The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (9 page)

Yanked his arm down between them, then smiled as sweetly and as vaguely as she could manage at the others in the group. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re going to stroll.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw one of Ryder’s brows arch. She shot him a glare. As she dragged him away, she hissed, “Outside!”

He sighed. “Very well, but let’s at least be civil about this.” Twisting his arm gently, he broke her hold, caught her hand, and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. “Come along then, before you faint. Or have a seizure.”

She was, she decided, ready to throttle him.

But she played along and let him steer her onto the terrace. Stepping outside, they both looked around; both saw the empty space at the far end of the long terrace and without further consultation headed that way.

She would have stormed along, but, his hand closing over hers on his sleeve, he held her to an ambling stroll—one that would attract no attention.

Her temper was steaming, well past boiling and ready to explode. She recognized what had been happening now, that he’d been casting an invisible net of possessive protectiveness about her, a broader and more nuanced version of the protectiveness she’d felt when they’d waltzed. Other men could sense it; no doubt some ladies were experienced enough with men of his ilk to detect it, too.

In some primitive way, it marked her as his.

Protectiveness she could understand; she knew the type of man he was, knew that for men such as he protectiveness was a deeply ingrained trait. Which was why the protectiveness she’d sensed when they’d waltzed hadn’t set off any alarms.

But possessiveness . . . oh, no. In men like him, for ladies like her, that was not an emotion she would allow.

The spot they were making for was out of clear sight of those in the ballroom but not the many couples strolling the flags; as they neared it and slowed, she slipped her hand from the warmth of Ryder’s arm and whisked around to place her back to the balustrade, facing him. With him standing before her, she was effectively screened from all interested onlookers, while she doubted anyone could read anything from his back.

Understanding his role as a screen, he halted directly before her, a foot or so away.

The instant he did, she narrowed her eyes to shards and pointed a finger at his nose. “I asked you before—twice—what you thought you were about dogging my every step through the ballrooms, and it did not escape my notice that on both occasions you didn’t actually answer.” She paused only to draw breath before continuing in the same forceful, excessively clipped tone, her gaze locked, gimlet-eyed, with his, “After that little episode in the ballroom just now, I want to make one point absolutely clear—I am not yours!”

She’d expected some response. When seconds ticked by and he continued to stand before her, unmoving and immovable, she frowned. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“No. I’m trying to decide how to tell you you’re mistaken.”

Drawing in a portentous breath, holding his gaze, she crisply stated, “I am not mistaken.”

“Permit me to disagree.”

“No! You cannot disagree!” Good God, no, he couldn’t. Not him of all men . . . she suddenly felt giddy. “This can’t be happening.”

All he did was open his eyes wider, as if she was still amusing him.

“Arrgh!” She poked her still raised finger into his chest. It was like stabbing rock. “Answer me this then, properly this time. What the devil do you think you’re about?” She flung her arms wide. “What on earth do you think to gain with this peculiar campaign of yours?”

“You. As my bride. As my marchioness.” Ryder was only too ready to drop all pretense. Aside from all else, she’d seen too much in his fraught exchange with Francome; there was no point in further dissembling.

Arms slowly lowering, she stared at him, utterly shocked. Then, very slowly, as if only just reteaching herself how to, she shook her head. “No. That is not going to happen.”

He sighed, the sound clearly conveying his lack of faith in her assessment, then asked in the tone of one humoring another, “And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to marry you.”

“So you say at this point—which merely means I’ll have to exert myself to change your mind.”

She stared up at him for several moments, then, in a tone to mirror his, asked almost conversationally, “Do you know how many people have tried to change my mind about something and given up in abject defeat?”

“I had heard. Your reputation precedes you.”

Tilting her head, she studied him, then asked, “If you know so much about me, about my character, why do you want to marry me?”

And that was the truly critical question. The one he couldn’t answer, for the simple reason he wasn’t sure of the truth himself. Dropping his gaze, he adjusted one sleeve. “Because, contrary to your current belief, we will suit very well, you and I.” Raising his eyes to hers, he went on, “There’s no reason I can see for you to resist, but I feel honor-bound to point out that resistance, in this case, isn’t likely to discourage me.” He held her gaze. “I already know you too well.”

That got her tipping her nose in the air. “You understand nothing about me if you believe considerations of that nature are likely to sway me.”

He could have argued the point, but instead grasped the chance to ask, “What is important to you then?”

“Independence. Being in charge—of my own life, certainly, but also those about me. The freedom to act as I choose without forever having to gain a husband’s consent.”

The answers had come so instantly that, given the fervor in her tone and the defiant tilt of her chin, he could not doubt those aspects were critical to her.

Her gaze locked with his. “And you should bear in mind that, regardless of what you might try to tell me, I know your kind. You’re a despot—a genial, amiable, caring one maybe, but a despot all the same.”

He couldn’t argue that, yet . . . holding her gaze, he studied her, considered, then more softly said, “Has it never occurred to you that even despots might be willing to . . . shall we say, find ways to accommodate a lady, a specific, independent, strong-willed, intelligent, and willful lady, who they want as their bride?”

The thought . . . Mary suddenly felt like Randolph and his friends must have, abruptly staring down into a chasm that had unexpectedly opened at their feet. Searching Ryder’s hazel eyes, something very like vertigo sent her thoughts, all her previous certainties, spinning . . . “I . . .”

“Don’t know what to say?” He lightly shrugged. “At this point, you don’t have to say anything.”

A general movement of couples back into the ballroom had them both glancing along the terrace; it appeared the ball was winding down.

“We should go in.” She inwardly acknowledged a craven desire to bring this astonishing conversation to an end—before she did something truly silly, like ask him what accommodations—

No. That way lay temptation of a kind she wasn’t yet prepared to face.

She knew what he was, and he hadn’t sought to deny it. Not that denial would have done any good . . .

Instead, he’d offered her something she’d never imagined might exist, a novel option, a chance to seize something she hadn’t known could ever be there to be grasped.

She drew in a breath. Temptation, indeed, and he was intelligent enough, insightful enough, to have guessed how much it would appeal to her.

Which only made him even more dangerous—to her, to her future, to her peace of mind.

He’d been studying the thinning crowd through the windows; with a nod, he stepped back and offered his arm. “Sadly, yes. We can’t remain here any longer.”

Ryder had spotted a shocked face through the window—a face whose owner he would have wished hadn’t been in the ballroom at all, much less that she’d seen what she had, little though that had been.

He didn’t need Lavinia leaping to any conclusions about him and his current direction. Especially not conclusions that were correct.

Mary placed her hand lightly on his arm and fell in beside him as, with passable savoir faire, they strolled back along the terrace.

As they neared the doors into the ballroom, she glanced up at him. Waited until he met her eyes to declare, “I am not going to allow you to seduce me.”

A reckless challenge. He was curious as to how she thought she might stop him, but all he said was, “Just don’t try to avoid me—trust me, that won’t work.” He wouldn’t allow it.

She studied his eyes for a moment more, as if hearing, and reluctantly accepting as true, the words he hadn’t said, then she sniffed and elevated her nose.

Content enough, he handed her over the threshold, and at her direction escorted her to where Amelia was rising from a chaise, shaking out her skirts and gathering her shawl, preparing to depart.

Leaving Mary with her sister, he didn’t dally but quickly left the ballroom; better that any interested observers thought nothing specific had come of that interlude on the terrace, and that he was heading off supremely unconcerned as to Mary’s passage home.

Allowing his protective instincts to show at this point would, he felt certain, be counterproductive. And she was safe enough with Amelia.

From the corner by the terrace windows, Lavinia watched her stepson quit the ballroom—and presumably Bracewell House—without a backward glance. Eyes narrowing, she swung around and focused on Mary Cynster. “I don’t
believe
it! How
dare
that dastardly knave try to poach the young lady I’ve selected for Randolph?”

Alongside Lavinia, Claude Potherby, an old friend and Lavinia’s escort that evening, was engaged in shaking out and refolding his lace handkerchief. “Now, now, my sweet. There’s really no reason to get so het-up. As you haven’t informed your stepson of your plans for dear Randolph and so can hardly accuse Raventhorne of intentionally interfering, perhaps you should view his interest in the young lady as confirmation of your astuteness in choosing her for your son.”

Lavinia scowled at Potherby. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care what Ryder thinks.”

Potherby glanced at Mary, presently walking beside Amelia toward the ballroom steps. “Regardless, from all I can see your stepson’s agency met with little success. The young lady does not appear enamored.”

“Mary Cynster has too much sense to tangle with Ryder. He’s too much a hedonist for any sane lady’s taste.” Lavinia waved dismissively, then rearranged her shawl, preparing to join the stream of departing guests. Potherby gallantly offered his arm. Lavinia took it, then leaned closer to whisper, “But you’re right. There’s no reason I need to worry about Ryder. It won’t be he who fronts an altar soon, at least not with Mary Cynster by his side.”

Potherby’s smile was both wry and cynical. “Of course not, my dear. Perish the thought. Your plans will doubtless succeed wonderfully. How could they not?”

A
s she had with Amanda at Hopetoun House, Mary parted from Amelia on Lady Bracewell’s steps and climbed into her parents’ town carriage. As the footman, Peter, shut the door, she lowered the window, leaned out, and waved to Amelia as her sister, about to be handed into the Calverton carriage further along the line of carriages drawn up at the curb, looked back to check on her.

Satisfied, Amelia waved back, then climbed up.

Closing the window, Mary sat back; a second later, the carriage jerked, then started to roll slowly along the cobbles. Bracewell House was in Berkley Street, just south of Berkley Square. Given it was the height of the Season, countless balls, parties, soirees, and dinners had been held that evening in Mayfair; judging by the chaos of carriages surrounding the square, many events had finished at much the same hour.

Accustomed to such delays, Mary sank back into the comfort of fine leather and welcomed the darkness and relative coolness. The carriage rocked and managed the turn onto the south side of Berkley Square, only to immediately halt again. Glancing through the window, Mary glimpsed the Calverton carriage pull free of a snarl of carriages and roll at a decent clip up the west side of the square; Amelia, at least, was well on her way home.

Alone and with no real distraction, Mary embraced the moment, drew in a deeper breath, and, finally, let her thoughts free. From the moment she’d stepped back into the ballroom she’d kept them and her reactions contained, restrained, suppressed; she hadn’t wanted to alert Amelia or anyone else to the sudden and cataclysmic uncertainty that now ruled her.

Ryder had just changed the rules of her world, in the process shaking her to her foundation; she needed to deal with the ramifications, the questions of where she was now, and where she truly should aim to go, and that sooner rather than later.

Drawing in another breath, she let it out slowly, waiting for the whirl of her thoughts to subside. No matter what Ryder thought or did, she remained in charge of her own life—the decisions that would define her future were still hers to make.

Gradually, her customary self-confidence returned. Growing calmer, she turned her mind to her new situation, to the new landscape Ryder had created between them.

Recalling all the details, visual as well as verbal, she revisited and reexamined all they’d said on the terrace—and all they hadn’t. He’d stated his intentions, baldly and unequivocally, and although he hadn’t underscored the point, he wasn’t about to accept any dismissal.

But the possibility he’d raised . . . oh, what a dizzingly tempting prospect. A prospect made even more enticing by him being him, the man, the nobleman he was.

To have a man of his stature, his character, his traits, make an offer like that—to change whatever he needed to change to accommodate her in his life . . .

“Well!” She blew out a breath. “At the very least, that’s impressive.”

And oh-so-tempting, especially to her. Not just because she was a Cynster but because of the well-nigh irresistible challenge of taming a man like Ryder Cavanaugh.

He’d agreed to allow her to at least make the attempt.

Whether she succeeded or not was a different matter.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” she murmured to the shadows. “If I discount his obvious personality defects and calmly assess him on the usual criteria as a possible candidate for my hand, would he make my list?”