Possession was stamped on his features.
She read the confirmation that shone in his eyes.
Mine. You’re mine.
“This is an unmitigated disaster!” Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, raged before the fireplace in her boudoir.
The only other occupant, Claude Potherby, sat at his fashionable ease in the wing chair angled to the hearth and watched Lavinia pace. He was too wise in her ways to say anything just yet. Inured by long acquaintance to her histrionics, he left her to rail unimpeded. In days past, he would have been styled her cicisbeo, a longtime confidant, although in his case never a lover. Once, it was true, he had aspired to the more intimate connection, but that had been long ago—before Lavinia had turned from him to so eagerly throw herself into an arranged marriage and the marchioness’s shoes she still wore.
Yet to his cynical surprise, his devotion had proved both durable and persistent; despite being taken for granted for more decades than he cared to count, he was still there, still listening to Lavinia’s ravings—still quietly amused by her unending, ceaseless quest for self-advancement.
“I tell you it’s insupportable!” Eyes flashing, fists clenched at her sides, she whirled to face him. “How dare that wanton seduce Ryder?”
Claude blinked. “Ah . . . was that the same wanton you wanted for dear Randolph? Mary Cynster?”
Lavinia huffed. “Yes—her! To have landed herself in Ryder’s bed—and then—”
“You know, my sweet, I fail to follow . . . well, several points in your thesis. For instance, everything we, and indeed all the ton, know of Mary Cynster strongly suggests that she is highly unlikely to use seduction as a means to secure her future. As the last Cynster girl of this generation unwed, she has no reason even to expend effort—every eligible gentleman would shortly have been lining up to offer for her hand.”
Before Lavinia could interrupt, Claude continued, “And while I admit your stepson has never been backward in seducing ladies, he’s never preyed on young ladies, much less any of Miss Cynster’s caliber.” Intrigued by the little Lavinia had thus far let fall, Claude fixed her with an innocently inquiring look. “Are you sure, my dear, that what you and your friends saw wasn’t something rather different? That you didn’t leap to a conclusion that wasn’t, in fact, correct?”
Lavinia scowled and kicked her skirts about. “I don’t see how else one could interpret what we saw. She was sitting on his damned bed, still in her ball gown, and he was looking like a cat who’d supped well.”
Claude frowned. “Actually, another point that escapes me is why you and your bosom-bows called on Ryder at all.”
Lavinia avoided his gaze. After another round of pacing, she all but spat, “If you must know, after Ryder appeared at Lady Hopetoun’s musicale and spent the whole evening by Mary’s side, I realized that he must have decided to look for a bride, and, of course, he isn’t stupid, so he was looking at Mary—”
“Ah.” Claude nodded. “I see it now. You wanted Mary for Randolph, so you and your friends . . .” He blinked, then trained a mock-disbelieving look on Lavina. “The three of you went to Ryder’s house to offer to help him find a suitable bride?”
“Why not?” Lavinia gestured to herself. “I am his stepmother. I’m the current marchioness. If anyone would know what the position entails, and which young ladies might best fill it, it’s me. And Joyce Jerome and Kate Framlingham both know all the young ladies on the marriage mart.”
“Let me guess.” Claude’s voice dripped cynicism. “If Ryder had proved amenable, you and your friends would have tied him up in pursuing unsuitable young ladies for years.”
“Well,” Lavinia said, “there’s really no reason he has to wed at all. Randolph soon will, and after Ryder, he, and then his son can carry the title. My dear departed husband would, I’m sure, have been entirely content with that. Randolph is, after all, as much his son as Ryder.”
“Oh, dear.” Claude fought very hard to keep his lips straight.
Lavinia frowned at him. “What?”
“Well, my dear, if we do entertain the possibility that Mary Cynster was at Ryder’s house for some other reason entirely . . .” Sitting back so he could better watch Lavinia, Claude went on, “Then it’s possible that your . . . ah, well-intentioned attempt to interfere in Ryder’s life might just have landed him with Mary Cynster as his wife.”
Lavinia stared at Claude for several seconds, then, fists clenching, arms rigid by her sides, she gritted her teeth, tipped back her head, and screamed.
Chapter Seven
“You look like hell.” Ryder peered at David Sanderson as the later adjusted the wick on the lamp beside the bed.
David’s gaze swept his face. “I take it no one’s offered you a mirror.”
“I have an excuse. What happened to you?”
“Difficult first delivery. It ended well, but it was touch and go there for a while.”
“I’ve just decided that I don’t want to know. Childbirth.” Despite his prevailing lack of strength, Ryder managed a shudder. “The one topic guaranteed to make grown men weak—and I’m weak enough as it is.”
David humphed. “I want to take a look at that wound.”
Ryder tried to turn down the covers, but David rapped his wrist. “Just lie still and let me do it. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll be somewhat weaker than a kitten.”