She couldn’t, she decided, risk slipping out of the ballroom. Even though it had happened years ago, her cousin Eliza had been kidnapped from this very house during her sister Heather’s engagement ball. If Mary appeared to have vanished from Henrietta’s engagement ball . . . that was the sort of error Mary did not make.
But there were two alcoves, one at either end of the long room, both housing large nude statues and consequently, for the evening, screened by large palms. She elected to make for the alcove between the pair of double doors, the one less likely to have been appropriated by anyone else.
She was nearing that end of the room, several yards short of her goal, when, abruptly, she was brought to a quivering halt, nose to lower folds of an exquisitely tied cravat. To either side of the cravat stretched a wall of black-clad male chest.
“Good evening, Mary.”
She recognized the deep, drawling, sinfully seductive voice. She looked up—up—all the way up to Ryder Cavanaugh’s ridiculously handsome face. She’d decided years ago that such godlike male perfection was patently ridiculous, certainly in the effect it had on the female half of the ton. No, make that the female half of the species; she’d never met a woman of any class whom Ryder Cavanaugh did not affect.
In exactly that ridiculous way.
She’d made it a point never to allow even the smallest hint that she was aware of his charisma—the attraction that all but literally fell from him in waves—to show.
His late father’s heir, and now the Marquess of Raventhorne, he was considerably older than she was, somewhere over thirty years to her twenty-two, but she’d known him all her life. Nevertheless, she’d been surprised to see his broad shoulders moving about the drawing room before dinner, and to later see him seated a little way along the dinner table on the opposite side, but then she’d learned that he was a connection of the Glossups’ and had attended the dinner as the senior male of his line.
Ignoring the distraction of his gold-streaked, tawny-brown hair, a crowning glory too many ladies had compared to a lion’s mane, not least because it held the same tactile fascination, a temptation to touch, to pet, to run one’s fingers through the thick, soft locks, that had to be constantly guarded against, she fixed her eyes on his, a changeable medley of greens and golds framed by lush brown lashes, and baldly asked, “What is it, Ryder?”
From beneath his heavy hooded lids, his eyes looked down into hers. One tawny eyebrow slowly arched. He let the moment stretch, but she was too wise to let that tactic bother her; she held her pose, and let faint boredom seep into her expression.
“Actually,” he eventually murmured—and how he managed to make his voice evoke the image of a bed was a mystery she’d never solved—“I wondered where you were making for so very doggedly.”
She realized that with his significant height—Ryder would vie with Angelica’s husband, Dominic, for the title of tallest man in the room—he might well have been able to see her making her way through the crowd.
But why had he been watching her?
Most likely he was bored, and her determined progress had captured his peripatetic attention. She’d heard matrons uncounted bemoan the fact that Ryder grew bored very quickly. She’d also heard him described as “big, blond, and definitely no good,” except for his performance in the bedroom, which, by all accounts, was not just satisfactory but exemplary beyond belief.
Yet she’d always recognized the steel behind the languid lion’s mask, and knew he could be as dogged as she if he decided he wanted something—for instance to enliven an otherwise boring evening by toying with her.
Which, she had to admit, held a certain attraction. He was rapier-witted, and his silver tongue held a lethally honed edge, and he was utterly unshockable, yet there was a . . . she’d never been sure quite how to describe it, but . . . a deepness of strength in Ryder that, his ridiculous beauty aside, had always made her shy away from him.
She’d always thought that if ever he was moved to actually pounce and seize, even she would find it impossible to escape.
And she entertained no illusions about Ryder; she might be one of the strongest of ton females, even among the Cynster clan, yet not even she could ever hope to manage Ryder Cavanaugh.
Unmanageable was his middle name.
Given the point along her path at which she was presently poised, having Ryder Cavanaugh, of all the gentlemen in the ton, take any interest whatever in her—no matter how mild and, relatively speaking, innocent—was not just unnecessary but also could prove distinctly counterproductive, and might possibly give rise to unexpected hurdles.
For her, not him.
Given that she’d finally got her hands on the necklace and could now move forward along her path apace, she was even more adamantly disinclined to offer herself up as Ryder’s amusement for the evening.
She’d kept him waiting for her reply; that he had, indeed, waited, not shifting in the least, his hazel gaze locked on her face, meant that every second of further delay risked fixing his attention, a heavy, feline, weighty sensation, distinctly predatory, even more definitely on her . . . she tipped up her chin. “I don’t want to play, Ryder, at least not with you.” He would accept a straightforward—shockingly blunt—dismissal, while anything less definite might further pique his interest, so she held his gaze and simply stated, “You’ll only complicate things. So please, go and chase someone else.”
Brazenly, she patted his arm, pure steel beneath fine fabric, then stepped past him and pushed on, into the crowd.
Leaving Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, utterly flabbergasted. “I must be losing my touch.” He said the words aloud, confident that, in the hubbub around him, no one would hear. Turning his head, he watched Mary slip through the crowd, tacking around this group, then that, halting whenever someone wished to chat, but not dallying. “What the devil was that about—and where the hell is she going?” And why?
“Clearly, I’ve grown rusty.” Either that, or . . . but he knew the advantages with which he’d been born hadn’t failed him yet. He wasn’t such a coxcomb as to believe that every woman in the land should come flocking to his lazy smile, yet . . . most did.
Mary hadn’t flocked. She’d run. No—worse—she’d calmly turned on her heel and marched off.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he thought of that, but . . . he recognized that she’d chosen her words, her way to dismiss him, deliberately. In that, she’d read him aright. Normally, if things had been normal for him, he would have smiled, mentally saluted her frank speaking, and moved on to more amenable prey.
Heaven knew, there was plenty of the latter about.
Except he’d decided to change his diet.
Which meant . . .
Because he was still watching Mary’s dark head, he saw another lady, of similar height with tumbling red-gold locks, intercept her. Angelica, now Countess of Glencrae, caught Mary by the arm, smiled as she spoke—and drew Mary to the side of the room.
Just beyond the alcove and its screen of tall palms.
Even before he’d thought, Ryder was moving toward the alcove. He’d long ago mastered the knack of cleaving his way through a crowd. If he walked purposefully in a straight line, because of his size people instinctively got out of his way, almost without conscious thought. His progress created very little by way of disturbance, and as long as he didn’t stare at Angelica or Mary, with luck neither would notice him drawing near. . . .
He slid into the shadows of the palms without either Mary or Angelica noticing.
They stood just beyond the far edge of the alcove; sinking back into the shadows, Ryder leaned his shoulders against the wall beside the statue and tuned his excellent hearing to their conversation.
Mary inwardly sighed as her cousin Angelica, a few months older than Henrietta and the previous wearer of the necklace, fixed her hazel eyes on Mary’s face and demanded, “What are you up to?”
“Why do you imagine I’m up to anything?”
“Because, sweet Mary, I know you.” Angelica snorted, glanced over her shoulder at the crowd in the ballroom, then turned back to Mary. “You might as well face it—you and I are the most alike of all the family, and Henrietta told me about you all but forcing her to wear the necklace—which, incidentally, was a very good thing, and I would have done exactly the same—but, quite clearly, you did it because you now have an agenda of your own. You didn’t push Henrietta to wear the necklace earlier because you didn’t need to, because, until recently, you didn’t have your eye on anyone.”
Mary opened her mouth, but Angelica held up an imperious hand. “No, don’t bother trying to tell me that you merely decided that at twenty-two it was your time—your turn to search for your hero. That won’t wash.” Angelica trapped Mary’s gaze. “So confess. You’ve got your eye on some gentleman, haven’t you?”
Mary narrowed her eyes, pressed her lips tight, but then, knowing Angelica far too well, admitted, “Yes. But it’s no one’s affair but my own. My hero—my choice.”
Angelica regarded her for several seconds, then her expression turned thoughtful, even intrigued. “Hmm . . .”
Mary waited, then, irritated but unable to resist—it was entirely true that she and Angelica were the most alike, and therefore most able to get under each other’s skins—prompted, “Hmm, what?”
Still regarding her, Angelica raised her brows. “It’s just that, to my knowledge, the necklace has never worked like that—with you deciding, and then, essentially, using it to verify your choice. That’s what you’re proposing to do, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I don’t see why it won’t work like that.” Mary looked down at the necklace, at the section that supported the crystal pendant, which was currently trapped beneath her bodice and wedged between her breasts. The pendant, she realized, felt pleasantly warm, presumably from absorbing the heat from her flesh. “I’m perfectly certain I’ve found the right gentleman for me—I just . . . want confirmation.”
When she glanced up, Angelica searched her eyes, then more gently said, “You’re not sure. And if you aren’t . . .”
Mary tipped up her chin. “It’s not that—I am sure. If you knew who I have in mind, you’d agree he was perfect for me, too. I just need to have The Lady’s imprimatur—Her seal of approval. I fully expect Her to agree with my assessment.”
Angelica held Mary’s gaze for an instant more, then smiled and touched her arm. “Very well. I truly hope all goes as you wish. But . . . now don’t poker up at me, but if, now you’re wearing the necklace, you don’t . . . well, feel something special for this mystery gentleman of yours, if he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off, then please, promise me you’ll listen to The Lady’s advice. Trust me, it’s sound. No matter what, She won’t fail you.”
From where he was situated, Ryder could see enough of Mary’s face to guess her expression; her chin had firmed and her lips had set. Her stubbornness was legendary.
But, somewhat to his surprise, after a moment, she inclined her head. “Very well.” She paused, then said to Angelica, “Thank you. I know what you said is the truth.” Mary glanced down at the curious necklace encircling her slender throat. “If I want to find my hero, then I have to accept whatever verdict The Lady deigns to give.”
Angelica chuckled. “There—that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Laughing, she linked her arm with Mary’s, and together they turned to face the crowd. “Believe me, I know all about accepting The Lady’s decrees, but it worked for all of us, so trust me, it’ll work for you, too. Now come and talk to Dominic—he was saying he hasn’t had a chance to speak with you yet.”
Arm in arm, the pair moved into the crowd, heading down the room.
Leaving Ryder to mull over all he’d overheard.
It seemed that fate, almost always his willing mistress, was once again smiling, helpfully and benevolently, on him.
Mary Cynster was searching for her gentleman hero, and he was looking for an engaging wife. He’d wanted to interact with her to see if she might suit—quite why he wasn’t sure, but she’d always caught his eye and, more telling, his awareness—but she’d summarily dismissed him, so . . .
Apparently, he, Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, didn’t measure up to her hero standards, whatever they might be. . . .
Pushing away from the wall and stepping out from the cover of the potted palms, Ryder smiled a distinctly leonine smile and ambled back into the fray.
As anyone who knew him was well aware, he never backed away from a challenge.
Following is a chat with #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens
Toward the end of The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae we saw a newly engaged Angelica Cynster hand over to her cousin Henrietta the necklace The Lady, a Scottish deity, had gifted to the Cynster girls to assist them in finding their true heroes—and the necklace resurfaces in the first scene of Henrietta’s book. What role does the necklace play in Henrietta’s story?
The necklace provides the critical imperative that starts Henrietta’s story off—think of it as the spark that starts the fire. In that first scene, it’s Mary who, for her own reasons, insists that Henrietta must wear the necklace. Mary believes in the necklace, but Henrietta does not. In fact, although, like all Cynster females, Henrietta firmly believes that love is the best basis for a marriage, and the only acceptable basis for her, she nevertheless does not believe that love will come to her. Will find her. Well, you can see her point—she’s now twenty-nine, and love hasn’t found her yet. Henrietta has no faith in the necklace—which translates to no faith in love finding her—but to keep the peace with Mary, Henrietta agrees to wear the necklace that evening . . . and everything changes. In these two books, Henrietta’s, then Mary’s, we see the necklace come into its own as a real force, as a more obvious facilitator of love.
Henrietta has been nicknamed The Matchbreaker. How did that come about?
Ah—Henrietta’s nickname has come about through her chosen way to fill in her time. Her social status, the circles into which she’s been born, the connections, the ready access to the grandes dames, and indeed to all the female power brokers within the ton, combine all that with her natural tendencies to the pragmatic and practical, and from her earliest years of being out in society, she has assisted other young ladies of the haut ton—her peers—to answer the fateful questions: Does the gentleman who has or is about to offer for my hand love me? Or does he have some other reason for wishing to marry me? Henrietta knows who to ask, and how, and consistently gets the right answers. Consequently, certain disgruntled gentlemen of the ton, having failed to secure the brides they’d thought to inveigle into matrimony, have dubbed Henrietta The Matchbreaker. Where other ladies, the chaperons and the mamas, foster matches, Henrietta disrupts them—or more specifically, disrupts those not based on love.
James Glossup is a character who readers have met before. Did you always intend him to feature in his own book one day?
James Glossup previously appeared in The Perfect Lover. He was and still is Simon Cynster’s oldest and closest friend—and Simon is Henrietta’s brother, only a few years older than her. When I finished The Perfect Lover, I suspected I would have to, at some point, write James’s story, but I didn’t know at that time that it would be Henrietta his eye would light upon. And he didn’t know that, either. In many respects, this book, Henrietta and James’s story, is an outcome of the action of The Perfect Lover, in which Simon and Portia finally realized they were meant for each other. Through the subsequent events surrounding Simon’s engagement and wedding, James and Henrietta naturally spent more time together; they had met before and were aware of the other’s existence, but had not before had occasion to spend any real time in each other’s company. So the events of Simon’s engagement and wedding provide the essential groundwork that allows James to react very directly to Henrietta’s disruption of his matrimonial plans.
What is
it that makes James the perfect match for Henrietta?
This was something that came out in the telling—as I wrote the book—that these two people truly were made for each other. Henrietta—practical, pragmatic, and, courtesy of her years as The Matchbreaker, very aware of all the negative aspects of gentlemen of the ton with respect to marriage—was never going to fall for the usual alpha hero. She would instinctively distrust such a man. But although James is very definitely a “wolf of the ton,” definitely an alpha male as might be expected of Simon’s closest friend, he has a quiet side to him, a deeper side that values the same ideals that Henrietta herself most fundamentally values, and it’s that side of him that connects most strongly with her. They are not so much two sides of the same coin, but rather a male and a female who are strongly complementary—they fit together well.
The stories in your previous three books (The Cynster Sisters Trilogy) were dominated by country settings, but Henrietta’s story takes place entirely in or around London. How do you choose your settings?
I don’t define settings first, and then evolve a story to fit the setting. Rather the story, which is largely dictated by the characters, defines the setting. For instance, The Cynster Sisters Trilogy books had a lot of “out in the country” involved, including a lot of Scotland, because of who the primary motivator of all three stories was, namely the Highland Earl of Glencrae. Because he was the driving force behind the actions and London was dangerous for him, he shifted the girls out of London as fast as he could. But Henrietta’s story is about James finding his necessary bride, and quickly, so the action will clearly take place during the ton Season, which means in the ballrooms, drawing rooms, and country houses in and around London.
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