The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

Her immediate objective achieved, she waited patiently for George Richards to complete the story he’d been telling—yet another tale of the hunt and horses. Immediately he’d received the expected accolades from his friends, along with rather weaker applause from the young ladies, Mary fixed her gaze on Colette Markham, directly across the circle and, if Mary was any judge, with her eye on Randolph’s friend Grayson Manners, and inquired, “Has anyone seen the new play at the Theatre Royal?”

Colette met Mary’s eyes and leapt in to remark, “I had heard it was the best theatrical event of this Season.” She turned to Grayson, beside her. “Have you seen it, Mr. Manners?”

As luck would have it, Grayson had. Under Colette’s and Mary’s encouraging tutelage he was induced to give a detailed description of the play. Immediately he concluded, Miss Melchett chimed in with her experience of the competing offering at the Haymarket.

Mary glanced at Randolph, caught his eye, and smiled. Under cover of the others’ conversation, she murmured, “Are you fond of the theater, Lord Randolph?”

“Ah . . . well.” Randolph’s eyes widened fractionally. “I’m not sure I’v

e had enough experience of it to judge—well, most of my plays have been viewed from the pit, so it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I daresay, in a few years, I’ll grow quite partial to it—the more formal play-going, I mean.”

Mary kept her smile in place. “But what of the plays themselves? Do you prefer Shakespeare or the work of more recent playwrights?”

Randolph’s eyes widened even more. “Ah . . .”

From across the ballroom, Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, watched her son conversing semiprivately with Mary Cynster, and smiled approvingly.

Seeing that smile, Lady Eccles, beside whom Lavinia was presently standing, followed Lavinia’s gaze, then her ladyship arched her brows. “Well, my dear—that is a development.”

“Indeed.” Lavinia glanced at Lady Eccles’s face, noted her ladyship’s suitably impressed expression. “It’s really very gratifying. They spent time together last evening, and clearly all is progressing favorably. They make quite a couple, do they not?”

“And, not to put too fine a point on it, such an alliance will greatly aid your Randolph.” Lady Eccles glanced inquiringly at Lavinia. “I don’t suppose you had any hand in bringing the two together?”

Lavinia chuckled. “I might admit to a very small prod here, an almost imperceptible push there. But it’s been more in the way of a word in the right ear at the right time, just so they don’t miss the opportunity that clearly lies before their feet. You know young people—they never do see their own best interests clearly.”

“Indeed not. I’ve had words on that subject with my own sons often enough.” Lady Eccles gathered her shawl. “But as loath as I am to drag you away, my dear, I do have to get on. I promised Elvira I would look in on her soiree.” Lady Eccles glanced again across the ballroom. “Are you coming, or do you wish to remain and ensure all continues as you would wish?”

“No . . . no.” Reluctantly, Lavinia dragged her gaze from her son. She’d come to the ball in Lady Eccles’s carriage. “I’m sure they’ll manage perfectly well without any intervention from me—and I, too, promised Elvira I would make an appearance.”

“Right then.” Lady Eccles turned toward the ballroom steps. “Let’s be off.”

After one last, quietly delighted glance at the tableau across the ballroom, Lavinia followed.

Mary, meanwhile, had struck the first serious hurdle along her path to wedded bliss. Namely Randolph’s—and his friends’—lack of conversational depth. She was an excellent horsewoman, loved riding, and was reasonably fond of horses as well, but there was more to life than horse races, curricle races, and the hunt. After Miss Melchett’s exposition of the play at the Haymarket, George Richards had reseized the conversational reins and rather bluntly drawn Randolph from their discussion of playwrights to ask him about some mare who had won the last race at Newmarket two weeks before.

Randolph had replied to George’s query with far greater alacrity—and detail—than he had to her own. Randolph had then swung the conversation to the latest sale at Tattersalls.

With the air of one driven beyond bearing, Miss Fotheringay had spoken up the instant Randolph and Julius Gatling had finished exchanging views on the nags sold and the sums paid. “Has anyone visited Kew Gardens recently? The new conservatory is particularly fine.”

Despite the obvious desperation and consequent weakness of the gambit, Mary, Miss Melchett, and Colette did their level best to keep the conversation on plants, herbs, and anything other than horses.

Mary had a strong suspicion that Julius knew precisely what he was doing when he seized on the mention of feverfew to swing the conversation back to the poultice his stableman recommended for a bruised hock.

Jaw setting, Mary glanced around the circle. Exasperated desperation—or was it desperate exasperation?—shone in the other young ladies’ eyes. Were all young men really this . . . young?

This immature?

Randolph, she felt sure, was not—could not be so—but thus far she’d only interacted with him in the presence of his cronies. Clearly, she needed to separate him from his pack.

As if in answer to her need, the strains of the first waltz of the evening floated out over the room. Brightening, she turned expectantly to Randolph, only to see a positively hunted expression flash across his face. He looked across the circle, to where Colette had turned, as expectantly as Mary, and was waiting for Grayson to ask her to dance.

Grayson looked at Randolph, then glanced at George, for all the world as if none of them had ever waltzed before, which was nonsense.

Looking back at Randolph, Mary saw his features briefly shift, signaling to his friends: If we must, we must.

But before she could do more than blink, Randolph smiled and bowed. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Cynster?”

If his bow was a poor imitation of Ryder’s, and his voice held no subtly suggestive undertones, at least he’d asked. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you, Lord Randolph. I would like to dance.”