The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Both voice and tone had gained in confidence as she spoke. Now she looked directly at him; even through the shadows he could feel her challenging glare. “Am I right?”

  He held her gaze. “All you’ve said is undeniably true.”

  It just wasn’t the whole truth.

  “Ha!” She swung away and paced—two steps across the marble floor, then back again—then she halted and, increasingly militant, confronted him anew. “So why?” Again she spread her arms in appeal. “Tell me why—exactly why—you’re so set on disrupting my bid for Randolph’s attention.”

  “I’ve already told you—Rand is not the man for you.” I am. But she would need to come to that realization on her own. In her own time, in her own way. He understood strong characters—like her, like him; they didn’t accept others interfering in their lives, and in personal matters didn’t readily accept the assessments of others as correct. Neither he nor she would be led. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but more one of inviolable self-determination. In that respect, he understood her well, so would give her time—understood the value of giving her time—to reach the right conclusion on her own.

  She stared at him for a long moment, then, “Aargh!” The sound resonated with feminine frustration. “It’s not up to you to decree that!”

  “In the circumstances, I believe it is.”

  “But it’s not. Ryder—”

  On a silent sigh, he uncrossed his legs and stood. It was the only way to bring this interlude to an end. His innate sense of time was informing him that the ball was winding down; he needed to get her back into the ballroom before she was missed.

  And he wasn’t prepared to open his mouth and inform her of his intentions. The challenge—the one she presented him with—was to win her without declaring his hand. If he baldly told her he wished to marry her . . . he wasn’t a coxcomb, but no one in the ton would disagree that he was a beyond-excellent catch. If he told her, and she then decided to accept him, he might never know what her feelings toward him truly were—might never know why she’d agreed. At present he had no notion of what she felt for him—whether she felt anything at all beyond irritation and exasperation, whether she might ever feel for him something beyond the transitory desire he knew he could evoke.

  But even worse, what if he told her of his intentions and she jibbed?

  No—better, much wiser, and a lot safer to soften her up first.

  Speaking of which . . . straightening to his full height, he took the half step required to bring them close—close enough that she had to tip her head back to look up at him, leaving him towering over her.

  He could have used the position to intimidate, but standing this close to her, intimidation was far from his mind.

  It wasn’t in hers, either; she gazed up at him, the silvery blush of moonlight washing over her cheeks, her expression holding a certain semiblankness he recognized all too well.

  She was in no way immune to him, to his sensual aura.

  To the allure he was a past master at wielding.

  The moment shivered with illicit potential. With his gaze, he traced the delicate curve of her cheek and jaw; his fingertips tingled. Because he could, returning his gaze to her eyes, he raised a hand and, with the pad of one finger, traced the tempting alabaster curve.

  He watched her eyes flare, heard the hitch in her already shallow breathing. And wished the light was sufficient for him to see more, to be able to read her awakening desire.

  Her lips, rosy and ripe, parted. Softened in instinctive, reactive invitation.

  He could kiss her now—could commence her seduction here, in this moment.

  Temptation whispered, more potent than he’d expected. His mouth all but watered with the urge to take hers.

  But he wasn’t ranked among the ton’s greatest lovers because he didn’t understand what seduction truly was.

  Seduction wasn’t about tempting a lady to surrender to her lover’s desire.

  It was all about inducing her to surrender to her own.

  She had to want him.

  She had to come to him.

  And she would.

  To him, for him, with her especially, it had to be that way.

  He needed her to want him every bit as much as he was starting to realize he might come to desire her.

  Drawing breath, he mentally stepped back from the brink he’d brought them to.

  Lowering his hand, he closed his fingers about her elbow. “Come.” Gently, he turned her to the steps. “I’ll escort you back inside.”

  She drew in a sharp, slightly shaky breath, considered him for an instant—no doubt debating whether to protest his caress . . . or leave it lying unacknowledged between them. He wasn’t surprised when she chose the latter option. Eyes narrowing, she nevertheless allowed him to steady her down the steps, then he released her and, head rising, she fell in beside him.

  They walked back toward the house.

  “Via the terrace,” he murmured, waving her that way.

  She obliged and headed back the way she’d come, but a few steps on asked, “Why?”

  He took two more paces before replying, “If we were seen coming out of the garden hall, there would be talk—it’s an obvious place for an assignation and sufficiently illicit to arouse the imaginations of the gossipmongers, regardless of your age.”

  She mulled that over, then observed, “But you escorting me in from the terrace won’t raise eyebrows?”

  “No. Not at all.” He glanced at her, met her eyes. Eventually replied, “That’s one benefit of a reputation such as mine. Unless we do something too jarringly blatant—leaving the garden hall together, for instance—then given my well-known predilections, anyone seeing me escorting you in, entirely mundanely via the terrace, will simply assume that I’ve obliged in escorting you outside for some air—as, indeed, I did earlier. Nothing in the least gossip-worthy.”

  Rounding the corner of the house, they climbed the steps to the terrace and saw two couples heading for the French doors. They brought up the rear.

  When Mary halted to allow him to draw back the gauzy curtain, he reached around her, but paused with his arm blocking her progress, the curtain a translucent screen between them and the occupants of the ballroom.

  She shot him a questioning glance.

  He caught it, trapped her gaze. Lowering his head, his voice soft, his tone conversational but private, said, “So, you see, no one would ever imagine that I might seduce you.” He held her widening eyes. “You’re too young, too innocent.” His let his lips curve. “And entirely too marriageable. Very definitely not my style of lover.”

  She stared into his eyes, then her gaze traveled over his face, fastened on his lips, lingered for an instant, then she sniffed, faced forward, and, when he drew back the curtain, walked calmly into the ballroom.

  He followed, his gaze on her slender back. And omitted to add that he was, however, increasingly sure she was his style of wife.

  Chapter Three

  “I had no idea we’d have to race off to Wiltshire, and Simon and Portia are keen to go, too—mostly to take the children out of London, to give them a break from town.” Across the breakfast table, Henrietta looked at Mary. “But that will leave you at home all alone.”

  “Only alone in the sense that none of the family will be in residence.” Mary waved at Hudson, standing by the sideboard. “I’ll have the staff all round while here, and Amanda and Martin and Amelia and Luc are just a few streets away.”

  “Still . . .” Henrietta sighed. “I wouldn’t go, but James must, and it really would be better if I got some idea of the situation at Whitestone Hall before I arrive as the new lady of the manor.”

  “It’s too good an opportunity to pass up,” Mary assured her. She took a bite of her toast, chewed, then said, “I truly can’t see why you’re so anxious. Mama and Papa will
be back the day after tomorrow. Amanda is going to accompany me to Lady Hopetoun’s musicale this evening, and Amelia will do duty at Lady Bracewell’s tomorrow night, and then Mama will be back and all will roll on as usual. There’s absolutely no reason you shouldn’t go, and Simon and Portia, too.”

  Henrietta studied Mary’s face. “Well, if you’re sure.” Henrietta held up a hand. “And yes, I can see that you are—it was a rhetorical statement.”

  Mary grinned. “So when do you leave?”

  “Within the hour.” Henrietta glanced at the clock. “Oh, blast!” She picked up her teacup and drained it, then tossed her napkin on the table and rose. “I have to hurry.” She met Mary’s eyes. “Be good and take care.”

  Mary laughed and waved her off. “Just go!”

  Henrietta whirled and went.

  Left to her own amusements, Mary took her time savoring her tea, then ate a second slice of toast and jam.

  While she considered just where her plan to find her hero currently stood.

  Her instinctive reaction to Ryder’s interference was to redouble her efforts and even more adamantly forge ahead on her predetermined path, to cling even more tenaciously to her direction. But she was growing too old to react thus blindly to opposition; she hoped she was growing wise enough to acknowledge that sometimes she might not be entirely correct in her assumptions.

  And, in truth, it wasn’t Ryder’s behavior the previous night that was leading her to question her until-now unwavering certainty but Randolph’s. He’d all but pushed her into Ryder’s arms and run away.

  Definitely not hero-worthy behavior.

  The more she dwelled on that moment, the less amused she was.

  Setting down her teacup, she looked down at her chest—at the necklace visible above the scooped neckline of her pale blue morning gown. The rose quartz pendant dangling between her breasts wasn’t visible, but she could feel it, sense its weight.

  If, now you’re wearing the necklace, you don’t feel something special for this mystery gentleman of yours, if he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off, then please, promise me you’ll listen to The Lady’s advice.

  Her cousin Angelica’s words, uttered at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball—the first evening she’d worn the necklace. Of all her cousins, Angelica, also the youngest of one branch of the family, was most like Mary in temperament; everyone acknowledged that. The necklace had worked for Angelica, and Mary still believed it would work for her.

  But with Randolph she’d felt nothing beyond exasperation arising out of frustrated expectations.

  That didn’t necessarily mean that Randolph was not her one true hero, but he certainly wasn’t now, and, it seemed, might not attain that status for years. . . .

  One hand rising to trace the necklace, she whispered, “I’m not going to wait years, and that with no guarantee.” After several moments of thinking, of absentmindedly tapping a fingernail against one of the amethyst beads, she grimaced and lowered her hand. “I have to accept that Randolph might not be my hero. I can use tonight’s musicale—at which Ryder will definitely not appear, thank God—to test Randolph one last time, and then, if, as seems likely, he fails to meet my standards, I will start to look about me for my true hero.”

  Who was proving damnably reticent over coming forward and presenting himself.

  If he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .

  The latter description might have applied to Ryder, who, now she thought of it, was the first gentleman she’d actually interacted with after Henrietta had clasped the necklace about her throat, but last night he had, directly and openly, confirmed her supposition as to why he was pursuing her, and no great stretch was required to imagine that he might, indeed, feel protective of Randolph to the extent of acting as he had. Ryder was the head of his house, his family as old as the Cynsters, and she understood the protective impulses that accrued to that station; he would without a second thought act to protect any he considered in his care. Like his younger half brother.

  So there was no reason to imagine Ryder might be her hero—and many, many reasons to be certain he was not.

  Not least the fact that they were so much alike in character and temperament, the principal differences, aside from their genders, being that he was older, infinitely more experienced, and consequently stronger.

  She wrinkled her nose. No, the truth was he was inherently stronger; she wouldn’t allow herself to be so foolish as to not recognize and acknowledge that. But for a lady who intended to be in charge of her own life, Ryder was assuredly the antithesis of her hero.

  Which meant the damn man hadn’t yet made an appearance.

  With one last, faintly bothered glance at the necklace, she set aside her napkin, rose, and headed for the breakfast parlor door.

  At least tonight she could be assured of not having to deal with the distraction, the sensual discombobulation, of Ryder’s interference. Musicales such as Lady Hopetoun’s were the province of the matchmakers, their charges, and young gentlemen of good family of an age to marry, and as such were events at which gentlemen of Ryder’s proclivities never appeared; tonight, she would have a clear field.

  Tonight, she would make up her mind, one way or another, on the subject of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh.

  Mary followed her oldest sister into Lady Hopetoun’s music room. While Amanda, Countess of Dexter, swept forward, touching fingers and cheeks and merging with her own circle of acquaintances, Mary hung back just inside the door and looked around.

  They’d been delayed by Amanda needing to check on her youngest, who had developed a cough, which, thankfully, was subsiding. Now an old hand at motherhood, Amanda had declared herself satisfied, enough at least to travel to Hill Street and the musicale, yet as a precaution Amanda had sent Mary on in their parents’ town carriage, which had ferried Mary to Dexter House in Park Lane, and had followed in the Dexter carriage, just in case.

  So all the other guests should be in attendance by now. Indeed, the members of the chamber ensemble who were to perform that evening were tuning up their instruments, and while the majority of guests still mingled and chatted in knots in the clear space closer to the door, others had already moved down the room to the velvet-upholstered chairs arranged in serried ranks before the dais.

  Randolph. Where was he?

  Mary scanned the heads once, then, frowning slightly, strolled to the room’s side to search more closely—

  “They’re not here.”

  She congratulated herself on not jumping. Barely turning her head, she cast Ryder a brief glance as he prowled up to stand beside her. After a second’s consideration, along the lines of whether she wished to cut off her nose to spite her face, she surrendered and asked, “They who?” Tall as he was, he could search those present more effectively than she could.

  “Rand and his set.”

  She blinked. “All of them?”

  “I think they took fright.”

  Fright. There was that word again. Nevertheless, she asked, “Fright over what?” Resigned, she turned to face Ryder.

  His customary lazy lion expression in place, he met her gaze, then arched a brow. “Everyone knows this sort of event, especially when held at this time of year, has only one real aim—and that aim has nothing to do with music.”

  She didn’t dispute that; it was why she’d come. But . . . “Randolph and the others attended the ball last night. And he told me they—all of them—attended such events, events like this, to keep peace with their mothers, the hostesses, and the grandes dames.”

  “Admitted that, did he?” Ryder’s grin turned proud. “There’s hope for him yet.”

  She shot him a discouraging look. “In your terms, perhaps. But accepting Randolph’s statement as true, which I
do, why aren’t he and his friends attending tonight?” She glanced swiftly, but comprehensively, around. “I’m sure their mothers would have wished them to. Just look at all the young ladies and their mamas and sponsors—and there’s a good showing of other younger-than-you gentlemen, too.”

  “Most of whom, if you look more closely, are a year or so younger than Rand and his set.”

  She had noticed that. As, frowning slightly, she considered the guests again, Ryder continued, answering the question that was forming in her mind, “I suspect that last night Rand and his cronies reached the point of actually looking into the chasm yawning at their feet.”

  “And them not being here is them stepping back?” She glanced at Ryder.

  His lips twisted lightly, not so much mockingly as in understanding, both of his brother and her, too. “I believe you would be correct in interpreting their absence as a declaration of sorts.”

  Somewhat to her surprise, she felt nothing more than resigned acceptance. “Well, in one sense that’s made my way forward clearer.” She met his eyes, slightly narrowed hers in warning. “As much as it pains me to acknowledge your prescience, clearly your brother is not the gentleman for me.”

  Ryder fought to keep his smile within bounds. “So glad we have that established.”

  “Yes, well.” Swinging to face the room, Mary stated, “So now I must move on.”

  Ryder blinked and promptly moved with her as she matched action to her words. “Ah . . . where to, exactly?”

  “To further assess the gentlemen of the ton to discover the right gentleman for me, of course.”

  “I . . . see.” He trailed her to a row of chairs halfway down the room, then followed on her heels down the row until she drew in her skirts, swung around and sat, then he claimed the chair alongside hers.

  As the musicians played a brief introductory piece, effectively summoning the guests to their seats, she cast him a sidelong glance. “Still keeping an eye on me?”