The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (5 page)

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

The rest of the waltz passed without incident, verbal or otherwise.

He wondered if she had any idea how clearly the fact that she was plotting and planning showed in her face.

At the end of the dance, he very properly released her, bowed, then raised her from her curtsy—and waited to see what next she would do.

“Thank you for the waltz.” She glanced around. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He let her turn away before inquiring, “Wither away, flower?”

Both inquiry and epithet earned him a darkling look. “The withdrawing room, if you must know.”

He inclined his head. “I’ll see you later.”

As she resumed her march through the crowd, he heard her mutter, “Not if I can help it.”

His grin was fueled equally by anticipation and delight.

Mary did, indeed, make for the withdrawing room; it was the only place she could think of where she could be sure of gaining a few minutes of assured privacy in which to think.

Thinking while circling the floor in Ryder’s arms had proved impossible; no matter how valiantly she’d concentrated, her senses had constantly suborned her thoughts, seducing them with a type of scintillating delight, leading to unhelpful considerations such as how much more
ensnared
by the dance she was when she waltzed with Ryder, and conversely how ho-hum the experience had been with Randolph.

Such thoughts were irrelevant; Ryder was infinitely more experienced than Randolph, which was a huge point in
Randolph’s
favor. Sitting before a mirror, she pretended to tidy her perfectly tidy dark curls and determinedly wrenched her mind from its sensual dallying and refocused instead on her most immediate goal: Gaining more time alone with Randolph—preferably in a setting where he would be at ease—while simultaneously avoiding Ryder.

Of those connected aims, avoiding Ryder was the most important; regardless of what she might openly acknowledge, much less wish, he truly did distract her to the point of forgetting what she was about.

She dallied in the withdrawing room long enough, she judged, for him to have grown bored and, hopefully, been distracted by someone else. Finally emerging and returning along the corridor to the ballroom, she stepped through the archway, paused to glance around—and felt long fingers close about her elbow.

Before she could protest, Ryder said, “There’s a discussion raging over there about that book,
The Yellowplush Papers,
by that fellow Thackeray. I thought you might find it of interest.”

Which, of course, diverted her instantly. Allowing Ryder to lead her to a large group that included some of the more erudite personages in the ton, she told herself it was merely a pause in her campaign—and a worthwhile one at that. She’d heard of the work, a fictional memoir, and had been intrigued.

She and Ryder were welcomed into the circle with murmured greetings and polite nods, although the principal interlocutors, Lord Henessey and the Honorable Carlton Fitzsmythe, barely paused in their verbal exchange to acknowledge them.

The debate, centering on the value of such works as a mirror for society, shifted back and forth, but, to her ears at least, seemed to have no real starting point, much less any sense of end.

After a time, Ryder murmured, “It seems that it’s the fact that the work purports to be this Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush’s memoirs that’s exciting most interest.”

“Indeed,” Mary murmured back. “But it’s fiction—invented, made up—so I cannot, I confess, quite see the point in such high feelings.”

She glanced up and met Ryder’s eyes, and saw her own native cynicism reflected in the sharp hazel.

“Shall we move on?” he asked.

She nodded.

Which he took as permission to wind her arm in his and, excusing them with a few murmured words, lead her from the group into the still considerable crowd. “Thackeray—is he the same Thackeray who writes literary reviews for the
Times
?”

“I believe so.” She tried to hold back the words, but . . . glancing up at him, she asked, “Do you read literary reviews, then?”

Eyes scanning the crowd, he shrugged offhandedly. “On occasion.”

Which was something of a revelation; she found herself wondering if Randolph—and promptly cut off the thought. As Ryder himself had pointed out, six years of maturity lay between him and Randolph; comparisons weren’t appropriate.

Only . . .

She shook aside the distraction—and, yes, just strolling a ballroom beside Ryder qualified as a distraction—and once again doggedly brought her mind to bear on her campaign.

Glancing down at her, Ryder read her expression, and immediately raised his head and searched for a fresh diversion. “Ah—we’ve been summoned.”

Mary frowned and looked about, but with the crowd so dense she couldn’t see far. “Who by?”

“An old aunt of mine—well, I call her aunt. But I’m sure she’s seen you, too, so we’ll have to grit our teeth and bear it.” Without giving her a chance to argue, he tacked through the crowd, making for the chaise in one corner of the room on which he’d spotted his father’s cousin, Lady Maude Folliwell. She had terrible eyesight and could barely see ten feet in front of her, but she always liked to speak with him, and he had no compunction whatever in using her in pursuit of his current aim; aside from all else, were she to be informed of that aim, Maude would not just approve but applaud.

Mary found herself facing a type of lady she recognized well, but Lady Maude had nothing on her own late aunt Clara. Lady Maude’s conversation was still entirely rational and easy to follow, but noting the thickness of the glass in the lorgnettes her ladyship deployed, Mary had to wonder how Lady Maude had spotted them from quite halfway across the room. Regardless, she smiled sweetly, allowed Ryder to introduce her, and answered Lady Maude’s questions about her family.

“I didn’t notice your mother or your aunts here, my dear.” Lady Maude trained her magnified gaze along the wall against which most of the older ladies were seated in chairs and on chaises.

“My parents and my aunts and uncles have retreated to the country for a few days.”

“Ah, yes—no doubt girding their loins for your sister’s wedding. Quite a lovely surprise, and I know the Glossups are thrilled. Do please convey my felicitations to the happy couple.”

Mary accepted the charge, and Lady Maude turned her lorgnettes on Ryder. Mary expected to hear the usual exhortations ladies of Maude’s age normally leveled at gentlemen of Ryder’s, but instead it appeared that Lady Maude was extremely fond of Ryder and, even though from her somewhat pointed comments it was clear her ladyship was in no way blind, she thoroughly approved of her younger relative, at least in general terms.

As Ryder responded with equal fondness and the exchange veered deeper into family concerns, Mary saw her chance and promptly moved to seize it; intending to quietly step back and with a polite curtsy to her ladyship slip away into the crowd—leaving Ryder stuck while she escaped to find Randolph—she started to ease back, only to discover that Ryder was, yet again, ahead of her.

Not that he paused in his exchange with Lady Maude, or gave the slightest sign that he knew what she was about.

But the long fingers he’d had the nerve to crook into her silk skirts curled and tightened, effectively anchoring her to his side.

He kept the hand trapping her skirts at the back of his thigh, out of Lady Maude’s sight, and with the crowd so tight-packed, it was unlikely anyone behind them would notice. . . .

Mary had to swallow the growl of sheer frustration that bubbled in her throat and continue to smile sweetly.

But she was now more determined than ever to pursue Randolph; one way or another, she
would
win through.

Her chance came immediately they’d taken leave of Lady Maude. As they turned back into the crowd, Lady Heskett and Lady Argyle, elegantly fashionable matrons of similar age to Ryder, pounced simultaneously—one from either side.

“Darling, I haven’t seen you in an age!” Lady Heskett swooped in, all but physically dislodging Mary from Ryder’s side.

Entirely willing to be dislodged, Mary slipped her hand from Ryder’s sleeve and gave way.

“Raventhorne.” Lady Argyle’s voice was a touch shriller and held a distinctly possessive note as she brazenly claimed Ryder’s other arm. “Where have you been hiding, my lord?”

For an instant, Ryder was fully occupied.

With a grin, Mary stepped back, whirled, and fled.

Plunging into the crowd, she tacked this way and that like a fox dodging hounds, then doubled back and took refuge near the archway leading to the withdrawing room.

She scanned the heads but saw no evidence of Ryder’s golden mane. She exhaled in relief. “Good. Now to find Randolph.”

Keeping a wary eye out for prowling lions, she edged around the ballroom. Predictably, Randolph’s circle was more or less where it had been before. She was about to step clear of the surrounding crowd and approach Randolph and his cronies once more when she saw Ryder lounging against the wall nearby, free of encumbering ladies and apparently idly chatting with another gentleman, but in reality watching and waiting.

She drew back, but the movement caught Ryder’s eye.

What followed was a sophisticated game of cat and mouse. Somewhat to her surprise, Ryder wasn’t merely intent on keeping her from Randolph; he pursued her as she twisted and turned, trying to lose him in the crowd. . . .

He was tall enough to easily keep track of her.

All too soon he was closing in, and a peculiar frisson of panic—delicious and expectant—flashed through her.

She gave herself no time to dwell on the strangeness of the feeling. There was only one way she could see of escaping. She hurried back to the archway into the corridor; pausing beneath the arch, she glanced back—and saw Ryder only yards away. Three people away.

His gaze locked with hers.

What she saw in his eyes made her lungs seize.

One part of her mind thought that was ridiculous, but the rest was wholly focused on one thing: Escaping.

Exactly what she was escaping, much less why, she didn’t know. She just had to do it.

On a breathless gasp, she swung away and plunged down the corridor, but instead of going into the withdrawing room, she rushed past and on. The long corridor ran the length of the ballroom and at the end turned a corner; whisking around it, she came to the door she’d known from previous visits was there. Dragging in a breath, calming her thudding heart, she raised her head; straightening, drawing her usual mantle of self-control firmly about her, she opened the door and stepped onto the terrace.

It was, she judged, the last place Ryder would think of looking for her. There was really no reason she would return there, especially alone.

Silently closing the door, she paused in the spill of shadow provided by the walls and surveyed the five couples strolling the expanse; being alone—strolling alone—would attract attention.

In her present position, she wasn’t visible to the ballroom’s occupants, but if she walked forward, she would be seen. And a single figure was odd enough to attract notice, even from those absorbed in conversation in the ballroom.

Let alone the couples strolling the terrace; at least three knew her, and would undoubtedly seek to gather her in and escort her back into the ballroom . . . where Ryder would be waiting.

She glanced to her left. A set of steep stone steps, helpfully shrouded in shadow, led down to a paved garden path. Holding still in the gloom, she waited, then seized a moment when the strolling couples were otherwise occupied and unlikely to spot her, and slipped silently down the steps, onto the path, and whisked around the corner of the house.

Ahead of her lay the rectangle of garden that faced the private rooms of the big house, and tucked into the opposite corner beyond an expanse of lawn stood a small pillared folly; constructed of white marble, it glimmered faintly in the moonlight. When the weather was fine, Lady Castlemaine often used the lawn for her afternoon teas, but there was no direct access from the ballroom, and at night the area was unlighted.

No one would be in the folly at present; she could sit in the quiet darkness for a while, long enough to calm her stupidly thudding heart and get her mind working again. She had no idea why Ryder’s pursuit—his suddenly intent focus on her—had affected her to this degree, but she needed to settle her nerves, reclaim her senses, regain complete control of her mind, and then devise a workable plan to get the time she needed with Randolph to . . . properly assess if he was, indeed, her hero.

That she now doubted her earlier certainty irked. She’d been so
sure
. . . and on one hand, she still was. Logically, and by every measurable criterion, Lord Randolph Cavanaugh was the perfect husband for her—he
should be
her hero.

Walking slowly past the lawn, she turned onto the narrower path that led to the folly; it wended through the wide flower beds, small bushes and flowering plants nodding on either side, their colors washed out by the moonlight, but their scents still discernible on the night breeze. Gradually, her odd panic subsided; slowly pacing, her gaze on the path ahead, she felt her temper stir as the reality of what had just transpired coalesced in her mind.

She’d been forced out of the ballroom—her field of action—by Ryder. By an interfering, high-handed, wholly arrogant despot; no matter how much amiability he used to cloak his true nature, that was what Ryder assuredly was.

And tonight he’d trumped her.

Her
—she who was always in charge. More, he’d done it in an arena she considered hers. Hers to organize and arrange to her liking.

Eyes narrowing, she raised her skirts and marched up the three steps into the deeper shadows of the folly, her temper escalating to a steady boil.

Even though there was no one to see, she set her lips in a mutinous line.

Halting at the top of the steps, she let her skirts fall.