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

“I see.” Mary hesitated, then looked up as Ryder joined them. “Henrietta was just asking about my plans for the evening. How large is your dining table?”

Ryder smiled, all lazy lion, down at her. “The big one seats forty-eight, but as we’re only ten, we can use the family dining room.”

Mary looked back at Henrietta, then at Portia. “Have you any plans yourself for tonight? Or can you stay and join all of us here for an early dinner?”

Portia glanced at Henrietta, then looked back at Mary. “As we weren’t sure when we’d be back . . .” Glancing at Ryder, she explained, “We’d gone to Wiltshire to deal with some matter at James’s estate—I’ve already cried off all events for tonight, so for myself I would be delighted to stay. And I’m sure Simon will be, too.”

“You can count on me and James.” Henrietta looked across at the others and grinned. “It will be like having our own impromptu engagement dinner.”

Ryder’s smile deepened. “Excellent.” He looked down at Mary. “If you would ring for Pemberly, my dear?”

Meeting his eyes, seeing very clearly how happy he was with the direction in which she’d steered events, she inclined her head. “Of course.”

Chapter Eight

The following morning, Mary sat in the window seat in the back parlor of her parents’ house and studied the formal notice of her betrothal that had appeared in that day’s Gazette.

While one part of her mind remained faintly stunned that this was where her quest for her hero had landed her, the greater part was . . . already relishing the challenge.

Absentmindedly toying with the rose quartz pendant, she read the notice again. Her eyes dwelled on Ryder’s full name: Ryder Montgomery Sinclair Cavanaugh. His middle names, she had not a doubt, would be past marchionesses’ family names; when combined with Cavanaugh, his name was redolent of the power and majesty of England’s nobility.

Challenge. It was there, staring her in the face, impossible for any to deny—not that anyone would; Ryder’s character was known the length and breadth of the ton.

But this particular challenge, the one he had with his customary arrogance laid at her feet, was hers alone to meet. No other lady would ever have the chance of being his chosen marchioness. Of being able to deal with him, to treat with him, with that specific advantage.

Fate might have cut short their courting, but she was now where she was, the notice in the Gazette made her position irrevocable, and forward was her only possible direction.

Which meant she needed to learn more, much more, about Ryder—and in short order. She might never be able to control him, yet regardless she needed to start looking deeper, focusing more on him, on what was important to him, on what drove him.

He’d enjoyed the previous evening—they all had—but he in particular, albeit it subtly, had encouraged and facilitated; she’d sensed he’d been deeply content with how the evening had gone. It had been after nine o’clock before, noting a certain tension about his eyes and guessing his strength was flagging, she had, also subtly, called an end to the gathering. Everyone had departed in a rowdy group, all delighted with their new connections; Mary had left with Henrietta and James but had made sure to alert Pemberly and Collier to ensure they stood ready to help their master up the great stairs to his bed.

At least he wasn’t of that nonsensical type of male who wouldn’t let those close to him physically assist him.

Lips curving, she refocused on the announcement. She’d enjoyed her first taste of being his marchioness and knew he’d appreciated and approved of her skills.

It was a minor success, but it had been a start. Indeed, the events of yesterday had given her significant insights into her husband-to-be’s life, and left her with questions she needed to further explore.

She was mentally listing said questions—what the situation between him and his stepmother truly was topped the list—when the door opened and Henrietta walked in.

“There you are.” Seeing the Gazette in Mary’s hands, Henrietta grinned. “Still amazed at your fate?”

Mary swiveled to face her sister as Henrietta tugged an armchair closer and sat. “You have to admit that, given my requirements regarding my hero, Ryder isn’t a candidate anyone would have nominated.”

Tipping her head, Henrietta regarded her. “Actually . . . I would have to disagree. Quite aside from what I observed last night, I know Mama’s pleased. She t

hinks he’s perfect for you and you and he will do very well together, and I gather the others—Honoria, Patience, and Alathea, as well as the grandes dames, Aunt Helena, Aunt Horatia, and Lady Osbaldestone included—all think the match well nigh perfect on all sides.”

“Hmm.” Mary had been curious as to how others would see it. “Still, he’s rather . . . I suppose one might say ‘more than I bargained for.’ ”

Henrietta’s smile flashed. “Possibly, but he does seem utterly intent on sweeping you off your feet and into marriage.”

“Indeed. But it’s the ‘love and wedded bliss’ part of our equation I’m unsure about.”

“Ah, but that’s why you’re perfect for him.”

Mary frowned. “That’s what I don’t understand—why is everyone so sure of that?”

For half a minute, Henrietta regarded her as if wondering if she was jesting or not, then, as if puzzled herself, said, “You know—well, I know you know because we all often tell you so—that you’re the bossiest female ever to walk the ton’s ballroom floors.”