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

“Indeed,” Mary murmured back. “But it’s fiction—invented, made up—so I cannot, I confess, quite see the point in such high feelings.”

She glanced up and met Ryder’s eyes, and saw her own native cynicism reflected in the sharp hazel.

“Shall we move on?” he asked.

She nodded.

Which he took as permission to wind her arm in his and, excusing them with a few murmured words, lead her from the group into the still considerable crowd. “Thackeray—is he the same Thackeray who writes literary reviews for the Times?”

“I believe so.” She tried to hold back the words, but . . . glancing up at him, she asked, “Do you read literary reviews, then?”

Eyes scanning the crowd, he shrugged offhandedly. “On occasion.”

Which was something of a revelation; she found herself wondering if Randolph—and promptly cut off the thought. As Ryder himself had pointed out, six years of maturity lay between him and Randolph; comparisons weren’t appropriate.

Only . . .

She shook aside the distraction—and, yes, just strolling a ballroom beside Ryder qualified as a distraction—and once again doggedly brought her mind to bear on her campaign.

Glancing down at her, Ryder read her expression, and immediately raised his head and searched for a fresh diversion. “Ah—we’ve been summoned.”

Mary frowned and looked about, but with the crowd so dense she couldn’t see far. “Who by?”

“An old aunt of mine—well, I call her aunt. But I’m sure she’s seen you, too, so we’ll have to grit our teeth and bear it.” Without giving her a chance to argue, he tacked through the crowd, making for the chaise in one corner of the room on which he’d spotted his father’s cousin, Lady Maude Folliwell. She had terrible eyesight and could barely see ten feet in front of her, but she always liked to speak with him, and he had no compunction whatever in using her in pursuit of his current aim; aside from all else, were she to be informed of that aim, Maude would not just approve but applaud.

Mary found herself facing a type of lady she recognized well, but Lady Maude had nothing on her own late aunt Clara. Lady Maude’s conversation was still entirely rational and easy to follow, but noting the thickness of the glass in the lorgnettes her ladyship deployed, Mary had to wonder how Lady Maude had spotted them from quite halfway across the room. Regardless, she smiled sweetly, allowed Ryder to introduce her, and answered Lady Maude’s questions about her family.

“I didn’t notice your mother or your aunts here, my dear.” Lady Maude trained her magnified gaze along the wall against which most of the older ladies were seated in chairs and on chaises.

“My parents and my aunts and uncles have retreated to the country for a few days.”

“Ah, yes—no doubt girding their loins for your sister’s wedding. Quite a lovely surprise, and I know the Glossups are thrilled. Do please convey my felicitations to the happy couple.”

Mary accepted the charge, and Lady Maude turned her lorgnettes on Ryder. Mary expected to hear the usual exhortations ladies of Maude’s age normally leveled at gentlemen of Ryder’s, but instead it appeared that Lady Maude was extremely fond of Ryder and, even though from her somewhat pointed comments it was clear her ladyship was in no way blind, she thoroughly approved of her younger relative, at least in general terms.

As Ryder responded with equal fondness and the exchange veered deeper into family concerns, Mary saw her chance and promptly moved to seize it; intending to quietly step back and with a polite curtsy to her ladyship slip away into the crowd—leaving Ryder stuck while she escaped to find Randolph—she started to ease back, only to discover that Ryder was, yet again, ahead of her.

Not that he paused in his exchange with Lady Maude, or gave the slightest sign that he knew what she was about.

But the long fingers he’d had the nerve to crook into her silk skirts curled and tightened, effectively anchoring her to his side.

He kept the hand trapping her skirts at the back of his thigh, out of Lady Maude’s sight, and with the crowd so tight-packed, it was unlikely anyone behind them would notice. . . .

Mary had to swallow the growl of sheer frustration that bubbled in her throat and continue to smile sweetly.

But she was now more determined than ever to pursue Randolph; one way or another, she would win through.

Her chance came immediately they’d taken leave of Lady Maude. As they turned back into the crowd, Lady Heskett and Lady Argyle, elegantly fashionable matrons of similar age to Ryder, pounced simulta

neously—one from either side.

“Darling, I haven’t seen you in an age!” Lady Heskett swooped in, all but physically dislodging Mary from Ryder’s side.

Entirely willing to be dislodged, Mary slipped her hand from Ryder’s sleeve and gave way.

“Raventhorne.” Lady Argyle’s voice was a touch shriller and held a distinctly possessive note as she brazenly claimed Ryder’s other arm. “Where have you been hiding, my lord?”

For an instant, Ryder was fully occupied.