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

She gritted her teeth; there was nothing like being treated like a bone by two dogs to send her temper soaring. She drew in a huge breath. “Ryder—”

Francome spoke over her. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cynster, I believe I’ve been summoned elsewhere.”

She blinked. “I . . . se

e.”

With a brief bow, not meeting her eyes but, as he straightened, exchanging a much longer glance with Ryder, Francome turned and took himself off, rapidly disappearing into the crowd.

Mary watched him go, then rounded on Ryder—and caught a glimpse of the faces of the others in their circle.

Everyone had heard, or at least seen, the exchange, even though they were pretending they hadn’t, but what struck her forcibly was the lack of surprise.

Their acceptance of Ryder’s actions . . . like a kaleidoscope, phrases, looks, fragments of memory shifted and swung, realigned—and fell into place.

And she suddenly saw what had been happening.

Over the last three nights, in front of her unsuspecting eyes.

Raising those now opened eyes to Ryder’s face, she stared at him. He looked blandly back at her; even as she watched, his expression eased the last little way back into his customary affable mien.

Nothing like it had been a few seconds before.

His gaze lowered to her hand, which he still held in a firm, but not crushing, grip. Slowly, as if he had to force his long fingers to uncurl, he eased his hold and released her.

It was that even more than the preceding exhibition that verified her new understanding—and set a match to her temper.

Narrowing her eyes, rather than lowering the hand he’d released, she grabbed his sleeve, locked her fingers tight.

Yanked his arm down between them, then smiled as sweetly and as vaguely as she could manage at the others in the group. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re going to stroll.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw one of Ryder’s brows arch. She shot him a glare. As she dragged him away, she hissed, “Outside!”

He sighed. “Very well, but let’s at least be civil about this.” Twisting his arm gently, he broke her hold, caught her hand, and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. “Come along then, before you faint. Or have a seizure.”

She was, she decided, ready to throttle him.

But she played along and let him steer her onto the terrace. Stepping outside, they both looked around; both saw the empty space at the far end of the long terrace and without further consultation headed that way.

She would have stormed along, but, his hand closing over hers on his sleeve, he held her to an ambling stroll—one that would attract no attention.

Her temper was steaming, well past boiling and ready to explode. She recognized what had been happening now, that he’d been casting an invisible net of possessive protectiveness about her, a broader and more nuanced version of the protectiveness she’d felt when they’d waltzed. Other men could sense it; no doubt some ladies were experienced enough with men of his ilk to detect it, too.

In some primitive way, it marked her as his.

Protectiveness she could understand; she knew the type of man he was, knew that for men such as he protectiveness was a deeply ingrained trait. Which was why the protectiveness she’d sensed when they’d waltzed hadn’t set off any alarms.

But possessiveness . . . oh, no. In men like him, for ladies like her, that was not an emotion she would allow.

The spot they were making for was out of clear sight of those in the ballroom but not the many couples strolling the flags; as they neared it and slowed, she slipped her hand from the warmth of Ryder’s arm and whisked around to place her back to the balustrade, facing him. With him standing before her, she was effectively screened from all interested onlookers, while she doubted anyone could read anything from his back.

Understanding his role as a screen, he halted directly before her, a foot or so away.

The instant he did, she narrowed her eyes to shards and pointed a finger at his nose. “I asked you before—twice—what you thought you were about dogging my every step through the ballrooms, and it did not escape my notice that on both occasions you didn’t actually answer.” She paused only to draw breath before continuing in the same forceful, excessively clipped tone, her gaze locked, gimlet-eyed, with his, “After that little episode in the ballroom just now, I want to make one point absolutely clear—I am not yours!”

She’d expected some response. When seconds ticked by and he continued to stand before her, unmoving and immovable, she frowned. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“No. I’m trying to decide how to tell you you’re mistaken.”