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

They walked back toward the house.

“Via the terrace,” he murmured, waving her that way.

She obliged and headed back the way she’d come, but a few steps on asked, “Why?”

He took two more paces before replying, “If we were seen coming out of the garden hall, there would be talk—it’s an obvious place for an assignation and sufficiently illicit to arouse the imaginations of the gossipmongers, regardless of your age.”

She mulled that over, then observed, “But you escorting me in from the terrace won’t raise eyebrows?”

“No. Not at all.” He glanced at her, met her eyes. Eventually replied, “That’s one benefit of a reputation such as mine. Unless we do something too jarringly blatant—leaving the garden hall together, for instance—then given my well-known predilections, anyone seeing me escorting you in, entirely mundanely via the terrace, will simply assume that I’ve obliged in escorting you outside for some air—as, indeed, I did earlier. Nothing in the least gossip-worthy.”

Rounding the corner of the house, they climbed the steps to the terrace and saw two couples heading for the French doors. They brought up the rear.

When Mary halted to allow him to draw back the gauzy curtain, he reached around her, but paused with his arm blocking her progress, the curtain a translucent screen between them and the occupants of the ballroom.

She shot him a questioning glance.

He caught it, trapped her gaze. Lowering his head, his voice soft, his tone conversational but private, said, “So, you see, no one would ever imagine that I might seduce you.” He held her widening eyes. “You’re too young, too innocent.” His let his lips curve. “And entirely too marriageable. Very definitely not my style of lover.”

She stared into his eyes, then her gaze traveled over his face, fastened on his lips, lingered for an instant, then she sniffed, faced forward, and, when he drew back the curtain, walked calmly into the ballroom.

He followed, his gaze on her slender back. And omitted to add that he was, however, increasingly sure she was his style of wife.

Chapter Three

“I had no idea we’d have to race off to Wiltshire, and Simon and Portia are keen to go, too—mostly to take the children out of London, to give them a break from town.” Across the breakfast table, Henrietta looked at Mary. “But that will leave you at home all alone.”

“Only alone in the sense that none of the family will be in residence.” Mary waved at Hudson, standing by the sideboard. “I’ll have the staff all round while here, and Amanda and Martin and Amelia and Luc are just a few streets away.”

“Still . . .” Henrietta sighed. “I wouldn’t go, but James must, and it really would be better if I got some idea of the situation at Whitestone Hall before I arrive as the new lady of the manor.”

“It’s too good an opportunity to pass up,” Mary assured her. She took a bite of her toast, chewed, then said, “I truly can’t see why you’re so anxious. Mama and Papa will

be back the day after tomorrow. Amanda is going to accompany me to Lady Hopetoun’s musicale this evening, and Amelia will do duty at Lady Bracewell’s tomorrow night, and then Mama will be back and all will roll on as usual. There’s absolutely no reason you shouldn’t go, and Simon and Portia, too.”

Henrietta studied Mary’s face. “Well, if you’re sure.” Henrietta held up a hand. “And yes, I can see that you are—it was a rhetorical statement.”

Mary grinned. “So when do you leave?”

“Within the hour.” Henrietta glanced at the clock. “Oh, blast!” She picked up her teacup and drained it, then tossed her napkin on the table and rose. “I have to hurry.” She met Mary’s eyes. “Be good and take care.”

Mary laughed and waved her off. “Just go!”

Henrietta whirled and went.

Left to her own amusements, Mary took her time savoring her tea, then ate a second slice of toast and jam.

While she considered just where her plan to find her hero currently stood.

Her instinctive reaction to Ryder’s interference was to redouble her efforts and even more adamantly forge ahead on her predetermined path, to cling even more tenaciously to her direction. But she was growing too old to react thus blindly to opposition; she hoped she was growing wise enough to acknowledge that sometimes she might not be entirely correct in her assumptions.

And, in truth, it wasn’t Ryder’s behavior the previous night that was leading her to question her until-now unwavering certainty but Randolph’s. He’d all but pushed her into Ryder’s arms and run away.

Definitely not hero-worthy behavior.

The more she dwelled on that moment, the less amused she was.

Setting down her teacup, she looked down at her chest—at the necklace visible above the scooped neckline of her pale blue morning gown. The rose quartz pendant dangling between her breasts wasn’t visible, but she could feel it, sense its weight.