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

Instantly, she was aware of Ryder leaning closer, trying to catch her words. She ruthlessly stifled the impulse—the nearly overwhelming urge—to glance his way; he was now so close that if she did she would almost certainly find herself staring into his mesmerizing green and gold eyes, with his wicked lips and sinful smile only inches away. . . .

She could feel him as a warmth, a temptingly seductive sensation, all down her right side. Alluring, sensual, wickedly so, his presence held an indefinable promise that ef

fortlessly attracted the female of the species; she’d long been of the opinion he’d been born with that particular brand of sensual charm oozing from his pores.

It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the effect, didn’t recognize the tug for what it was, didn’t react, but rather that she’d realized long ago that permitting her reaction to any male to show—whatever that reaction was—left him in charge, not her.

She’d long ago decided to forever remain in charge, most especially of herself.

With all the handsome and innately domineering males in her family, she’d had a lifetime of lessons on how such men behaved, how they reacted to signs of susceptibility on a lady’s part, and what those telltale signs were.

She’d worked to eradicate them from her repertoire of instinctive reactions.

So while she felt Ryder’s attraction as intensely as any lady, she gave him no reason to think he’d made any impression on her at all.

It wasn’t his attention she wanted but Randolph’s, and tonight she was determined to get it. She’d donned a new cornflower blue silk gown, which matched her eyes and also brought out the deep purple-blue of the amethyst beads.

Randolph. She focused on him. But while she could fix her gaze on him easily enough, the rest of her senses were slow to follow suit.

Damn Ryder. With him so close, no matter how she hid it, her wayward senses remained much more interested in him than in Randolph. Sensually speaking, while handsome, well-built, and in all physical respects highly attractive, Randolph nevertheless paled into insignificance when compared to his older half brother. There was not a woman in the ton—or out of it—who would not cede Ryder his own pedestal in the Hall of Superbly Handsome, Outrageously Attractive Men.

But handsome was as handsome did, and, put simply, Ryder was too handsome, more, too attractive on all levels and in all ways, for his own or anyone else’s good.

Especially not for hers. She held no illusions regarding her own strength; Ryder possessed a will stronger than hers. She would never be able to manage him; no woman ever would.

Randolph, on the other hand, was entirely within her scope; he would suit her very well.

“At the risk of having you bite off my head,” Ryder murmured from beside her, “just how do you envision convincing Rand that you are the lady for him?”

Ryder could hear movement in the gallery above their heads; with any luck, the musicians had arrived and would soon be putting bow to string. All he had to do to further his present cause was to keep Mary with him until they did.

Slowly she turned her head, just enough to bend on him what she no doubt imagined was a blackly discouraging gaze. She had a lot to learn; he would have been more discouraged if she’d smiled sweetly. Her resistance lured him as little else might; to one with an appetite as jaded as his, novelty was enthralling. However, in keeping with his aim to delay her departure from his side, he said nothing more but waited for her response with the infinite patience of the experienced hunter he was.

Her darkling gaze converted to a black frown. “I cannot imagine why that should be any concern of yours.”

He opened his eyes wide. “I would have thought that was obvious—Rand is my younger brother, after all.”

“Half brother.” Tipping up her nose, she looked across the room at Rand again. “Admittedly, he’s nothing like you, but I can’t see why you should imagine he needs his older brother to shield him from such as I.”

His lips twitched. “Impertinent chit.” But she’d hit the nail very much on the head; she’d set her sights on his innocent younger brother and he did, indeed, feel protective. A lady like her would scare the breeches off Rand, at least at his current age.

That Ryder’s protective impulses were presently aligned with his personal agenda was pure luck. Or, as most often occurred with him, a helpful twist of fate.

Eyes still on Rand, Mary lifted one delicate shoulder. “I am as I am, and what I am can hardly be construed as any threat to Randolph.”

“That depends very much on one’s point of view.”

She shot him another dagger glance, but before she could speak, a raucous screech from above was promptly followed by the teasing lilt of the introduction to a waltz.

Perfect.

Before she had time to react, let alone escape, Ryder stepped out of the shadow of the overhang into the bright lights of Lady Felsham’s crystal chandeliers and swept Mary a bow he made damn sure was magnificent. Extending his hand, he met her widening eyes. “Permit me to beg the honor of this dance.”

Her gaze grew a touch wild and—yes—faintly horrified. He was watching intently so knew when she realized what would happen when he had her in his arms; she wouldn’t be able to smother her response to him—the instinctive, innate response he knew, simply knew, she’d been suppressing.

Her gaze fell to his hand, then rose to his eyes. “No.”

He smiled. Intently. “I’m sure you can see the sense in not causing a scene and focusing the attention of every last grande dame present on us. After all”—he arched one brow—“what possible excuse could you have for refusing to dance with me?”