Ryder hesitated for only a second, then, as he’d agreed, escorted her to Randolph’s side.
After insinuating Mary into Rand’s circle at his brother’s side—and earning a suspicious glance from his intended for his pains—Ryder exchanged a few polite words, then retreated. Although he knew all the males—all friends of Rand’s—and was distantly acquainted with the young ladies in the group, he was sufficiently older to qualify as of a different generation; other than the young ladies’ unwarranted interest in him, there was little real connection either way.
Idly drifting toward the refreshment room, he reviewed the evening’s advances and owned himself satisfied with what he’d achieved. Having decided to marry sooner rather than later—later being when the grandes dames decided to take a hand in scripting his life—he’d thought to take advantage of having to attend Henrietta Cynster and James Glossup’s engagement ball to further his aim. His eye had alighted on Mary, and instantly appreciating her potential he’d attempted to waylay her with nothing more definite than assessment in mind, only to be summarily dismissed.
That, of course, had been startling enough to focus him more definitely on her, which had resulted in him overhearing her admit that she was embarking on a search for “her hero”—the gentleman she intended to wed. She’d declared she’d already identified the lucky man, but until this evening he hadn’t known which gentleman she’d singled out.
Learning that it was Rand she’d set her blue eyes on might have made him pause and step back, allowing his brother to make his own decision, except he knew very well that Rand had no interest in marrying yet—he was only twenty-four. The only reason he attended events such as this was because his mother, Lavinia, Ryder’s stepmother, was trying her hand at matchmaking, and Rand was still of an age when he would rather acquiesce to his mother’s insistence than face the alternative confrontation. Regardless, Mary and Rand would be a match made in hell, at least for Rand; Mary was far too . . . independent. Willfully strong. Single-minded, ruthless, and manipulative.
She would tie poor Rand in knots, then set him dancing to her tune.
She would, of course, try to do the same with Ryder, but not only was he more than a match for her, he was also quite looking forward to that battle. That tussle.
That challenge.
He knew himself well enough to admit that the prospect held significant appeal, along with the related fact that unlike most young ladies or even those more mature, Mary met his eyes constantly. When they conversed, she concentrated on their interaction, person to person, her and him, and as with all she did, her focus was absolute. Her attention didn’t waver, nor was she readily distracted. When they spoke, her attention was all his.
His inner self had a great deal in common with the beast he was most frequently compared with; Mary’s particular brand of focused attention was like a long stroke to his leonine ego and made his inner lion purr.
Reaching the refreshment table, he lifted a glass of brandy from a tray, sipped, then turned and, over the heads, surveyed her ladyship’s guests. He let his gaze linger on Rand and Mary. They stood side by side, both listening, Rand avidly, Mary
with barely restrained impatience, to one of Rand’s friends, who, from his gestures, appeared to be relating some story involving riding.
Even from this distance, Ryder could see that while Rand was absorbed, Mary was disengaged. Well on the way to growing bored.
Which was precisely why he’d left her there, beside Rand, surrounded by the younger set and therefore bereft of stimulating interaction of any stripe. Or, specifically, any interaction that would engage her. All the better as contrast to the waltz immediately before.
Even better, Rand and his friends would find her a trifle overwhelming and would treat her warily—which, more likely than not, would exasperate her.
Smiling, Ryder sipped again; Lady Felsham had provided a decently palatable brandy for her guests.
A stir alongside had him glancing down—into his stepmother’s painted face. Brown-haired, dark-eyed, with the remnants of the beauty of her earlier years still visible in her face, now in her midforties and growing sadly dumpy, Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, had little to do with him—as little as he could manage. Moving with calculated slowness, he inclined his head. “Lavinia.”
She flicked an irritated gaze up and down his figure, her gaze lingering on the large diamond he wore in his cravat; it had been his father’s and was part of the family jewels, none of which she’d been permitted to appropriate after his father’s death.
Alongside Lavinia, one of her bosom-bows, Lady Carmody, smiled obsequiously and bobbed a curtsy, to which he responded with an abbreviated bow. He’d long ago learned that implacable, icy civility worked most effectively in keeping Lavinia and her cronies at a distance.
“I have to say I’m surprised to discover you here.” Lavinia fixed her slightly protuberant eyes on his face, as if searching for some hint of his agenda in his features.
“Really?” Meeting her eyes, Ryder slowly arched his brows. “I thought you knew this is my usual hunting ground. At present, I’m lacking succor, so decided to cast my eye over the herd.”
Lavinia blushed. “Really, Ryder! There’s no need to be explicit.” She waved with exaggerated hauteur. “I’m sure I don’t care where you search for your paramours.”
Lady Carmody chuckled. When Lavinia and Ryder looked at her, she explained, “Well, Lavinia, the poor boy needs must find lovers somewhere, and I’m sure you would rather he find them here, in this crowd, than at some theater, or so I would think.”
Ryder had never previously had reason to like Lady Carmody, but in return for that comment he stepped in to deflect Lavinia’s burgeoning ire, about to break in a wave over her ladyship. “I spoke with Rand a little while ago. He’s in that group over there.” Ryder paused to allow Lavinia to follow the direction of his nod and locate her firstborn. “As to anyone’s presence here . . . am I to take it that the interest that brings Rand here is similar to mine?”
Lavinia literally swelled with indignation. “Don’t be silly!” But she continued to examine the group. “Unlike you, Randolph has no interest in dalliance. He’s very correctly looking for the right lady with whom to settle down and continue the Cavanaugh line.” Lavinia glanced at Ryder. “Someone needs to—it’s what your father would have wanted.”
Which was undeniably true, but it had been Ryder his father had asked for a promise to marry and continue the line. But rather than inform Lavinia of that, Ryder seized on the contemptuous dismissal in her tone to murmur, “And on that note I believe I’ll take my leave.” He inclined his head. “Lavinia. Lady Carmody.”
Lavinia barely acknowledged him, but Lady Carmody shot him a conspiratorial grin.
Turning away, he set down the brandy glass and moved into the crowd.
Ryder was barely out of earshot when Lavinia gripped Lady Carmody’s sleeve. “Look!” Lavinia breathed. “I hardly dared hope, but it appears my oh-so-delicate scheme has borne fruit.”
Lady Carmody followed Lavinia’s rapt gaze. “Well, well.” After a moment of studying the group in which Randolph stood, her ladyship continued, “I have to admit, dear, that I really didn’t believe that anyone could influence a chit like Mary Cynster, but there, indeed, she is, chatting quite determinedly to your Randolph.”