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

Whether she succeeded or not was a different matter.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” she murmured to the shadows. “If I discount his obvious personality defects and calmly assess him on the usual criteria as a possible candidate for my hand, would he make my list?”

It didn’t take long to decide that in the affirmative; Ryder’s title, family, wealth, estates, social standing—all were the pinnacle of what a lady such as she, the youngest daughter of a major house, might think to claim.

“Society and the grandes dames would definitely approve.” She thought, then added, “But I don’t really care about them. And the family will agree with whoever pleases me, so what do I truly want?”

Would filling the position of the Marchioness of Raventhorne please her? Satisfy her?

Be to her liking?

“That’s not so easy to answer.” She glanced out of the carriage window, but they were still on the south side of Berkley Square. Deciding it was nice to be able to think aloud without risking anyone overhearing, she continued her ruminations.

“Being Ryder’s wife. That’s the issue here. Whether as his wife I’ll be able to be as I wish to be . . .”

She grimaced into the dark. “And although that’s not at all easy to decide, deciding one way or another is not something I’m going to be able to avoid. I’m going to have to accept him or refuse him . . . and refusing him is going to be a battle, because he won’t accept that readily.” Denying Ryder would demand a degree of strength and a wealth of conviction. “A lot of certainty, which at present I’m not sure I have.”

Could she trust in what he’d said? “I’m sure he meant every word—that he would try to find ways to accommodate my wishes—but what if he fails? He might be willing enough to attempt it, but will he actually be able to”—she gestured in the dark—“make the necessary adjustments?” Even if he wanted to, could the lion change?

No matter how she viewed it, accepting his proposal would be a massive risk—for her. Not for him.

“If I accept him, regardless of how matters play out, he will have got what he wants.”

Her. As his bride. She frowned. “Why has he settled on me?”

A highly pertinent question,

but he’d told her at least one reason. She was the last Cynster girl unwed; given his age, for him she was the only possible chance of forming an alliance with her family.

Added to that, she had to admit that, somewhat to her surprise, they rubbed along fairly well together. Their similar backgrounds made it easy for her to stand alongside him socially, and her far-more-extensive-than-was-customary acquaintance with and experience of men like him—namely all the men in her family—was also undoubtedly a boon in terms of her understanding him.

And, to some extent, making allowances for certain behavior that other ladies might find trying.

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t find the same traits annoying but more that she would understand that, in some situations, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. “For instance, with Francome.”

She dwelled on all she’d sensed in the incident, then shook aside the distraction. “Where was I? Ah, yes. He clearly finds me amusing, and I have to admit he’s more than passably entertaining, and he can certainly waltz. As for the rest . . .” The way he made her feel, the effect he had on her that she habitually ignored, given she’d never been able to suppress it.

“Hmm . . . I’d wager Grandmama’s pearls that he has the same effect on every woman with functioning senses, so I don’t think I can deduce anything from that.”

The carriage had been inching forward; now it rocked and canted on its springs as the coachman turned the horses north along the west side of the square. Gradually, the carriage’s speed increased to a steady walking pace.

Refocusing on the dimly lit seat opposite, Mary replayed her thoughts. By all the customary social and familial measures, she and Ryder were well suited. “But none of that says anything about love.”

And that was her biggest question, her stumbling block, her highest hurdle. Not by any stretch of the imagination could she believe that Ryder was in love with her. Not now. But the big question was: Could he be?

If she gave him—them—the chance, could he fall in love with her, and she with him?

Could he, Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, possibly be her true hero, the man who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss?

She gnawed on the question as the carriage gradually picked up pace. As the coachman slowed the horses to negotiate the entry to Davies Street, Mary reached up, found the necklace about her throat, and drew the rose quartz pendant from between her breasts.

In the faint light cast by a streetlamp, she studied the pendant, turning it between her fingers. She’d thought it would be so easy. That finding her one, her true hero, would simply be a matter of wearing the necklace, and he would promptly present himself and bow before her. . . .

She blinked, her mind reeling back to the night she’d first worn the necklace. The first gentleman she’d had any real interaction with . . . had been Ryder.

She’d dismissed him, walked around him and away.

If he gets under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .