The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Mary glanced at the empty chair at the foot of the table, the one her mother normally occupied. If Louise had been there, Mary would have sought her counsel; her mother, she felt confident, would have been able to unravel the complexities of Ryder’s motives in short order.

  “They’ll be back tomorrow morning, miss.”

  Glancing up, realizing she’d been staring rather longingly at the empty chair, Mary summoned a smile for Hudson. “Yes, I know. They’ll be home before I know it.”

  “Is there anything the staff might do for you, miss—in the interim, as it were?”

  “No, no.” She waved Hudson to set down the teapot he’d brought in, then lifted it and poured herself a fresh cup. “I just need some advice that Mama will surely be able to provide, but there’s no rush.” Flashing another reassuring smile at Hudson, she concluded, “Tomorrow will be time enough.”

  With a bow, Hudson left to ferry her used dishes to the kitchen.

  Mary leaned back in her chair and sipped. Unbidden, her memory of the previous night’s conversation with Ryder rolled through her mind . . . she blinked. Teacup suspended in midair, she sat up, replayed the critical passages again, then thought back to the night before and checked . . .

  She frowned, an anxiety she’d been avoiding defining coalescing, then escalating.

  Given they’d been conversing frequently of late, she could understand, considering his social standing relative to hers and their long acquaintance, that he might have dispensed with calling her “Miss Cynster.” But last night, and even the evening before, other than when he’d wanted to attract her attention . . .

  He hadn’t called her anything at all.

  He’d spoken to her—and she’d responded—as if . . . they already had some sort of understanding. . . .

  “No!” The denial was weak; she repeated it, increasingly strongly. “No. And no!” Lips firming, setting down her teacup, she shook her head. “It can’t be so—I won’t have it so!” Ryder was not, could not possibly be, her hero—not he who was universally acknowledged as the most unmanageable nobleman in the ton.

  As she was determined to remain forever in charge of her life—and therefore that of her husband—ergo, Ryder was not the man for her.

  But what if he’d decided that she was the lady for him?

  The question echoed through her mind as she stared unseeing across the table.

  “What the devil am I to do if he has?”

  By the time she glided beside Amelia into Lady Bracewell’s ballroom that evening, Mary was confident she’d got herself back on track.

  Her track—the one leading to her hero, he who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss.

  All she had to do was hunt him down. The necklace and The Lady would take care of the rest.

  She’d restarted her campaign by accompanying Penelope, Portia’s sister, on an excursion to the park late that morning. They’d taken little Oliver, Penelope’s firstborn, for an outing in the mild sunshine. While strolling beside Penelope, Mary had surveyed the gentlemen driving their curricles or strolling the lawns, but none had caught her eye. None had drawn her attention, let alone fixed it.

  If Penelope hadn’t been Penelope, Mary might have broached the subject of Ryder, but Penelope was more conversant with the behavior of gentlemen millennia old, or if not that, then criminally inclined; any insights she might have to offer would necessarily be questionable.

  Mary didn’t need more uncertainty, especially not with respect to Ryder.

  From the park, she’d joined Amanda at Dexter House, and they’d driven to Lady Holland’s for lunch, but that had been an all-female affair. And while the drive there and back had given her ample opportunity to consult her oldest sister on the matter of a botheringly persistent marquess, she had, somewhat to her own surprise, balked at raising the subject.

  She’d told herself it was because she was trying her damnedest to forget the man. To oust him from her mind.

  Much easier declared than done.

  In Amelia’s wake, gowned in watered blue silk, with neckline and sleeves trimmed with cornflower blue ribbon, with her customary confidence she greeted Lady Bracewell, then joined Amelia to descend to the ballroom floor—and to her irritation discovered herself prey to the most peculiar case of jangling nerves.

  She needed to keep her mind on her task, needed to mingle freely and assess any and all potential gentlemen, especially those she’d had highest on her list before she’d settled on Randolph Cavanaugh.

  Of course, all her previous assessments had been made without benefit of the necklace, so perhaps a gentleman who had not before registered as highly as Randolph might appear more attractive when viewed through The Lady’s prism.

  Walking down the white marble steps, casting her eye over the guests, she was conscious of an ever-tightening tension, an expectation she didn’t want to come true yet couldn’t quite convince herself wouldn’t, but she couldn’t see Ryder’s mane of tawny golden-brown anywhere in the room.

  She looked down as they negotiated the last few steps. She didn’t want Ryder to be there, didn’t want him to vie for her attention, to steal away her senses by insisting on a waltz; God knew she would even admit that she wasn’t strong enough, experienced enough, to deny him. And then where would she be?

  Caught up in his distracting net again, just as she had been at Castlemaine House.

  But, she reminded herself as she gained the ballroom floor, raised her head, and looked out at the sea of guests, there was no longer any reason he should pursue her, not here, not tonight, not ever again.

  “Good evening, Amelia.”

  Mary whipped her head around and smothered a curse. She narrowed her eyes on Ryder, who had stepped out from the lee of the curving steps, which was why she hadn’t spotted him, and was bowing over Amelia’s hand.

  “Ryder.” Amelia returned his smile, then glanced at Mary. “I believe you and Mary are acquainted.”

  Ryder smiled at her; she told herself it was fanciful to imagine his smile looked hungry. “Indeed.”

  Recalling that Amelia hadn’t realized who she had spent most of the Castlemaine ball avoiding, and didn’t know who she’d spent the previous evening being charmed by, Mary clung to her sophistication and gave Ryder a smile of her own, one weighty with warning. “Yes, we’ve met.”

  Ryder held her gaze for an instant, then looked at Amelia. “Lady Croxton said she was waiting for you. She’s in a circle over there.” He waved toward a distant corner of the room.

  “Ah—thank you.” Amelia peered in that direction, then glanced at Mary. “So you know where I’ll be. Ryder.” With a nod to him, Amelia departed; sliding between shoulders, she disappeared into the crowd.

  Mary transferred her gaze to Ryder’s eyes; she didn’t need to take in the rest of his magnificence—as usual, he was the epitome of the elegant, sophisticated, superficially civilized nobleman. Lips firming, she stated, “I am determined to look over other candidates for my hand. Now I’ve struck Randolph from that list, you have no reason to dog my steps.”

  He held her challenging gaze for several heartbeats, then his lips eased into a curve that was not exactly a smile. “Possibly. We’ll see.”

  She frowned at him. “What sort of answer is that?”

  He arched his brows in his customary languid fashion. “All the answer you’re likely to get.”

  She smothered a frustrated growl; he was toying with her again. “Ryder, please—go away.”

  He appeared to give the plea serious thought. She was almost starting to hope when, his eyes still on hers, he shook his head. “I’m really not sure I can oblige.”

  She blinked; what was she to make of that? “Well . . .” She couldn’t dismiss him if he refused to go. Lips compressing, she narrowed her eyes on his. “Very well, but if you must hover close, at least do me the court
esy of not getting in my way.”

  Waiting for no reply, she pivoted and determinedly plunged into the crowd.

  Ryder grinned and, at least at first, let her lead the way.

  Five minutes later, he was no longer so amused. “You can’t possibly imagine that either Rigby or Cantwell figure as suitable candidates for your hand. Your family—your cousins at least—would be appalled.”

  Mary shot him a sideways glance. “Why?”

  He met her gaze. “Debts.” Among less mentionable shortcomings.

  “Oh.” She looked faintly crestfallen. After a moment of considering the pair in question—they were standing with a group of their peers, bucks and bloods of the ton all—she asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Very. Rigby’s close to point non-plus, and Cantwell’s acres are mortgaged to the hilt.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s not exactly common knowledge, but it is widely known.”

  She humphed and turned away. “There should be some list—the grandes dames could keep it. The Marriageable Gentlemen register.”

  “I thought that was the admittance list of Almack’s.”

  She inclined her head. “Those unmarried gentlemen admitted to Almack’s would presumably qualify, but in my case I’m more interested in the unmarried but marriageable gentlemen who would require wild horses to drag them over Almack’s threshold.”

  Gentlemen like him.

  But he kept his lips shut and ambled at her heels. Better, tonight, to let her run, to let her assess whoever she pleased so he could point out their weaknesses as candidates for her hand. If they didn’t have any . . . well, most gentlemen, at least, were far more awake to the implication of Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, consistently looming by Mary Cynster’s side.

  He knew where he ranked in the list of eligible males; there were few who would bother trying to compete against him. And of that small number, all of whom were at least acquaintances, if not friends, none—even if prompted by the sport of it—were likely to tempt fate by making a bid for Mary’s hand.

  She was the sort of termagant most of them would run from.

  Indeed, he wasn’t at all sure why he wasn’t of similar mind.

  Yet he wasn’t, and she undeniably held the power to surprise him, and, even more importantly, she made him laugh, albeit inwardly.

  She was in full flight in pursuit of George Cruikshank, having managed to capture him on his own, when the introduction to the first waltz floated over the room.

  George lifted his gaze to Ryder’s in mute appeal; a mild and gentle soul, George looked like a captured rabbit, all but quivering with the urge to flee.

  Before Ryder could intercede and claim Mary’s hand—as he’d fully intended to do anyway—she brazenly laid said hand on George’s arm and smiled sweetly at him. “Dare I be so bold, sir, but I do love to waltz.”

  “Aah . . .” George looked terrified. “Ah . . . gamy leg.”

  Mary blinked. “Oh?” She looked down at George’s until then perfectly stable pins.

  George gripped one thigh and grimaced weakly. “Don’t like to carry a cane, you know—too vain, I suppose you might say. But it really won’t hold me through a waltz, ’fraid to say.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze still on George’s legs, Mary all but visibly deflated.

  Before she could throw George into paroxysms of lies by asking for details of his invented injury, Ryder closed his fingers about her elbow—and hid his smile when she jumped just a fraction. “Come and dance with me, and let’s leave poor George to his pain.”

  Mary glanced up at him; for a moment her cornflower blue gaze was unfocused—as if she was absorbed with other things—then she blinked and focused properly on him. “Oh, all right.” She glanced back at George and inclined her head. “Thank you for the conversation, sir. I hope your leg improves.”

  His smile firmly suppressed, Ryder nodded to George; the degree of heartfelt thanks George managed to infuse into his wordless reply threatened Ryder’s composure, but he’d already realized that Mary had no notion of how much she rattled the meeker gentlemen of the ton.

  Leading her to the floor, he turned her into his arms. “Not George, I fear.”

  “Clearly not.” Frowning, Mary allowed Ryder to sweep her into the dance. And fought valiantly to keep her mind on her self-appointed task.

  Within two revolutions, two powerful sweeping turns, her mind had wandered to the puzzling question of why waltzing with Ryder felt so good, so right, so fitting, so . . . perfect. Yes, he was beyond expert, but he was so much taller and larger than she that she would have imagined she would feel overwhelmed, yet instead she felt . . . protected. Not caged—the effect was too ephemeral for that—but certainly shielded from any touch, any contact with anyone else.

  While waltzing, she and he formed a unit, an entity disassociated from everyone else.

  Waltzing with him was like whirling freely within a fragile, essentially intangible construct, their revolutions powered by his harnessed strength, their senses and awareness given over to it, true, but not so much in surrender as in indulgence.

  They’d gone down the long room once and were heading up it again when her mind caught up with reality, and she realized she’d relaxed and was delighting in the dance, and smiling easily—freely and sincerely—up at him.

  And he was smiling, lazily, but with a certain satisfaction glinting in his hazel eyes, down at her.

  She debated telling him that she was inclined to believe she shouldn’t waltz with him again; he was spoiling her for all other men. But on the other hand, perhaps she should take all she experienced with him as a guide, as a standard, so to speak; surely, when she finally found her true hero, waltzing with him would trump even this.

  This golden, delightful, deliciously scintillating experience.

  Of course, given this was Ryder—who needed no further encouragement and even less any further challenges—she kept her lips shut and simply enjoyed the rest of the dance.

  When it ended, she thanked him with sincere gratitude, then fastened her eye on the Honorable Warwick Hadfield, who had been waltzing with his cousin, Miss Manners, and had halted nearby.

  Warwick had been on her original list, and in all the ways society counted was possibly more eligible as a suitor for her than Randolph had been. Warwick’s father was Viscount Moorfield, and Warwick would inherit the significant Moorfield estates. Not that she or her family would care, but as Ryder had pointed out, society did have its expectations.

  Now she was wearing the necklace, she should reconsider Warwick.

  Effecting a meeting wasn’t difficult; most guests were circulating from group to group. But while in response to her encouragements Warwick spoke intelligently and was charming enough, she felt nothing. Simply nothing. Warwick, too, appeared unaffected by her; indeed, she judged he was more honestly smitten by his lovely cousin.

  Crossing Warwick off her list, she doggedly moved on. Ryder remained by her side, more or less her escort through the crowd—and as said crowd was growing ever more dense, she was grateful for his broad shoulders and the imposing presence that miraculously caused the way to open up before them. To give him his due, although he made comments, most were general, entertaining, and not in the least carping; he was wise enough not to comment adversely on her choice of gentlemen to assess, not unless he had pertinent and helpful facts to impart.

  Even then, he didn’t directly interfere.

  At least not until she—somewhat in desperation, truth be told—paused in her peregrination around the ballroom to join a circle that included several budding rakes and one well-born roué.

  Although included in the budding rakes category, Jasper Helforth and Joselin Filliwell were, she judged, redeemable, and both were immensely eligible in all other respects. They were, therefore, worthy of assessment.

  She actually enjoyed conve
rsing with the pair, although she noted both younger men took care to include Ryder in the banter. Yet she still felt no spark, no ruffling of her senses, nothing that registered sufficiently, for example, to draw her senses’ attention from Ryder. Whenever she consulted them, her senses were always first and foremost focused on him, rather than on her prospective suitors; she’d started to use that as a barometer of the potential of other men.

  If Ryder was determined to stick by her side, he might as well be useful.

  She had no idea what he was deriving from the exercise beyond the amusement he made no real effort to hide, but other than insisting on remaining by her side he did nothing to restrain her in continuing her quest as she chose.

  The musicians struck up another waltz, and Joselin Filliwell smiled and solicited her hand. She bestowed it upon him with alacrity; from their discussions he seemed closer to her ideal than Jasper or any other she’d thus far assessed.

  Joselin waltzed commendably well.

  She tried, she truly tried to capture the same elusive magic she felt when revolving in Ryder’s arms, but . . .

  Pasting a smile on her face and stifling an inner sigh, she allowed Joselin to escort her back to the group at the end of the entirely uneventful dance.

  When they rejoined the group, it had changed composition. Jasper had not returned, but two other younger gentlemen, distant prospects both, had joined the circle, along with Cassie Michaels and Rosalind Phillips. With Ryder now on her other side, Mary spent the next twenty minutes chatting with the recent additions; it was clear to her, if not to the gentlemen, that both Cassie and Rosalind had goals similar to hers. But while pleasant and generally innocuous, the younger men could not hold her interest. They were . . . simply too immature.

  She was about to turn to Ryder and suggest they move on when the musicians set bow to string in the introduction to another waltz.

  “Miss Cynster—I would be delighted if you would grant me the honor of this waltz.”

  The languid drawl drew Mary’s eyes to the gentleman further around the circle. A touch older than the other men in the group, Claude Legarde had the reputation of a roué-in-the-making. He was fastidiously, yet somehow overly, dressed, with frills at his collar and cuffs; a cloying scent of cloves and myrrh hung about his person.