If, now you’re wearing the necklace, you don’t feel something special for this mystery gentleman of yours, if he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off, then please, promise me you’ll listen to The Lady’s advice.
Her cousin Angelica’s words, uttered at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball—the first evening she’d worn the necklace. Of all her cousins, Angelica, also the youngest of one branch of the family, was most like Mary in temperament; everyone acknowledged that. The necklace had worked for Angelica, and Mary still believed it would work for her.
But with Randolph she’d felt nothing beyond exasperation arising out of frustrated expectations.
That didn’t necessarily mean that Randolph was not her one true hero, but he certainly wasn’t now, and, it seemed, might not attain that status for years. . . .
One hand rising to trace the necklace, she whispered, “I’m not going to wait years, and that with no guarantee.” After several moments of thinking, of absentmindedly tapping a fingernail against one of the amethyst beads, she grimaced and lowered her hand. “I have to accept that Randolph might not be my hero. I can use tonight’s musicale—at which Ryder will definitely not appear, thank God—to test Randolph one last time, and then, if, as seems likely, he fails to meet my standards, I will start to look about me for my true hero.”
Who was proving damnably reticent over coming forward and presenting himself.
If he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .
The latter description might have applied to Ryder, who, now she thought of it, was the first gentleman she’d actually interacted with after Henrietta had clasped the necklace about her throat, but last night he had, directly and openly, confirmed her supposition as to why he was pursuing her, and no great stretch was required to imagine that he might, indeed, feel protective of Randolph to the extent of acting as he had. Ryder was the head of his house, his family as old as the Cynsters, and she understood the protective impulses that accrued to that station; he would without a second thought act to protect any he considered in his care. Like his younger half brother.
So there was no reason to imagine Ryder might be her hero—and many, many reasons to be certain he was not.
Not least the fact that they were so much alike in character and temperament, the principal differences, aside from their genders, being that he was older, infinitely more experienced, and consequently stronger.
She wrinkled her nose. No, the truth was he was inherently stronger; she wouldn’t allow herself to be so foolish as to not recognize and acknowledge that. But for a lady who intended to be in charge of her own life, Ryder was assuredly the antithesis of her hero.
Which meant the damn man hadn’t yet made an appearance.
With one last, faintly bothered glance at the necklace, she set aside her napkin, rose, and headed for the breakfast parlor door.
At least tonight she could be assured of not having to deal with the distraction, the sensual discombobulation, of Ryder’s interference. Musicales such as Lady Hopetoun’s were the province of the matchmakers, their charges, and young gentlemen of good family of an age to marry, and as such were events at which gentlemen of Ryder’s proclivities never appeared; tonight, she would have a clear field.
Tonight, she would make up her mind, one way or another, on the subject of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh.
Mary followed her oldest sister into Lady Hopetoun’s music room. While Amanda, Countess of Dexter, swept forward, touching fingers and cheeks and merging with her own circle of acquaintances, Mary hung back just inside the door and looked around.
They’d been delayed by Amanda needing to check on her youngest, who had developed a cough, which, thankfully, was subsiding. Now an old hand at motherhood, Amanda had declared herself satisfied, enough at least to travel to Hill Street and the musicale, yet as a precaution Amanda had sent Mary on in their parents’ town carriage, which had ferried Mary to Dexter House in Park Lane, and had followed in the Dexter carriage, just in case.
So all the other guests should be in attendance by now. Indeed, the members of the chamber ensemble who were to perform that evening were tuning up their instruments, and while the majority of guests still mingled and chatted in knots in the clear space closer to the door, others had already moved down the room to the velvet-upholstered chairs arranged in serried ranks before the dais.
Randolph. Where was he?
Mary scanned the heads once, then, frowning slightly, strolled to the room’s side to search more closely—
“They’re not here.”
She congratulated herself on not jumping. Barely turning her head, she cast Ryder a brief glance as he prowled up to stand beside her. After a second’s consideration, along the lines of whether she wished to cut off her nose to spite her face, she surrendered and asked, “They who?” Tall as he was, he could search those present more effectively than she could.
“Rand and his set.”
She blinked. “All of them?”
“I think they took fright.”
Fright. There was that word again. Nevertheless, she asked, “Fright over what?” Resigned, she turned to face Ryder.
His customary lazy lion expression in place, he met her gaze, then arched a brow. “Everyone knows this sort of event, especially when held at this time of year, has only one real aim—and that aim has nothing to do with music.”
She didn’t dispute that; it was why she’d come. But . . . “Randolph and the others attended the ball last night. And he told me they—all of them—attended such events, events like this, to keep peace with their mothers, the hostesses, and the grandes dames.”
“Admitted that, did he?” Ryder’s grin turned proud. “There’s hope for him yet.”
She shot him a discouraging look. “In your terms, perhaps. But accepting Randolph’s statement as true, which I