Warwick had been on her original list, and in all the ways society counted was possibly more eligible as a suitor for her than Randolph had been. Warwick’s father was Viscount Moorfield, and Warwick would inherit the significant Moorfield estates. Not that she or her family would care, but as Ryder had pointed out, society did have its expectations.
Now she was wearing the necklace, she should reconsider Warwick.
Effecting a meeting wasn’t difficult; most guests were circulating from group to group. But while in response to her encouragements Warwick spoke intelligently and was charming enough, she felt nothing. Simply nothing. Warwick, too, appeared unaffected by her; indeed, she judged he was more honestly smitten by his lovely cousin.
Crossing Warwick off her list, she doggedly moved on. Ryder remained by her side, more or less her escort through the crowd—and as said crowd was growing ever more dense, she was grateful for his broad shoulders and the imposing presence that miraculously caused the way to open up before them. To give him his due, although he made comments, most were general, entertaining, and not in the least carping; he was wise enough not to comment adversely on her choice of gentlemen to assess, not unless he had pertinent and helpful facts to impart.
Even then, he didn’t directly interfere.
At least not until she—somewhat in desperation, truth be told—paused in her peregrination around the ballroom to join a circle that included several budding rakes and one well-born roué.
Although included in the budding rakes category, Jasper Helforth and Joselin Filliwell were, she judged, redeemable, and both were immensely eligible in all other respects. They were, therefore, worthy of assessment.
She actually enjoyed conve
rsing with the pair, although she noted both younger men took care to include Ryder in the banter. Yet she still felt no spark, no ruffling of her senses, nothing that registered sufficiently, for example, to draw her senses’ attention from Ryder. Whenever she consulted them, her senses were always first and foremost focused on him, rather than on her prospective suitors; she’d started to use that as a barometer of the potential of other men.
If Ryder was determined to stick by her side, he might as well be useful.
She had no idea what he was deriving from the exercise beyond the amusement he made no real effort to hide, but other than insisting on remaining by her side he did nothing to restrain her in continuing her quest as she chose.
The musicians struck up another waltz, and Joselin Filliwell smiled and solicited her hand. She bestowed it upon him with alacrity; from their discussions he seemed closer to her ideal than Jasper or any other she’d thus far assessed.
Joselin waltzed commendably well.
She tried, she truly tried to capture the same elusive magic she felt when revolving in Ryder’s arms, but . . .
Pasting a smile on her face and stifling an inner sigh, she allowed Joselin to escort her back to the group at the end of the entirely uneventful dance.
When they rejoined the group, it had changed composition. Jasper had not returned, but two other younger gentlemen, distant prospects both, had joined the circle, along with Cassie Michaels and Rosalind Phillips. With Ryder now on her other side, Mary spent the next twenty minutes chatting with the recent additions; it was clear to her, if not to the gentlemen, that both Cassie and Rosalind had goals similar to hers. But while pleasant and generally innocuous, the younger men could not hold her interest. They were . . . simply too immature.
She was about to turn to Ryder and suggest they move on when the musicians set bow to string in the introduction to another waltz.
“Miss Cynster—I would be delighted if you would grant me the honor of this waltz.”
The languid drawl drew Mary’s eyes to the gentleman further around the circle. A touch older than the other men in the group, Claude Legarde had the reputation of a roué-in-the-making. He was fastidiously, yet somehow overly, dressed, with frills at his collar and cuffs; a cloying scent of cloves and myrrh hung about his person.
Mary didn’t want to dance with him; she didn’t have to think—her skin crawled at the very idea.
But how to decline without giving offense when she’d clearly been prepared to dance with others? Legarde was well known for his acid tongue.
“I’m desolated to have to inform you, Legarde, that Miss Cynster promised this waltz to me.” Ryder’s drawl was every bit as languid as Legarde’s, but somehow significantly less challengeable.
Mary felt such relief that she would have happily kissed Ryder; ridiculous, really, but she hadn’t wanted to even touch Legarde. When Ryder turned to her, she smiled and readily surrendered her hand. “Thank you—I hadn’t forgotten.”
His smile was all appreciation, on several levels. “I didn’t imagine you had.”
With a vague nod to the group, one she echoed, he turned her toward the floor.
As she moved away, she caught a last glimpse of Legarde’s face. The smug, almost delighted look in his eyes made her frown, but she kept the expression from her face as Ryder led her onto the floor.
But why had Legarde looked like that, reacted like that? As if he’d seen something, learned something, secret—even illicit. Something no one else knew.
But then Ryder swung her into his arms and stepped fluidly into the swirl of the dance, and she put Legarde and his reactions from her mind and gave herself up to the moment.
After several revolutions, she marshaled her wits enough to say, “Thank you for rescuing me. Mr. Legarde is definitely not on my list.”
“Thank God for that.” Ryder looked into her eyes, watched her lips curve in a confident smile, and used her words and tone, and that assured smile, to further placate his natural impulses, more intense where she was concerned than he’d expected, at least, not yet. But she somehow had, more or less from the first, connected directly with that primitive, instinctual side of him, and if anything that connection had only deepened over their recent meetings.