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

do, why aren’t he and his friends attending tonight?” She glanced swiftly, but comprehensively, around. “I’m sure their mothers would have wished them to. Just look at all the young ladies and their mamas and sponsors—and there’s a good showing of other younger-than-you gentlemen, too.”

“Most of whom, if you look more closely, are a year or so younger than Rand and his set.”

She had noticed that. As, frowning slightly, she considered the guests again, Ryder continued, answering the question that was forming in her mind, “I suspect that last night Rand and his cronies reached the point of actually looking into the chasm yawning at their feet.”

“And them not being here is them stepping back?” She glanced at Ryder.

His lips twisted lightly, not so much mockingly as in understanding, both of his brother and her, too. “I believe you would be correct in interpreting their absence as a declaration of sorts.”

Somewhat to her surprise, she felt nothing more than resigned acceptance. “Well, in one sense that’s made my way forward clearer.” She met his eyes, slightly narrowed hers in warning. “As much as it pains me to acknowledge your prescience, clearly your brother is not the gentleman for me.”

Ryder fought to keep his smile within bounds. “So glad we have that established.”

“Yes, well.” Swinging to face the room, Mary stated, “So now I must move on.”

Ryder blinked and promptly moved with her as she matched action to her words. “Ah . . . where to, exactly?”

“To further assess the gentlemen of the ton to discover the right gentleman for me, of course.”

“I . . . see.” He trailed her to a row of chairs halfway down the room, then followed on her heels down the row until she drew in her skirts, swung around and sat, then he claimed the chair alongside hers.

As the musicians played a brief introductory piece, effectively summoning the guests to their seats, she cast him a sidelong glance. “Still keeping an eye on me?”

He held her gaze for an instant, then, as the bulk of the guests settled and conversations abated, he smiled, leaned back, and, still holding her gaze, murmured, “In a manner of speaking.”

She humphed and pointedly gave her attention to the musicians.

Across the room, sinking onto a chair alongside Lavinia, Lady Carmody frowned. Under cover of the swelling music, she leaned closer to Lavinia and tugged her sleeve. “I say! What is your stepson doing here? And why is he conversing with Mary Cynster?” Lady Carmody glanced around. “And where is Lord Randolph?”

Lavinia, now also studying the surprising pair across and further down the room, as were a great many other ladies, replied without turning her head; the strain in her voice suggested that she was speaking through clenched teeth while struggling not to scream. “All excellent questions. To none of which I have an answer.”

After a moment, Lavinia swung her gaze forward, then ducked her head and hissed to Lady Carmody, “I told Randolph to be here!”

“Yes, well.” Lady Carmody tried for a placating tone. “Boys will be boys, I suppose.”

Lavinia faced the dais, but the music had no power to hold her; her attention slid, again and again, to her stepson’s tawny head, to his broad shoulders, to the way both shifted as, time and again, he and Mary Cynster exchanged comments. “The last thing I need,” she gritted out, so low that only Lady Carmody could hear, “is for Ryder to turn the silly chit’s head.”

Lady Carmody considered, then opined, “I seriously doubt even he could turn Miss Cynster from her chosen path, and really, he can’t be serious about seducing her, can he? Quite aside from him knowing better—that he can’t without causing a massive scandal—she’s not at all his type.”

Lavinia frowned. “That’s true.” She cast another glance at her infernal stepson. “But why is he here?”

Lady Carmody shrugged and settled to enjoy the music. “Perhaps he’s simply bored and happens to like music.”

Continuing to frown, Lavinia made no reply.

Presumably he’s bored and just happens to like music—and he’s comfortable with me and, moreover, knows I’m not imagining snaring him. Mary settled on that as the most likely reason behind Ryder remaining by her side. Indeed, that reasoning made her inwardly smile. He feels safe with me.

The notion of one of the ton’s most dangerous gentlemen hiding behind her skirts was one to relish.

As the recital continued, she found herself not only enjoying the music but discussing it as well—having a sensible and intelligent conversation covering such topics as the combination of instruments best able to render each piece, the selection of works, the acoustics of the room, and that the increasing temperature would doubtless soon necessitate a retuning session—with Ryder.

While she knew enough to match his interest on most aspects, the retuning was something she’d never understood, but in that he was proved correct.

The more they chatted, the more she relaxed—and the more she enjoyed.

Ryder seemed intent on nothing more than appreciating the music and sharing the moment with her in a totally unexceptionable way. During the intermission, they wandered into the refreshment salon, still talking—animatedly arguing the merits of a horn section over additional woodwinds—then, when summoned, returned to the music room and resumed their seats for the second and longer part of the performance.

So absorbed in the moment was she—so anchored in the web created by the combination of the unexpectedly stimulating interaction with Ryder and the truly quite excellent music—that it was only toward the very end of the performance that the covertly inquisitive glances directed Ryder’s way from all corners of the room truly registered.