Much easier declared than done.
In Amelia’s wake, gowned in watered blue silk, with neckline and sleeves trimmed with cornflower blue ribbon, with her customary confidence she greeted Lady Bracewell, then joined Amelia to descend to the ballroom floor—and to her irritation discovered herself prey to the most peculiar case of jangling nerves.
She needed to keep her mind on her task, needed to mingle freely and assess any and all potential gentlemen, especially those she’d had highest on her list before she’d settled on Randolph Cavanaugh.
Of course, all her previous assessments had been made without benefit of the necklace, so perhaps a gentleman who had not before registered as highly as Randolph might appear more attractive when viewed through The Lady’s prism.
Walking down the white marble steps, casting her eye over the guests, she was conscious of an ever-tightening tension, an expectation she didn’t want to come true yet couldn’t quite convince herself wouldn’t, but she couldn’t see Ryder’s mane of tawny golden-brown anywhere in the room.
She looked down as they negotiated the last few steps. She didn’t want Ryder to be there, didn’t want him to vie for her attention, to steal away her senses by insisting on a waltz; God knew she would even admit that she wasn’t strong enough, experienced enough, to deny him. And then where would she be?
Caught up in his distracting net again, just as she had been at Castlemaine House.
But, she reminded herself as she gained the ballroom floor, raised her head, and looked out at the sea of guests, there was no longer any reason he should pursue her, not here, not tonight, not ever again.
“Good evening, Amelia.”
Mary whipped her head around and smothered a curse. She narrowed her eyes on Ryder, who had stepped out from the lee of the curving steps, which was why she hadn’t spotted him, and was bowing over Amelia’s hand.
“Ryder.” Amelia returned his smile, then glanced at Mary. “I believe you and Mary are acquainted.”
Ryder smiled at her; she told herself it was fanciful to imagine his smile looked hungry. “Indeed.”
Recalling that Amelia hadn’t realized who she had spent most of the Castlemaine ball avoiding, and didn’t know who she’d spent the previous evening being charmed by, Mary clung to her sophistication and gave Ryder a smile of her own, one weighty with warning. “Yes, we’ve met.”
Ryder held her gaze for an instant, then looked at Amelia. “Lady Croxton said she was waiting for you. She’s in a circle over there.” He waved toward a distant corner of the room.
“Ah—thank you.” Amelia peered in that direction, then glanced at Mary. “So you know where I’ll be. Ryder.” With a nod to him, Amelia departed; sliding between shoulders, she disappeared into the crowd.
Mary transferred her gaze to Ryder’s eyes; she didn’t need to take in the rest of his magnificence—as usual, he was the epitome of the elegant, sophisticated, superficially civilized nobleman. Lips firming, she stated, “I am determined to look over other candidates for my hand. Now I’ve struck Randolph from that list, you have no reason to dog my steps.”
He held her challenging gaze for several heartbeats, then his lips eased into a curve that was not exactly a smile. “Possibly. We’ll see.”
She frowned at him. “What sort of answer is that?”
He arched his brows in his customary languid fashion. “All the answer you’re likely to get.”
She smothered a frustrated growl; he was toying with her again. “Ryder, please—go away.”
He appeared to give the plea serious thought. She was almost starting to hope when, his eyes still on hers, he shook his head. “I’m really not sure I can oblige.”
She blinked; what was she to make of that? “Well . . .” She couldn’t dismiss him if he refused to go. Lips compressing, she narrowed her eyes on his. “Very well, but if you must hover close, at least do me the court
esy of not getting in my way.”
Waiting for no reply, she pivoted and determinedly plunged into the crowd.
Ryder grinned and, at least at first, let her lead the way.
Five minutes later, he was no longer so amused. “You can’t possibly imagine that either Rigby or Cantwell figure as suitable candidates for your hand. Your family—your cousins at least—would be appalled.”
Mary shot him a sideways glance. “Why?”
He met her gaze. “Debts.” Among less mentionable shortcomings.
“Oh.” She looked faintly crestfallen. After a moment of considering the pair in question—they were standing with a group of their peers, bucks and bloods of the ton all—she asked, “Are you sure?”
“Very. Rigby’s close to point non-plus, and Cantwell’s acres are mortgaged to the hilt.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s not exactly common knowledge, but it is widely known.”