The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (8 page)

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 conversing 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.

Mary didn’t want to dance with him; she didn’t have to think—her skin crawled at the very idea.

But how to decline without giving offense when she’d clearly been prepared to dance with others? Legarde was well known for his acid tongue.

“I’m desolated to have to inform you, Legarde, that Miss Cynster promised this waltz to me.” Ryder’s drawl was every bit as languid as Legarde’s, but somehow significantly less challengeable.

Mary felt such relief that she would have happily kissed Ryder; ridiculous, really, but she hadn’t wanted to even touch Legarde. When Ryder turned to her, she smiled and readily surrendered her hand. “Thank you—I hadn’t forgotten.”

His smile was all appreciation, on several levels. “I didn’t imagine you had.”

With a vague nod to the group, one she echoed, he turned her toward the floor.

As she moved away, she caught a last glimpse of Legarde’s face. The smug, almost delighted look in his eyes made her frown, but she kept the expression from her face as Ryder led her onto the floor.

But why had Legarde looked like that, reacted like that? As if he’d seen something, learned something, secret—even illicit. Something no one else knew.

But then Ryder swung her into his arms and stepped fluidly into the swirl of the dance, and she put Legarde and his reactions from her mind and gave herself up to the moment.

After several revolutions, she marshaled her wits enough to say, “Thank you for rescuing me. Mr. Legarde is definitely not on my list.”

“Thank God for that.” Ryder looked into her eyes, watched her lips curve in a confident smile, and used her words and tone, and that assured smile, to further placate his natural impulses, more intense where she was concerned than he’d expected, at least, not yet. But she somehow had, more or less from the first, connected directly with that primitive, instinctual side of him, and if anything that connection had only deepened over their recent meetings.

It had grown more distinct, more defined, on learning her purpose in attending this ball.

Still, he’d weathered the challenge thus far. The challenge of letting her run without pouncing and seizing and making off with her. Thus far, he felt, he could congratulate himself on his performance.

The waltz was uneventful; he kept it that way. No need to press his advantage just yet. Better to let her realize—as she eventually would—that no other gentleman could match her as he did, without the distraction of the sensual connection he knew would come to be. That connection was there, as yet nascent but potentially powerful, his to call upon when he wished, but she, he sensed, would be more swayed, and better convinced, by her own logic.

He was confident enough in his character, and in his prowess, to let her chart her own course. It would lead her to him in the end.

At the completion of the dance, both of them were smiling and in complete accord. She allowed him to steer her to a group of ladies and gentlemen closer to his age. He knew them all and introduced her; to his mind she could use a little contrast the better to compare him to the puppies she’d been assessing.

Lady Paynesville, a long-ago lover, turned to him with a smile. “My lord, my brother asked me, were I to see you, to inquire whether you’re inclined to come north to Scotland for the hunting this summer?”

Looking into Juliet’s eyes, Ryder understood perfectly that game wasn’t the only thing that would be on offer should he elect to accept her—and her brother’s—invitation. But it was just such interludes—enjoyable but essentially meaningless, with no long-term benefit—that he’d started to find wearisome; his hunter’s instincts had decreed they were no longer worth his time. “Thank John for me, but I’m not yet sure what I might be doing this summer.”

Juliet took the refusal in good heart. “Ah, well.” She smiled and her gaze traveled past him to Mary. “One never does know, I suppose.”

Ryder smiled, too, and followed Juliet’s gaze—and immediately had to suppress a frown. A scowl. An irritated growl.

While he’d been distracted—for only a few minutes—another gentleman had joined the circle, insinuating himself on Mary’s other side.

And that gentleman—assuming one used the term loosely—was Jack Francome. Handsome, debonair, and outwardly as easygoing as Ryder himself, courtesy of his excellent birth, Francome had the entree throughout the ton and was accepted in most drawing rooms, but he’d long been known as a man of dubious character and distinctly shady morals. He’d gambled away his patrimony before he’d reached the age of twenty-five and had subsequently been living off a succession of well-born mistresses.

Although his usual targets were widows rather older than Mary, Francome wasn’t the sort to balk at seducing a young innocent in pursuit of a fortune.

That said, he had to be desperate to try for a Cynster.

Francome knew all the ways; he’d engaged Mary so that she’d turned slightly, and he and she were now speaking semiprivately despite still being within the circle. Looming as close as he dared, Ryder eavesdropped on their exchanges, but Francome was toeing the line, carefully avoiding any subject or suggestion that might trigger Mary’s suspicions.

Then the damned musicians started playing again.

Mary raised her head, confirmed that it was to be another waltz, then angled an encouraging look at the intriguing Mr. Francome. She had met him before, but only in passing at some ball or other; she hadn’t previously had occasion to converse with him, and he was certainly more interesting than the younger gentlemen she’d assessed.

Perhaps she needed to widen her net?

Francome smiled; his brown eyes danced invitingly. “I would ask you to waltz, Miss Cynster, but it’s become such a crush I wonder if, instead, you would prefer to take a stroll on the terrace?”

They were standing mere yards from a pair of French doors left open to a paved and balustered expanse and the balmy summer night beyond. Glancing at the couples already strolling in the moonlight, Mary was seized with a sudden yearning for fresh air. “Thank you. I would.” She looked eagerly at Francome, and gallantly he offered his arm. She reached out to lay her hand on his sleeve—

A large male hand closed over hers, preventing the contact.

Surprised—indeed, shocked—she looked up at Ryder. The last she’d seen he’d been speaking to the lady on his other side. Her weak “What are you doing?” was drowned out by his forceful and deadly “I think not.”

She stared at him; he wasn’t speaking to her but to Francome. Ryder’s face was harder than she’d ever seen it; carved granite would have been softer. As for his eyes, they were locked on Francome’s face.

If looks could kill . . .

Suddenly breathless, she looked at Francome. He was staring at Ryder.

As she watched, Francome paled, swallowed, then, lowering his arm, rather more quietly and with a great deal less of his until then charming bonhomie, said, “I didn’t realize . . .”

With something of an effort, Francome wrenched his gaze from Ryder’s and looked at her, then his eyes narrowed. “But perhaps—”

“Think again.” Ryder’s voice remained hard, his tone laden with menace—enough to have Francome immediately look back at him.

After a second’s pause, Ryder went on, “Most especially think about how lucky you are that I am not one of her cousins.”

Francome searched Ryder’s face, his eyes. “You wouldn’t . . .”

Looking from one to the other, Mary glanced at Ryder as, his features easing not at all, he said, “How much are you willing to wager on that?”

She gritted her teeth; there was nothing like being treated like a bone by two dogs to send her temper soaring. She drew in a huge breath. “Ryder—”

Francome spoke over her. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cynster, I believe I’ve been summoned elsewhere.”

She blinked. “I . . . see.”

With a brief bow, not meeting her eyes but, as he straightened, exchanging a much longer glance with Ryder, Francome turned and took himself off, rapidly disappearing into the crowd.

Mary watched him go, then rounded on Ryder—and caught a glimpse of the faces of the others in their circle.

Everyone had heard, or at least seen, the exchange, even though they were pretending they hadn’t, but what struck her forcibly was the lack of surprise.

Their acceptance of Ryder’s actions . . . like a kaleidoscope, phrases, looks, fragments of memory shifted and swung, realigned—and fell into place.

And she suddenly saw what had been happening.

Over the last three nights, in front of her unsuspecting eyes.

Raising those now opened eyes to Ryder’s face, she stared at him. He looked blandly back at her; even as she watched, his expression eased the last little way back into his customary affable mien.

Nothing like it had been a few seconds before.

His gaze lowered to her hand, which he still held in a firm, but not crushing, grip. Slowly, as if he had to force his long fingers to uncurl, he eased his hold and released her.

It was that even more than the preceding exhibition that verified her new understanding—and set a match to her temper.

Narrowing her eyes, rather than lowering the hand he’d released, she grabbed his sleeve, locked her fingers tight.