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

They were waltzing in a world of their own.

Mary sensed the difference, not just the drawing in of her senses but their heightening. The ineluctable tension. It gripped her, and him, and resonated between them.

She’d been looking forward to this moment, to the waltz and all it meant, but when she?

??d originally imagined her first waltz with her betrothed, she’d assumed it would signal an end. That their courtship would be done, and that this dance would be an acknowledgment of their love, a love already owned to and owned by them both.

Instead, this waltz, their waltz, was a beginning. The first step down a path she’d never imagined treading—not without the confidence of love to bolster her.

Yet here she was, and here he was, whirling her about the floor in his arms, his gaze locked with hers, his awareness meshed with hers in a way that consumed all her senses, and as Lucilla had confirmed, this was where they—he and she—were supposed to be.

For them, this was the right way, the right path, even if it was so very different from the one she’d imagined. Fitting perhaps, given he was so very different from the man she’d imagined would be hers. She’d assumed her gentleman would be an easy man to tame . . . instead, trapped in his hazel eyes, she was waltzing her engagement waltz with the ton’s most untamable nobleman.

Challenge? Oh, yes.

It was there, inescapable, a subtle clash of fire in their gazes, but as they whirled again and at a distant remove she sensed others joining them on the floor, she had to wonder if he saw that challenge in the same way she did. If he recognized its basis, knew her fell intent.

Of his intent she harbored no doubt; she would have had to have been unconscious, her senses all blind, not to see, sense, feel the primal possessiveness that reached for her. To give him his due, his desire was screened by the veil of sophistication he so expertly wielded, yet immersed in the moment, so focused on him, she couldn’t miss the signs. Couldn’t miss the power and passion that burned undisguised in his eyes.

He’d chosen her, he wanted her, and soon she would be his in all ways. She suspected he thought that, via the burgeoning passion rising between them, he would then be able to manage her.

Still trapped in his gaze, she returned his smile with one carrying the same intent.

They would see.

As the musicians commenced the final reprise, she couldn’t resist murmuring, “You should perhaps remember that we’re both rather determined people, and”—tilting her head, she watched his eyes—“we’re now both committed . . . to this.”

To us. To what will be.

Ryder blinked; a faint frown in his mind if not on his face, he returned to reality as the music slowed. Spinning them to an elegant halt, he released her, stepped back, and bowed.

She curtsied—a fully court curtsy perfectly judged for his station.

As she’d no doubt intended, it made him smile and dissipated the lingering tension that had held them.

A tension he’d evoked, yet . . . it had been rather more than he’d expected.

He’d intended to capture her in the moment, not to himself be captured by it.

By it, by her, by what had swelled and welled between them.

That . . . had been more than he’d planned for, significantly more—and different in feel—than what he’d anticipated. Yet . . . as she’d said, they were both determined people, and they were now committed to this.

Raising her, he drew her to his side, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and smiled one of his usual, lazily charming smiles. “Shall we return to the fray?”

She met his eyes; hers glinted commiseratingly. “I fear we must.”

They did. He had only to raise his head and others gathered around, to chat, to comment, to enthuse. As the evening rolled on, courtesy of various oblique comments, he realized that their determination and commitment had been more openly on show than he, at least, had realized.

While passing between groups, he murmured to Mary, “It seems our engagement waltz made a statement more public than I’d intended.”

She blinked up at him, then glanced around. “Ah—I hadn’t realized, but now you mention it, I can see it might have.” She shrugged and looked up at him. “But perhaps that’s for the best.” Arching her brows, she faced forward. “And I can’t see that it will hurt.”

He wasn’t so sure of that—and even less sure what her words portended, of what was going through her willful mind, but as they joined the next group of guests he reflected that, Mary being Mary, he would, most likely, soon find out.

Across the ballroom, Lavinia leaned on Claude Potherby’s arm and sniffed. “Have you heard what everyone—at least all the grandes dames and the major hostesses—are saying? That after that little performance there’s no question but that those two will be future powers in the ton?”

Claude wondered if he should lie. “Well . . . yes.” He didn’t consider himself at all sensitive, yet even he had seen it, the indefinable aura of will and strength that, combined, spelled power that had cloaked the betrothed pair as they’d revolved down the room in the first waltz. “But really, my sweet, not even you can deny that being here tonight is very much like viewing history in the making. Quite aside from their stations, given who they are it’s difficult to view this alliance as anything but major.”