The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (19 page)

She hadn’t even admitted it to herself, but this was what she’d wanted—the most important thing she’d come there that morning to further explore.

Letting her reticule dangle from her wrist, she spread both gloved hands, fingers wide, on his chest. The fine fabric of his coat met her leather-sheathed palms and fingertips, but beneath lay him, solid and hard and immensely intriguing.

Fascinating
. Her senses flared, then raced, reaching and searching, absorbing every last little insight they could.

She’d yielded her mouth from the first; as her senses reeled, overwhelmed by all there was to take in, she grew increasingly aware of his slow, typically lazy—unbelievably possessive—claiming of her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

As if he were branding her in some subtle, addictive way; even as she followed his lead and started to copy and return his undeniably expert caresses, some inkling of just how potent was their allure was blossoming in her brain—

Enough
. Ryder artfully drew back and broke the kiss. Holding her easily within one arm, he studied her delicately flushed face, drew satisfaction from the vestige of sensual haze clouding her eyes. “So have I convinced you of my proposition?”

She blinked, twice, faintly frowned. “What proposition is that?”

He couldn’t entirely hide his triumph. “That we will suit—exceptionally well. In many if not all ways.” Even though he wasn’t holding her tight, she had to be able to feel the tangible evidence—proof, if she wished it—of the truth of his statement that he wanted her.

If the sudden consciousness that flooded her expression, the awareness that flared in her eyes, was any guide, she wasn’t likely to question that point again.

But then her gaze, the cornflower blue a fraction more intense, steadied, and she gave a small nod—whether to him or herself he wasn’t sure. “Perhaps. You might be right.”

She eased back and, faintly surprised, he let her go; even though he didn’t like losing her warmth, much less the tantalizingly light touch of her hands on his chest, he reminded himself, his instincts, that there would be plenty of time for more, later.

That it was wiser not to push for more yet. Strategy, tactics; better she come to him.

As she just had.

He watched her step back, shake her skirts straight, take her reticule in one hand, and felt a definite spike of satisfaction; not only had he met her immediate challenge more than adequately but his strategy of how best to deal with her was also bearing fruit. If he played his sensual cards correctly, she would come to him, and then he would have her without having to admit to anything more binding than desire.

Desire, passion, lust—all emotions he was entirely willing to own to. Especially with her.

When, ready to leave, she glanced at him, he opened the door, waved her through, then strolled beside her down the corridor to the front hall. “Do you have a carriage waiting?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him. “I often use my parents’ second town carriage.”

He nodded and made a mental note to buy her her own carriage.

Reaching the front door, he went to open it but paused with his hand on the knob. He caught her eye. “One last point—the date of our wedding. Unless you specifically wish to delay it, I believe it will be in our best interests to tie the knot as soon as practicable.”

Returning his gaze, she didn’t pretend not to understand; for a twenty-two-year-old lady of quality, she was refreshingly short on guile.

Although faint color again rose in her cheeks, after an instant’s pause she nodded crisply. “Yes, I agree. That being the case, I believe we’ll be meeting at St. George’s a week after Henrietta and James.”

Looking down, she resettled her gloves.

Amused, he swung open the door and managed an abbreviated bow.

She slanted him a glance, then inclined her head. “Good day . . . my lord.”

He smiled back, making no attempt to conceal his appreciation. “Good day, my lady.”

Still smiling, he watched her walk down the steps to where her footman waited to open the door to a small black town carriage. He’d suppressed a very real impulse to ask which events she would be attending that evening. He was still too sore to attempt standing for long; he had to be content with remaining where he was and watching her drive away.

T
wo evenings later, having surrendered to her mother’s insistence that she attend Lady Percival’s ball, Mary accepted that she’d lost all patience with her current social role, given over as it was to adequately responding to the constant stream of congratulations and not-so-subtle queries the announcement in the
Gazette
had spawned.

She hadn’t expected being feted would prove such a chore.

Standing by the side of Lady Percival’s ballroom, alongside the chaise on which Louise sat chatting to several other matrons, close enough to intervene if necessary, Mary continued to smile and accept the proffered felicitations—some less than sincere—with passable grace, pointing out that she and Ryder had in fact been acquainted for more than a decade . . . she wished she’d stayed at home.

Which was shockingly unlike her. Being a bossy soul meant she needed people to steer and direct . . . indeed, she knew the people she wanted to steer and direct, but none were present, not even Stacie. More to the point, being the focus for so many others, she couldn’t march off and find something to amuse her; she had to stay in one place and provide amusement for everyone else.

She was debating how soon she could nudge her mother toward the door when the crowd to her left parted and Ryder appeared.

He was carrying his cane but otherwise appeared his usual, rakishly eye-catching self, perfectly groomed, his golden-brown hair gleaming, his linen and cravat precise and pristine, the latter arranged in an intricate fall, the ivory at throat and cuff in stark contrast to the midnight black of his elegantly cut evening coat and trousers, and his subdued black-and-gold checkered waistcoat.

Meeting her eyes, he smiled his lazy lion smile—no one observing it could doubt the sexual possessiveness with which he viewed her—and made straight for her.

The few still between them melted out of his way; the pair of matrons who had been about to approach her, their charges in tow, fell back in a tittering flutter.

She barely heard them. Something in her chest leapt; interest and more geysered. As if she’d been a desert, parched and dry, renewed engagement flowed like revivifying rain down her veins, yet . . .

As he neared, concern for him welled. She opened her mouth to upbraid him for having left the comfort and protection of his house, but before she could speak, he swooped. Even though he didn’t actually surround her, she felt as if he somehow had, as if she was enfolded within his protection; capturing her hand, he bowed—only she was close enough to register that the gesture lacked his customary fluidity—but as he straightened, both the expression in his eyes as they trapped hers and the tension inherent in all his movements carried a clear, if unvoiced, warning.

Eyes locking with hers, he carried her hand to his lips and brushed a lingering kiss over the backs of her fingers, and she battled to suppress a shiver.

Apparently oblivious—although she doubted he was—he murmured, in that sinfully deep voice he reserved for such moments, “My dear delight, I hoped I’d find you here. I fear I grew bored, and nothing would do but to seek your company.”

Ryder held Mary’s gaze, watched her blink, saw sudden awareness of where they were flare in her eyes, along with the understanding that quite half of her ladyship’s guests were now surreptitiously watching them and she couldn’t—shouldn’t—give him the piece of her mind currently hovering on the tip of her tongue. He’d elected to carry his cane, a necessary precaution, but as he wasn’t at the moment leaning on it, there was no reason for anyone to imagine he was recovering from any near-fatal wound rather than nursing a twisted ankle.

Then her awareness refocused on him and she smiled. “I’m delighted you did.” The quality of her smile assured him she was sincerely happy to see him.

Which led him to ask,
sotto voce,
“Has it been that bad?”

Her smile escalated by several degrees. “Worse,” she whispered as, beaming smile in place, she turned to the two matrons now even more eager to engage.

He dutifully stood beside her and played second fiddle to her lead; it was, after all, what he’d come there to do—to support her in whatever way he could. Hiding in the peace and quiet of his library while leaving her to face the social barrage alone hadn’t appealed on a number of counts; given his wound no longer troubled him unless he twisted and his strength had returned enough to risk the time on his feet, he’d sent a footman to inquire of her parents’ butler as to where she might be found, and had followed her there.

Despite his intentions, within ten minutes his lazy smile had grown somewhat forced. Slanting a glance at Mary, he seized a second between congratulatory exchanges to murmur, “How the devil can you swallow such syrup?”

Glancing up, she arched a brow. “With more than a grain of salt?”

“Ouch.” He had to desist while they chatted with the next couple waiting to offer their felicitations and archly marvel at how he and she had managed to reach an understanding without any of the gossipmongers, let alone the grandes dames, realizing they had formed an attachment. Which reduced him to all but whining as the pair withdrew, “Do we have to do much more of this?”

She cast a swift glance at her mother; earlier Ryder had seized a moment to pay his respects. “Perhaps”—glancing around, confirming there were no others immediately about to pounce, she gripped his arm—“we might stroll.”

“Excellent idea.” Closing his hand over hers, anchoring it on his sleeve, he immediately stepped out. “Perhaps if we’re ambulatory we won’t be such easy targets.”

He glanced down at her—and discovered she was studying him, her eyes faintly narrowed.

“I didn’t expect you to turn up here. Are you sure you’re strong enough to weather this?”

He grinned. “Quite.” He felt a trifle guilty over the pleasure he derived from the concern filling her eyes. He held up a hand, palm out. “I swear I won’t overtax myself. There—will that do?”

She made a huffing sound. “I suppose it will have to, but I warn you I expect to enjoy my engagement waltz, and I won’t be able to if I have to hold you up through half of it.”

He laughed. When she arched a haughty brow at him, he waved. “The image was just a little too much.”

She pinched his arm. “You know what I mean.”

Still chuckling, he patted her hand. “Never fear—I swear you’ll have an engagement waltz to remember.”

“Very well.” She tipped up her chin. “Just as long as you don’t forget.”

He resisted the impulse to assure her he wouldn’t, not now she’d made such a point of it, and instead devoted his energies and talents to the twin tasks of steering them clear of those trying to catch up with them through the crowd, wanting to wish them well while simultaneously trying their hand at extracting more details of their unexpected romance, and amusing her, which in turn amused him.

Although Fate had determined that they would wed without benefit of any real wooing, he saw no reason not to claim the days until their wedding to give her what he could of the moments her saving his life had denied her.

They strolled and talked, teased and laughed, and occasionally stopped to chat with others.

Somewhat unexpectedly, he enjoyed the hours—principally because he knew she did, too. He’d known she was direct, that she didn’t often bother with guile, but the openness she displayed in interacting with him was something he was growing to treasure.

They reached the end of the evening in pleasant accord. After handing Louise, then Mary, into their carriage, Ryder waved them off, then climbed into his own, smiling to himself as he sank back in the leather-cushioned dimness. Mary had, of course, demanded to be told how he intended returning to his home; that he’d brought his carriage had earned him an approving, if somewhat imperious, look.

As the carriage rolled along, he realized he was still smiling—for no specific reason that he could discern.

Chapter Nine

T
hree evenings later, Mary sat beside Ryder at the middle of one long side of the massive table in the formal dining room of St. Ives House and, buoyed on a wave of exuberant happiness, surrounded by her family and his, listened as her father, from his place closer to the head of the table, proposed a toast to “the baby of our family in her generation, and the gentleman she will wed.”

With smiles, supportive cheers, and much tinkling of glasses and thumping of the table, everyone raised their glasses high and called in unison, “To Mary and Ryder!” then enthusiastically drank to their health.

Mary couldn’t stop beaming; she was finally here, perhaps not, in the circumstances, at the very end of her quest, but well and truly on her way. This, in effect, was the point of no return; she was now committed beyond recall, and had her ultimate goal front and center in her sights.

She could barely contain her impatience to get on—to press ahead, to take the next step, whatever that might be, toward bringing Ryder, metaphorically speaking, to his knees.

As the noise subsided and everyone returned to their conversations, he caught her eye. “Happy?”

They’d conversed enough over recent days for her to know he meant the question literally and specifically; she reined in her enthusiasm enough to actually consider, then, meeting his gaze, nodded. “I can’t think of any part of the evening thus far that might have gone better.”

He smiled, not his lazy-lion smile but an expression several degrees more personal, and for a moment amid the madness there was just the two of them—a second of privacy within the swirling chaos.

Then Luc, Amelia’s husband, seated a few places to Ryder’s right, called to him and he turned to respond, and Marcus, Mary’s cousin Richard’s son, seated to her left, posed a question, and she turned to answer.

Nearly seventeen, Marcus, dark-haired and blue-eyed like his father, together with his twin, Lucilla, had traveled down from Scotland with their parents for Henrietta’s nuptials. Being able to attend Mary’s engagement ball and wedding, too, was an added bonus in Lucilla’s and her parents’ eyes, but Mary wasn’t so sure Marcus saw dallying in the capital in the same light.

Yet even as she chatted with her younger relative about the sights he’d seen thus far in town, her attention remained in some way linked to, attuned to, the man on her other side.

He who would shortly be her husband.

They’d spent the days and evenings since he’d joined her at Lady Percival’s ball and had so definitely claimed the position by her side largely in each other’s company. Until the following morning in the park when he’d arrived in his carriage to stroll the lawns beside her, she hadn’t fully appreciated the degree to which he’d established his social claim on her, but the way others now treated her, ladies young and old and gentlemen, too, eventually impinged and opened her eyes.

Once she’d realized . . . she’d been ready to narrow said eyes at him the instant he stepped beyond protective into possessive, yet although he’d sailed very close to that line on several occasions, as if sensitive to her impending ire, he’d tacked away from overstepping her mark every time he’d got too close.

They’d walked in the park, had strolled the length of Bond Street, and spent countless hours in his library—talking, discussing, arguing, relating anecdotes, and, even more amazing, indulging in companionable silences. Somewhat to her surprise, she’d discovered that they shared rather more than just a liking for always being in charge. In the evenings, he’d joined her and her mother in Brook Street, without argument or complaint accompanying them to whichever events her mother had selected; once there, he had set himself to make her evenings as pleasant as he could.

This morning, he’d arrived in a closed carriage—not his phaeton because, as he’d informed her, mindful of her strictures regarding their engagement waltz he’d decided against attempting to hold his horses—and they’d been driven out to Richmond to spend the day in the peace of the park there, returning to town with only just enough time to prepare for the whirl of this event, their engagement dinner and ball.

That he was putting himself out to please her, perhaps viewing that as an avenue to ease their way into their somewhat rushed union, was neither difficult to see nor particularly surprising. What had, however, captured her attention was the simple fact that in all he had set out to do, it truly was the case that her pleasure defined his.

He enjoyed the things they did, the moments they spent together, because she did.

He measured the success of anything he caused to happen against the yardstick of whether it pleased her.

That could have been a purely superficial exercise, one dictated more by reason than feeling, more deliberate than instinctive, but for him, with her, his focus on pleasing her seemed an intrinsic part of him.

Something that sprang from somewhere deep within him.

When Marcus turned to respond to Portia, on his other side, Mary seized the moment to, from beneath her lashes, slant a glance at Ryder; she couldn’t stare too hard or he would notice, but . . . seeing him in this setting, joking with her cousins, her brother, and brother-in-laws, all of whom she knew well and of whom over the years she’d heard revealing tales aplenty from their wives, she had to wonder if, perhaps, Ryder’s propensity to focus on a lady’s pleasure had become an intrinsic part of him because of his lengthy reign as one of the ton’s great lovers.

That was a thought to give any lady pause.

Feeling warmth rise in her cheeks, she quickly looked away before he—or anyone else—noticed.

Glancing around, she confirmed her assessment that the dinner was a resounding success; both it and the preceding gathering in the long drawing room looked set to pass off without the slightest hitch. Ryder’s family were all present, including his stepmother, but, as he’d predicted, Lavinia appeared to be on her best, albeit it rather chilly, behavior, although to give her her due she was warm and encouraging to everyone except Mary and Ryder.

Making a mental note to, at some later date, see what she could do to thaw the marchioness’s ice-clad spine, Mary rose along with everyone else as, under Honoria’s direction, the company quit the table and moved toward the doors and the stairs up to the ballroom.

Ryder had risen and drawn back her chair; he offered his arm with a smile. Smiling back, she laid her hand on his sleeve; as they walked slowly along the table, following other couples, it registered just how familiar walking beside him, at his side, had so quickly become.

Familiar, and on some level reassuring.
Safe
.

She had never felt any physical threat from him. A sensual sparking of her nerves, definitely, but even that instinctively flaring alarm had transmuted to something more akin to . . . curiosity.

Smiling still, she glanced up at him, but he was watching those ahead. She was about to speak, to draw his attention back to her, when movement ahead and to the side drew her eye.

Lucilla, slender, almost elfin in pale green silk with her rich red hair cascading in ringlets about her face, was weaving through the crowd, her green gaze locked on Mary, her expression intent.

Mary halted and looked up as Ryder glanced at her. “I have to speak with Lucilla for a moment—in private. Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll join you and the others in the receiving line.”

Ryder’s gaze shifted to Lucilla, who had halted several paces away; smiling, he inclined his head to her, then his gaze returned to Mary’s face. He briefly searched her expression, as if to confirm that she wasn’t anticipating any difficulty, then he simply said, “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.” Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she made for Lucilla.

As she neared, Lucilla said, “I believe you have something for me.”

“Indeed, I do.” Grinning, Mary took Lucilla’s hand. “Come on—I’m fairly certain we’re supposed to do it over here.”

Lucilla looked puzzled, but she allowed Mary to tow her to one side of the room, to a spot beside one of the long sideboards. “Why here?” Lucilla asked as Mary released her.

“Because this is where Angelica gave the necklace to Henrietta, and where Henrietta then gave it to me.” Reaching for the clasp at her nape, Mary slipped it free. “I don’t know where Heather was when she handed it to Eliza, or where Eliza was when she gave it to Angelica, but it might well have been here, too.” Gathering the necklace as it slid from her throat, Mary considered it, then held it up by the clasp so that the chain of amethyst beads and gold links hung straight and the rose quartz pendant swung. “It just seems to be sensible to follow the same pattern, given we can.”

Lucilla nodded and reached for the necklace, closing her hand around the links. “Thank you—and you’re right. With any talisman based on belief, adhering to any tradition, no matter how minor, never hurts.”

Mary released the necklace, but Lucilla didn’t immediately move her hand. When the younger girl stood there, stock still, Mary looked at her face. Lucilla’s gaze had grown unfocused, as if she was viewing something distant and far away.

Then Lucilla blinked, faintly frowned. After a few seconds, she looked at Mary. “Don’t fall into the trap of being as blind as Simon was—and never forget that Ryder . . . isn’t blind at all.”

Mary frowned. “What does that mean?”

Widening her eyes, Lucilla shifted, lightly shrugged. “I can’t truly say.” Meeting Mary’s eyes, she paused, then grimaced. “I get messages sometimes—like that—but as for their meaning, that’s more . . . nebulous.” She paused again, as if studying something only she could discern, then offered, “What I can say is that The Lady is pleased—that in her eyes you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, marrying Ryder . . .” Lucilla blinked, then added, “Being challenged by him.” She glanced at Mary. “If that makes any sense.”

Mary stared at Lucilla for several seconds, then nodded. “Yes, actually, it does.”

Lucilla’s smile flashed. “Good. In that case”—she waved the necklace she still held in one hand—“I thank you for this. I hope it will be as efficacious north of the border as it has been for all of you down here.”

“Mary?”

They turned to see Henrietta beckoning urgently from the doorway.

“You’d better run,” Lucilla said.

With a grin, Mary picked up her skirts and rushed as fast as decorum would allow for the stairs, her betrothed, and their engagement ball.

Ryder was waiting at the top of the stairs; unable to hide an appreciative smile, he offered his arm as his giddy betrothed reached him. “I’ve been instructed to bring you immediately to the receiving line.”

She rewarded him with an effervescent smile. “I’m ready—lead on!”

He laughed and they turned to cross the wide foyer. His gaze lingered on the expanse of fair skin above the neckline of her shimmering violet gown. “What happened to your necklace?” She’d been wearing a fine cameo on a purple velvet band, and that was still in place, but the necklace was gone.

“It was only mine for a time. I passed it on to Lucilla.”

He remembered when he’d first seen the curious necklace about Mary’s throat—at Henrietta’s engagement ball. As the earliest guests, just entering the hall below, had yet to climb the stairs, he slowed and asked, “Did Henrietta pass it on to you at her engagement ball?”

Mary glanced at him more sharply. “How observant of you to notice.”

He smiled one of his sleekly persuasive smiles. “So it’s what?” Recalling the conversation he’d overheard between Mary and Angelica about Mary embarking on her quest to find her hero, he guessed, “A talisman of sorts?”

She regarded him for several seconds, patently debating whether to answer, and if so, how much to tell him; eventually she said, “It’s a gift from Catriona’s Lady—The Lady—and is supposed to assist those it’s given to in locating the right gentleman for them.” She looked forward as they neared the ballroom doors. “It went to Heather first, then passed to Eliza, Angelica, and Henrietta in turn—and then to me.” She glanced at him, clearly anticipating disbelief. “Each of us believe it worked, although I don’t expect you’ll credit such a superstitious tale.”

Holding her gaze, conscious of the others in the receiving line just ahead, he wondered if he dared state that he knew for a fact the necklace had worked for her—it had steered her to him, after all. Instead, he smiled easily and looked ahead. “The Lady?” Swinging Mary into position in the receiving line, he lowered his head and murmured just for her, “Admittedly I’ve never called her that—I’ve always simply called her Fate.”

Looking up, she met his eyes, an arrested expression in hers, but then the first of the select guests invited to their engagement ball—Lord and Lady Jersey—swept up, and all conversation, all revelations, were necessarily suspended.

For the next hour, neither Ryder nor Mary had any chance to do anything beyond greet and chat with guests, but the nature of the gathering ensured neither of them had to exert themselves—they knew everyone and everyone knew them. Despite being a ball held at the height of the London Season to celebrate an unexpected betrothal linking two of the oldest and most powerful families in the ton, the atmosphere remained relaxed and genial, lacking the heightened tensions of a larger and consequently more formal event.

For Ryder, the only less than perfect note was struck by his stepmother, but his half siblings’ efforts to keep Lavinia both amused and out of his and Mary’s way warmed him and made him smile. Together, he and Mary circled the room, moving smoothly from group to group, confirming that their wedding would take place in just ten days, a week after Henrietta and James’s.

Then the musicians set bow to string, and the moment Ryder had been waiting for—the moment Mary had been so looking forward to—was upon them.

Smiling into her eyes, he bowed—with unrestricted grace now that Sanderson had removed his stitches and pronounced him fully healed. Straightening, he closed his fingers firmly about the hand she offered him—and felt something inside him tighten, lock. Her eyes were pools of blue-violet alight with expectation, with shimmering anticipation as he led her to the floor.