The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  He held her gaze for an instant, then, as the bulk of the guests settled and conversations abated, he smiled, leaned back, and, still holding her gaze, murmured, “In a manner of speaking.”

  She humphed and pointedly gave her attention to the musicians.

  Across the room, sinking onto a chair alongside Lavinia, Lady Carmody frowned. Under cover of the swelling music, she leaned closer to Lavinia and tugged her sleeve. “I say! What is your stepson doing here? And why is he conversing with Mary Cynster?” Lady Carmody glanced around. “And where is Lord Randolph?”

  Lavinia, now also studying the surprising pair across and further down the room, as were a great many other ladies, replied without turning her head; the strain in her voice suggested that she was speaking through clenched teeth while struggling not to scream. “All excellent questions. To none of which I have an answer.”

  After a moment, Lavinia swung her gaze forward, then ducked her head and hissed to Lady Carmody, “I told Randolph to be here!”

  “Yes, well.” Lady Carmody tried for a placating tone. “Boys will be boys, I suppose.”

  Lavinia faced the dais, but the music had no power to hold her; her attention slid, again and again, to her stepson’s tawny head, to his broad shoulders, to the way both shifted as, time and again, he and Mary Cynster exchanged comments. “The last thing I need,” she gritted out, so low that only Lady Carmody could hear, “is for Ryder to turn the silly chit’s head.”

  Lady Carmody considered, then opined, “I seriously doubt even he could turn Miss Cynster from her chosen path, and really, he can’t be serious about seducing her, can he? Quite aside from him knowing better—that he can’t without causing a massive scandal—she’s not at all his type.”

  Lavinia frowned. “That’s true.” She cast another glance at her infernal stepson. “But why is he here?”

  Lady Carmody shrugged and settled to enjoy the music. “Perhaps he’s simply bored and happens to like music.”

  Continuing to frown, Lavinia made no reply.

  Presumably he’s bored and just happens to like music—and he’s comfortable with me and, moreover, knows I’m not imagining snaring him. Mary settled on that as the most likely reason behind Ryder remaining by her side. Indeed, that reasoning made her inwardly smile. He feels safe with me.

  The notion of one of the ton’s most dangerous gentlemen hiding behind her skirts was one to relish.

  As the recital continued, she found herself not only enjoying the music but discussing it as well—having a sensible and intelligent conversation covering such topics as the combination of instruments best able to render each piece, the selection of works, the acoustics of the room, and that the increasing temperature would doubtless soon necessitate a retuning session—with Ryder.

  While she knew enough to match his interest on most aspects, the retuning was something she’d never understood, but in that he was proved correct.

  The more they chatted, the more she relaxed—and the more she enjoyed.

  Ryder seemed intent on nothing more than appreciating the music and sharing the moment with her in a totally unexceptionable way. During the intermission, they wandered into the refreshment salon, still talking—animatedly arguing the merits of a horn section over additional woodwinds—then, when summoned, returned to the music room and resumed their seats for the second and longer part of the performance.

  So absorbed in the moment was she—so anchored in the web created by the combination of the unexpectedly stimulating interaction with Ryder and the truly quite excellent music—that it was only toward the very end of the performance that the covertly inquisitive glances directed Ryder’s way from all corners of the room truly registered.

  But once they had . . . she inwardly blinked, wondering, then realized what was causing the older ladies—the few grandes dames present and the older matrons especially—to cast such intrigued and penetrating glances his way.

  Why was he there? More specifically, why had he come in the first place, and why had he remained?

  She’d assumed he’d come to protect Randolph from her, and once he’d confirmed that Randolph wasn’t there, had followed her to her chair and sat beside her because he’d wanted to listen to the performance and hadn’t wanted to be bothered interacting with anyone else.

  For a gentleman of his ilk to be interested in music, as he demonstrably was, wasn’t unheard of, yet previously that interest had never to her knowledge been sufficient to move him to attend an event such as this. From the interrogatory glances leveled at him, no other lady had seen him—lion that he was—at such an event before, either.

  A tingling sensation feathered across her nape and slid over the back of her shoulders.

  As Ryder himself had pointed out, this type of event held at this time of the Season was expressly designed to promote further connection between those contemplating matrimony, witness the large number of young couples scattered about the room interacting under the watchful eye of chaperons. Consequently, the appearance of a gentleman of Ryder’s status at such an event would be interpreted as a declaration that he was hunting—not for a paramour but for a bride.

  The music swelled to a crescendo. Her lungs slowly seized. Barely moving her head, she glanced at Ryder. Gracefully relaxed alongside her, he was fully absorbed in the music.

  Fleetingly, she studied his face—the sculpted lines, the undeniable male beauty that in no way disguised the strength and potent power behind the façade—then looked forward again and drew a tight breath.

  Nowhere near deep enough to steady her suddenly giddy head.

  He was there, and had stayed, for the music.

  What else?

  The nervous flutter in her chest, in her stomach, was patently ridiculous. There was, she sternly lectured herself, no reason for such a reaction; it wasn’t as if he’d done anything to make her feel . . .

  He was there, by her side, large as life.

  She mentally shook aside the ludicrous notion that, courtesy of the other ladies’ visual speculation, had inserted itself into her brain.

  Grimly determined to conceal her sudden and quite nonsensical susceptibility, she forced herself to listen to the last of the last sonata; when it ended, she applauded as earnestly as anyone else, smiling delightedly as with the rest of the audience she rose to her feet to deliver a standing ovation.

  As the applause faded, Lady Hopetoun thanked the players, then everyone clapped once more. As the final round died, everyone turned to find their parties.

  Keeping her delighted smile fixed on her face, she glibly took her leave of Ryder, very correctly thanking him for his company, then, faster than she ever had before, made her way to the safety of her chaperon’s side.

  His shoulders propped against the last column of the Hopetoun House porch, Ryder hung back in the gloom and listened to the exchange between Mary and Amanda. The pair had walked out of the front door, crossed the porch, and halted on the steps leading down to the street. Other guests streamed past them, leaving in twos and threes, all equally oblivious of him standing silently in the shadows out of their immediate line of sight.

  Mary shook out her silk shawl, then resettled it over her largely bare shoulders. “We’ve got both carriages here—there’s no need for you to follow me to Upper Brook Street. I’ll have John Coachman and our footman—I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Yes, well.” Amanda checked her shawl and reticule. “I suppose that’s true, and it isn’t any great distance from here to there.”

  “And Park Lane is even closer.” Mary leaned over and bussed Amanda’s cheek. “Thank you for coming and watching over me—I know you wouldn’t have attended otherwise. And don’t worry about Ryder—as I said, he was just interested in the music. I certainly don’t expect to find him dancing attendance on me.”

  “Hmm . . . perhaps, but remember what I said. He’s a d
eep one. Don’t underestimate him.”

  Shrouded in shadow, Ryder grinned.

  The sisters parted, going down the steps to where their respective carriages waited. He watched as they were handed up by their footmen, then the doors were shut, and first Amanda’s carriage, followed by the carriage carrying Mary, pulled out into the stream of fashionable coaches rumbling slowly westward.

  Once Mary’s carriage had disappeared around the bend in Hill Street, Ryder set his hat on his head and, cane swinging in one hand, emerged from the shadows; joining the still steady stream of departing guests, he descended to the pavement and, with polite nods to this lady and that, walked off along the street.

  He rarely used a carriage in Mayfair; his long strides ate the distances easily enough, and the relative silence of the night, punctuated though it was by the familiar rattle of passing coaches, was nevertheless soothing. Certainly after an evening spent with others, in the usual cacophony of social events.

  Turning north up the less frequented Hayes Mews, as the night enveloped him in its dark and its peace, he strode along easily, neither hurrying nor idling. He didn’t direct his mind to any particular track but allowed it to wander over the last hours, observing and noting as it would.

  The impulse that had moved him to wait on the porch until he saw Mary safely on her way home was . . . interesting. He’d never felt such a compulsion before, not even with those ladies with whom he’d shared a bed. Presumably it was an expression, a natural enough one, of how he saw Mary, an upshot of the role in which he’d cast her.

  Brows faintly rising, he considered the matter but saw nothing to be alarmed at; he was who and what he was, and as he now viewed her as his marchioness, such impulses were to be expected.

  Also intriguing was the sudden awareness that had swamped her right at the end of the evening. Until then she’d been conversing freely, without thought or restraining consideration, but she’d suddenly become aware—he assumed because of the myriad speculative glances thrown his way by other ladies—that his presence by her side required explanation.

  He’d wondered what she would make of it. In her exchange with Amanda, she’d stated her conclusion plainly enough, but . . . did she truly believe he’d remained by her side solely because of his—admittedly genuine—enjoyment of the music?

  Reaching the end of Hayes Mews, he turned left into Farm Street. Smiling to himself and swinging his cane, he crossed the cobbled street and walked on to the opening of the alley that was his habitual shortcut to his home in Mount Street when returning from the southern section of Mayfair.

  At this time of night, even in this bastion of the haut ton most law-abiding citizens would avoid the narrow alleys, but he strolled on without concern; not only did his size deter most would-be assailants but should they nevertheless make a try for him, the rapier concealed in his cane provided a more potent discouragement.

  He knew how to use it, and no one his size survived Eton without learning all there was to know about fisticuffs, and even more to the point, outright brawling.

  In truth, there was little he feared in life, not as pertained to his physical person. There was little that might effectively threaten him, not physically, but he’d come to understand that there were other threats in life, many potentially more damaging, holding much greater risk of true loss than anything on the physical plane.

  Those threats were not ones he was constitutionally comfortable debating, not even with himself, but they largely arose from the issues that, having attained the age of thirty, he’d decided it was time to address.

  Before they turned and bit him.

  The alley narrowed for the last ten yards, the gap between the walls only just sufficient to allow him to walk freely through. Emerging from the dimness into the more affluent and commensurately well-lit ambiance of Mount Street, he turned left, walked several yards, then angled across the cobbles to the opposite pavement, stepping onto it a few paces short of the steps leading up to his own front door.

  He let himself in with his latchkey. Stepping over the threshold into the lamp-lit splendor of the foyer, he was unsurprised to see his butler, Pemberly, come striding forward from the nether regions, eager to take his hat and cane. Pemberly had been butler to his father, and like the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and several other members of his staff, had been constants in Ryder’s life.

  “Welcome home, my lord. I trust the evening went well?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Ryder dutifully surrendered hat and cane. “If anything, better than I’d hoped.” He’d gone to Lady Hopetoun’s assuming Rand would be present; Rand’s absence and Mary’s consequent acceptance that Rand was not her future husband had simplified matters, without any effort from Ryder effectively clearing his path, and the subsequent time interacting with Mary had advanced his campaign further than he’d anticipated.

  So what next?

  “Will you be going out again, my lord?” Pemberly inquired.

  To another ball, to a club or hell, or to some lady’s bed . . . Ryder shook his head. “No. You can lock up.” He started toward the corridor that led deeper into the huge house. “I’ll be in the library for a while, then I’ll be going up to bed.”

  “Very good, my lord. I’ll tell Collier.”

  Ryder nodded. Collier had been his father’s valet but had been too young to retire on his father’s death. Although Ryder didn’t need anyone’s help to dress, much less undress, and he didn’t actually like having anyone so personally close, he permitted Collier’s ministrations; the man had been devoted to his father, and especially helpful through the old man’s last days. Ryder’s current push was to insist that everyone in the household replace the outmoded label “valet” with the more modern “gentleman’s gentleman.” Thus far, it had proved a battle, but it was one he was determined to win.

  Reaching the library, he went in. Closing the door, he paused, letting the comforting, welcoming atmosphere of the room—the one he spent most time in and, courtesy of all the hours the pair of them had spent there, also most associated with his father—embrace him, then, with a sigh, one of pleased satisfaction more than anything else, he strolled to the massive fireplace midway down the long room.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes covered every wall, broken only by the twin doors, the fireplace, and the three long windows facing it. With the long velvet curtains drawn tight against the night, the only light came from a lamp left burning on a low table beside one of the twin sofas angled before the hearth, and the leaping flames from a small but cheery fire burning in the grate. The resulting pulsing, golden glow gleamed fitfully off the polished wood, gently winked from the gold lettering on the books’ spines, and softly caressed the dark brown leather of the sofas and chairs set about the room.

  Ignoring the large desk at the far end of the room, Ryder paused beside the fireplace. From the end of the marble mantelpiece, he lifted a stack of cards—all the invitations he’d received for the coming days.

  As was his habit, he removed that evening’s cards from the top of the pile and tossed them into the flames. Separating out the invitations for the following evening, he returned the rest to the top of the mantelpiece, then walked to the lighted lamp. Fanning the cards for tomorrow night’s events in one hand, he studied them in the lamplight.

  This evening, Mary had started to question his motives, had started to wonder. Even if she managed to convince herself that he’d remained at Lady Hopetoun’s for the music, that conviction wouldn’t last long. If he was any judge of such things, and he was, then the time was fast approaching when she would confront him over his intentions, and he and she would have the matter out.

  Anticipation welled. His lips curved.

  When, exactly, that discussion would take place wasn’t something he could dictate, yet he was certain he could leave initiating said discussion—one he and she had to have—to her.
She would raise the matter when she was ready, which was fine by him; he wouldn’t have to trouble himself over trying to guess when she reached that point—he felt confident he could rely on her to tell him.

  Lips curving more definitely, he considered the events the haut ton was slated to enjoy the following evening.

  As matters stood, he didn’t need to do anything beyond religiously appearing at Mary’s side at whichever evening events she attended. All he needed to do to advance his campaign to the next stage was to be there, and she would do the rest—would create for him the perfect opportunity to make his intentions crystal clear.

  Selecting one ivory card from the seven in his hand, he reread the inscription and nodded. “This one.” Tapping the card on his thumb, he murmured, “That’s where she’ll be tomorrow night. At Lady Bracewell’s ball.”

  Chapter Four

  What, by all that’s holy, is Ryder up to?

  The next morning, over her tea and toast, Mary pondered that question with steadily mounting aggravation.

  For what seemed the umpteenth time, she replayed their conversations over the past three evenings; she’d asked him, twice, what he was about, and on both occasions . . . he hadn’t exactly answered.

  But when he’d challenged her to tell him what she thought his motives were, and she’d laid them out in neat and concise order, he’d agreed she was correct—yet he’d spent the previous evening by her side at a venue where a gentleman of his age should not have appeared unless matrimonially inclined. Although she could have excused his being there on the grounds of protecting Randolph from her, why, once he’d realized Randolph wasn’t there, which he had known even before she’d arrived, had Ryder stayed?

  For the music?

  Was his desire to hear a perfectly fine but hardly famous chamber ensemble play entirely familiar compositions that strong?

  Or had he remained for some other reason?