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

It had grown more distinct, more defined, on learning her purpose in attending this ball.

Still, he’d weathered the challenge thus far. The challenge of letting her run without pouncing and seizing and making off with her. Thus far, he felt, he could congratulate himself on his performance.

The waltz was uneventful; he kept it that way. No need to press his advantage just yet. Better to let her realize—as she eventually would—that no other gentleman could match her as he did, without the distraction of the sensual connection he knew would come to be. That connection was there, as yet nascent but potentially powerful, his to call upon when he wished, but she, he sensed, would be more swayed, and better convinced, by her own logic.

He was confident enough in his character, and in his prowess, to let her chart her own course. It would lead her to him in the end.

At the completion of the dance, both of them were smiling and in complete accord. She allowed him to steer her to a group of ladies and gentlemen closer to his age. He knew them all and introduced her; to his mind she could use a little contrast the better to compare him to the puppies she’d been assessing.

Lady Paynesville, a long-ago lover, turned to him with a smile. “My lord, my brother asked me, were I to see you, to inquire whether you’re inclined to come north to Scotland for the hunting this summer?”

Looking into Juliet’s eyes, Ryder understood perfectly that game wasn’t the only thing that would be on offer should he elect to accept her—and her brother’s—invitation. But it was just such interludes—enjoyable but essentially meaningless, with no long-term benefit—that he’d started to find wearisome; his hunter’s instincts had decreed they were no longer worth his time. “Thank John for me, but I’m not yet sure what I might be doing this summer.”

Juliet took the refusal in good heart. “Ah, well.” She smiled and her gaze traveled past him to Mary. “One never does know, I suppose.”

Ryder smiled, too, and followed Juliet’s gaze—and immediately had to suppress a frown. A scowl. An irritated growl.

While he’d been distracted—for only a few minutes—another gentleman had joined the circle, insinuating himself on Mary’s other side.

And that gentleman—assuming one used the term loosely—was Jack Francome. Handsome, debonair, and outwardly as easygoing as Ryder himself, courtesy of his excellent birth, Francome had the entree throughout the ton and was accepted in most drawing rooms, but he’d long been known as a man of dubious character and distinctly shady morals. He’d gambled away his patrimony before he’d reached the age of twenty-five and had subsequently been living off a succession of well-born mistresses.

Although his usual targets were widows rather older than Mary, Francome wasn’t the sort to balk at seducing a young innocent in pursuit of a fortune.

That said, he had to be desperate to try for a Cynster.

Francome knew all the ways; he’d engaged Mary so that she’d turned slightly, and he and she were now speaking semiprivately despite still being within the circle. Looming as close as he dared, Ryder eavesdropped on their exchanges, but Francome was toeing the line, carefully avoiding any subject or suggestion that might trigger Mary’s suspicions.

Then the damned musicians started playing again.

Mary raised her head, confirmed that it was to be another waltz, then angled an encouraging look at the intriguing Mr. Francome. She had met him before, but only in passing at some ball or other; she hadn’t previously had occasion to converse with him, and he was certainly more interesting than the younger gentlemen she’d assessed.

Perhaps she needed to widen her net?

Francome smiled; his brown eyes danced invitingly. “I would ask you to waltz, Miss Cynster, but it’s become such a crush I wonder if, instead, you would prefer to take a stroll on the terrace?”

They were standing mere yards from a pair of French doors left open to a paved and balustered expanse and the balmy summer night beyond. Glancing at the couples already strolling in the moonlight, Mary was seized with a sudden yearning for fresh air. “Thank you. I would.” She looked eagerly at Francome, and gallantly he offered his arm. She reached out to lay her hand on his sleeve—

A large male hand closed over hers, preventing the contact.

Surprised—indeed, shocked—she looked up at Ryder. The last she’d seen he’d been speaking to the lady on his other side. Her weak “What are you doing?” was drowned out by his forceful and deadly “I think not.”

She stared at him; he wasn’t speaking to her but to Francome. Ryder’s face was harder than she’d ever seen it; carved granite would have been softer. As for his eyes, they were locked on Francome’s face.

If looks could kill . . .

Suddenly breathless, she looked at Francome. He was staring at Ryder.

As she watched, Francome paled, swallowed, then, lowering his arm, rather more quietly and with a great deal less of his until then charming bonhomie, said, “I didn’t realize . . .”

With something of an effort, Francome wrenched his gaze from Ryder’s and looked at her, then his eyes narrowed. “But perhaps—”

“Think again.” Ryder’s voice remained hard, his tone laden with menace—enough to have Francome immediately look back at him.

After a second’s pause, Ryder went on, “Most especially think about how lucky you are that I am not one of her cousins.”

Francome searched Ryder’s face, his eyes. “You wouldn’t . . .”

Looking from one to the other, Mary glanced at Ryder as, his features easing not at all, he said, “How much are you willing to wager on that?”