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

Lucky Randolph. Content that he’d discharged the duty of a friend and circumvented any public display of unseemly temper on Lavinia’s part, Claude raised his cup, shut his ears to her mutterings, and gave himself over to savoring the really quite excellent coffee Lavi

nia’s cook produced.

Half an hour after seeing her mother and Henrietta off to Covent Garden, Mary walked into Ryder’s library unannounced. Seated behind his desk, he’d glanced up at the sound of the door opening. Seeing her, he smiled, the gesture carrying open appreciation of her statement in not permitting Pemberly to usher her in.

“Good morning, Mary.” Ryder’s deep, sonorous tone resonated through her. Rising, his gaze traveling from the top of her head to her feet, then somewhat more slowly returning to her face, he came forward to meet her. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did, thank you. But what about you?” Suppressing all awareness of his hungry lion gaze, of the sheer physicality of him, heightened now they were again alone, halting before the chaise she pointed to his side. “What about your wound?”

Waving her to sit, with only the slightest check he sank into the armchair beside the chaise. “Sanderson called this morning and examined his handiwork. Both he and I are in agreement that all is healing well.”

“Good. Given what we need to discuss, that’s just as well.” When he raised his brows, she continued, “The dates for our engagement ball and, subsequently, our wedding.”

He stared at her for an instant, then said, “Ah—I see. Henrietta and James’s wedding is . . . when? Six days from now?”

She was pleased he saw the difficulty. “Precisely.” Setting her reticule beside her, she drew off her gloves. “According to the collective wisdom of the ladies of my family, we have two choices—sooner, or later.” Briskly, she outlined the arguments; Pemberly arrived with the tea tray as she concluded, “So that’s why they’ve suggested four nights from now for a formal dinner and engagement ball, with our wedding to follow Henrietta and James’s, but with at least a week between.”

She paused to pour. When they both sat back, cups in hand, she sipped, then asked, “So what do you think?”

His heavy-lidded hazel gaze was resting on her, yet she got the impression he wasn’t truly seeing her but was considering, juggling options and outcomes . . . then he refocused on her.

“I’m in complete agreement with the argument that, having announced our betrothal, regardless of the proximity of Henrietta and James’s wedding, society will expect some formal acknowledgment of said betrothal by both our families.” He sipped, then went on, “More, that our engagement surprised most observers also argues for a sooner rather than later acknowledgment, simply to quash any potential speculation on our families’ attitudes to the match, no matter that there aren’t any adverse views.” He grimaced lightly. “You know what the ton is like.”

She inclined her head. “Indeed.” She was pleasantly surprised that his grasp of society’s foibles was so acute.

“So,” he went on, “although a formal dinner and engagement ball four nights from now would, in the general way of things, rank as somewhat precipitous, it would nevertheless suit our purposes best—and, of course, the imminent wedding gives us a solid excuse.”

“Agreed. So that’s the timing of the dinner and engagement ball decided—it will be held at St. Ives House.” She sipped, over the rim of her cup met his gaze. “In recent times, all the family’s engagement balls have been held there.”

He nodded in acceptance.

Lowering the cup, she went on, “There’s one point I didn’t discuss with Mama—I couldn’t while Henrietta was with us. However . . .” She met his eyes, held his gaze for an instant, then simply said, “In social importance, your engagement to me rates significantly above James’s marriage to Henrietta, but I don’t want our engagement ball to”—she waved—“outshine Henrietta’s wedding.”

Ryder slowly blinked; seeing opportunity beckon, he asked, “Is there any reason it should?” Leaning forward to set down his cup, he went on, “In light of the nearness of the wedding, if you and your parents are agreeable I see no reason our betrothal dinner can’t be restricted to our families—principal cousins, but no connections—and the ball could be similarly restricted to the more important connections and acquaintances.” He raised his eyes to hers, arched a brow.

She smiled, plainly delighted. “Thank you—and the correct term isn’t ‘restricted.’ It’s ‘select.’ ”

Grinning faintly, he sat back. “My apologies—our engagement ball will be a highly select affair.” He studied her, read the clear approval in her face, watched her drain her cup, lean forward and set it on the tray, then sit back. “One thing.” He waited until she raised her gaze to his. “Our wedding. It must be an event befitting the alliance of two of the oldest, most powerful and wealthy families in the ton.”

Brows slowly arching, she held his gaze for several moments, then said, “I have nothing against your suggestion—but is there some reason . . . ?”

He shrugged lightly. “Other than my appreciation of the benefits of applying the right degree of pomp in certain circumstances . . . not really.” For himself, he didn’t truly care, but for her . . . he wanted their wedding to be an event to remember, and in ton terms that meant a major production. Her comment about not wanting to outshine Henrietta had been a sacrifice on her part; she hadn’t intended him to see that, but he hadn’t been fooled. Mary was a lady who thrived on big events, and in the matter of their wedding he saw no reason to shortchange her.

Indeed, he saw multiple reasons to ensure their wedding was as big an event as she might wish, but he wasn’t about to articulate any of them, not to her.

When she continued to regard him with a not-so-faint degree of skepticism, he gave her another reason, one he was fairly certain she would accept. “Aside from all else, a very large wedding will ensure no one even vaguely imagines either family is less than thrilled with our union.”

Slowly, she nodded, her eyes on his. “Speaking of which . . . yesterday, when your half siblings were here, I gained the distinct impression that there’s some . . . strain, shall we say, between them and their mother over you. And therefore over me.”

“I should warn you about that.” Regally, she waved to him to proceed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, only to realize . . . he grimaced and sank back in the chair. “In order to properly explain, sufficiently to adequately prepare you for what you might, at some point, find yourself facing with Lavinia, I suspect I need to go back to how and why she became my father’s second wife.”

Mary considered him, then shifted into a more comfortable position on the chaise. “You perceive me all ears.”

He smiled, then, levity fading, commenced, “Believe it or not, I was a sickly babe. Then my mother died of a fever when I was three, and I caught it, too, and nearly died. The doctor was astonished that I survived. Subsequently, any ailment of any sort in the vicinity and I caught it. I was deemed at death’s door more times than my poor father could count. After a few years, the medical men all agreed that it was highly unlikely I would survive to adulthood. My father had been devoted to my mother, and throughout his life he remained devoted to me, but he knew his duty. He wasn’t getting any younger and he had to have an heir, so he married again—and he chose Lavinia. Aside from her unexceptionable birth and background, her principal attractions, my father later informed me, were her willingness to marry a man twenty years her senior, and to bear him several children. Rand was born in short order, then Kit, then a few years later, Stacie, and then Godfrey.

“At that point Lavinia and my father reached an accommodation, and their marriage became one in name only. Both lived their separate lives, and from all I ever saw the arrangement proved satisfactory.” Ryder paused, then, lips curving cynically, continued, “For my father, myself, and my half siblings, all rolled on relatively peaceably. We all got along and there were no real tensions—to the others I was their older brother, and to me they were my younger brothers and sister. But for Lavinia it transpired there was one fly in her ointment—namely, me.” Ryder met Mary’s gaze. “She’d been led to believe I would die, but I didn’t.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “She wished—wishes—you dead?”