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 . . . se
e.”
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.
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 se
nt 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.”
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 9