.” He smiled lazily down at her, knowing full well just how that would affect her. “Much better you sharpen your talons on me—I can take it.”

  She blinked at him; she hesitated—clearly battling the impulse—but then surrendered and asked, “Why talons?”

  “Eagle. Think emperor.” He held her gaze. “You’re just a touch imperious, you know.”

  She snorted and looked away. After a moment—a moment in which he sensed through his hold on her, through the tension in her lithe frame, that the soothing sway of the dance had finally reached her—she muttered, “You can talk.”

  “Indeed. I can.” He drew her a fraction closer as they eased into a turn. “Like recognizes like, as they say.”