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

Taking her hand, Randolph smiled. “Please—just Randolph.”

Telling herself that it was unrealistic to expect to feel any flash of awareness from his perfectly correct holding of her hand, Mary allowed him to lead her to the floor. She stepped into his arms, eager anticipation bubbling in her veins.

It would happen now. Whatever needed to spark would surely come alive as they waltzed.

Taking her in his arms, Randolph stepped out and whirled them into the circling throng. He was a creditable dancer, but she’d expected nothing less.

Yet as they revolved down the room, sedately twirling, entirely within the constraints of the strictest mores, she realized she had, in fact, expected more, but that was Ryder’s doing. She had to stop comparing Randolph to his godlike older brother.

Just thinking of Ryder was enough to bring to life her all-too-vivid memories of the exceedingly intense waltz they’d shared the night before . . . she’d finally got what she’d wanted—Randolph, more or less alone—and courtesy of Ryder, her mind was wandering.

Determinedly, she refocused on Randolph’s face—a face of nice features, not yet as strong or as distinguished as they one day would be. “It’s already May—do you have any special expectations of this Season?” When he looked surprised, then somewhat at a loss, she elaborated, “Any goal you would like to achieve before summer arrives and we all quit the capital?”

“Ah . . . well, I had hoped to find a new pair for my curricle—”

“Beyond horses.”

His eyes widened at her tone, but he kept his gaze fixed above her head, using the need to steer them through the revolving crowd as an excuse not to meet her eyes.

Ryder had barely glanced anywhere else throughout the waltz they’d shared.

“Actually . . . no.” Randolph cleared his throat, and finally met her gaze. “I know . . . realize that some see my attendance, and that of the others, at events like this as indicating some . . . specific interest—one beyond horses.” He drew breath, briefly glanced up as they negotiated a turn, then looked back at her and faintly grimaced. “The truth is we come purely to please our mothers, and the hostesses, and the grandes dames. Well”—a roguish grin surfaced, a charming twinkle briefly lighting his eyes—“that, and to provide dance partners for young ladies such as you, of course.”

Mary studied his face, that twinkle, his grin. Was there hope? But then she replayed his words, his weak attempt at gallantry . . . and couldn’t quite convince herself there was.

This wasn’t right. Or something was wrong.

She quashed an impatient urge to haul the rose quartz pendant from its nest between her breasts and look at the damn thing—hold it up between them and see if anything happened.

Before she could think of her next conversational thrust, the music wound down and the waltz was at an end. But due to the dance, she and Randolph now stood at the other end of the room, and she realized the open windows Amelia had alluded to were in fact French doors, propped open and giving access to a paved terrace.

As she rose from her curtsy, Mary noted several couples strolling in the moonlight.

“That’s your sister over there, isn’t it?” Randolph nodded toward Amelia, seated on a chaise nearby. “Do you wish to head back with me, or . . . ?”

“Actually . . .” With one hand, Mary lightly fanned her face. “I wonder if we might stroll on the terrace for a few minutes and get some air. It’s rather stuffy in here, don’t you think?”

Stuffy, and increasingly noisy and crowded; to anyone the terrace would appear an oasis.

Randolph looked past her, through the French doors, but made no move to fall in with her suggestion. “I, ah . . . I really don’t think . . .”

She smothered the impulse to frown and swung toward the French doors. “There are others out there—it’s perfectly acceptable.” She took one step, willing him to join her.

“Yes, but . . .” He teetered, literally teetered, then pulled back. Stepped back—away from her and the terrace. He met her gaze as, amazed, she looked back at him. “They’re all couples—older than us.”

Baffled, she glanced again at those ambling on the terrace, drenched in moonlight and clearly visible through the long windows. “They’re not that much older.”

“But they’re . . . courting.” He said the last word as if it was one not uttered in polite company.

Mary stared at him. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She couldn’t count the number of times gentlemen—admittedly not quite as young as Randolph—had attempted to inveigle her out of ballrooms onto shadowy terraces.

Now she’d engineered such an interlude in a perfectly acceptable way, and offered it up to Randolph—her hero—and he was balking?

No—worse—he was backing away!

“I, er . . .” Randolph gestured over his shoulder, up the ballroom. “I should get back or they’ll send the cavalry . . . well, you know what I mean.”

She was, indeed, starti