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

Also intriguing was the sudden awareness that had swamped her right at the end of the evening. Until then she’d been conversing freely, without thought or restraining consideration, but she’d suddenly become aware—he assumed because of the myriad speculative glances thrown his way by other ladies—that his presence by her side required explanation.

He’d wondered what she would make of it. In her exchange with Amanda, she’d stated her conclusion plainly enough, but . . . did she truly believe he’d remained by her side solely because of his—admittedly genuine—enjoyment of the music?

Reaching the end of Hayes Mews, he turned left into Farm Street. Smiling to himself and swinging his cane, he crossed the cobbled street and walked on to the opening of the alley that was his habitual shortcut to his home in Mount Street when returning from the southern section of Mayfair.

At this time of night, even in this bastion of the haut ton most law-abiding citizens would avoid the narrow alleys, but he strolled on without concern; not only did his size deter most would-be assailants but should they nevertheless make a try for him, the rapier concealed in his cane provided a more potent discouragement.

He knew how to use it, and no one his size survived Eton without learning all there was to know about fisticuffs, and even more to the point, outright brawling.

In truth, there was little he feared in life, not as pertained to his physical person. There was little that might effectively threaten him, not physically, but he’d come to understand that there were other threats in life, many potentially more damaging, holding much greater risk of true loss than anything on the physical plane.

Those threats were not ones he was constitutionally comfortable debating, not even with himself, but they largely arose from the issues that, having attained the age of thirty, he’d decided it was time to address.

Before they turned and bit him.

The alley narrowed for the last ten yards, the gap between the walls only just sufficient to allow him to walk freely through. Emerging from the dimness into the more affluent and commensurately well-lit ambiance of Mount Street, he turned left, walked several yards, then angled across the cobbles to the opposite pavement, stepping onto it a few paces short of the steps leading up to his own front door.

He let himself in with his latchkey. Stepping over the threshold into the lamp-lit splendor of the foyer, he was unsurprised to see his butler, Pemberly, come striding forward from the nether regions, eager to take his hat and cane. Pemberly had been butler to his father, and like the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and several other members of his staff, had been constants in Ryder’s life.

“Welcome home, my lord. I trust the evening went well?”

“Yes, indeed.” Ryder dutifully surrendered hat and cane. “If anything, better than I’d hoped.” He’d gone to Lady Hopetoun’s assuming Rand would be present; Rand’s absence and Mary’s consequent acceptance that Rand was not her future husband had simplified matters, without any effort from Ryder effectively clearing his path, and the subsequent time interacting with Mary had advanced his campaign further than he’d anticipated.

So what next?

“Will you be going out again, my lord?” Pemberly inquired.

To another ball, to a club or hell, or to some lady’s bed . . . Ryder shook his head. “No. You can lock up.” He started toward the corridor that led deeper into the huge house. “I’ll be in the library for a while, then I’ll be going up to bed.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ll tell Collier.”

Ryder nodded. Collier had been his father’s valet but had been too young to retire on his father’s death. Although Ryder didn’t need anyone’s help to dress, much less undress, and he didn’t actually like having anyone so personally close, he permitted Collier’s ministrations; the man had been devoted to his father, and especially helpful through the old man’s last days. Ryder’s current push was to insist that everyone in the household replace the outmoded label “valet” with the more modern “gentleman’s gentleman.” Thus far, it had proved a battle, but it was one he was determined to win.

Reaching the library, he went in. Closing the door, he paused, letting the comforting, welcoming atmosphere of the room—the one he spent most time in and, courtesy of all the hours the pair of them had spent there, also most associated with his father—embrace him, then, with a sigh, one of pleased satisfaction more than anything else, he strolled to the massive fireplace midway down the long room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes covered every wall, broken only by the twin doors, the fireplace, and the three long windows facing it. With the long velvet curtains drawn tight against the night, the only light came from a lamp left burning on a low table beside one of the twin sofas angled before the hearth, and the leaping flames from a small but cheery fire burning in the grate. The resulting pulsing, golden glow gleamed fitfully off the polished wood, gently winked from the gold lettering on the books’ spines, and softly caressed the dark brown leather of the sofas and chairs set about the room.

Ignoring the large desk at the far end of the room, Ryder paused beside the fireplace. From the end of the marble mantelpiece, he lifted a stack of cards—all the invitations he’d received for the coming days.

As was his habit, he removed that evening’s cards from the top of the pile and tossed them into the flames. Separating out the invitations for the following evening, he returned the rest to the top of the mantelpiece, then walked to the lighted lamp. Fanning the cards for tomorrow night’s events in one hand, he studied them in the lamplight.

This evening, Mary had started to question his motives, had started to wonder. Even if she managed to convince herself that he’d remained at Lady Hopetoun’s for the music, that conviction wouldn’t last long. If he was any judge of such things, and he was, then the time was fast approaching when she would confront him over his intentions, and he and she would have the matter out.

Anticipation welled. His lips curved.

When, exactly, that discussion would take place wasn’t something he could dictate, yet he was certain he could leave initiating said discussion—one he and she had to have—to her.

She would raise the matter when she was ready, which was fine by him; he wouldn’t have to trouble himself over trying to guess when she reached that point—he felt confident he could rely on her to tell him.

Lips curving more definitely, he considered the events the haut ton was slated to enjoy the following evening.

As matters stood, he didn’t need to do anything beyond religiously appearing at Mary’s side at whichever evening events she attended. All he needed to do to advance his campaign to the next stage was to be there, and she would do the rest—would create for him the perfect opportunity to make his intentions crystal clear.

Selecting one ivory card from the seven in his hand, he reread the inscription and nodded. “This one.” Tapping the card on his thumb, he murmured, “That’s where she’ll be tomorrow night. At Lady Bracewell’s ball.”

Chapter Four

What, by all that’s holy, is Ryder up to?