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

Drawing in a portentous breath, holding his gaze, she crisply stated, “I am not mistaken.”

“Permit me to disagree.”

“No! You cannot disagree!” Good God, no, he couldn’t. Not him of all men . . . she suddenly felt giddy. “This can’t be happening.”

All he did was open his eyes wider, as if she was still amusing him.

“Arrgh!” She poked her still raised finger into his chest. It was like stabbing rock. “Answer me this then, properly this time. What the devil do you think you’re about?” She flung her arms wide. “What on earth do you think to gain with this peculiar campaign of yours?”

“You. As my bride. As my marchioness.” Ryder was only too ready to drop all pretense. Aside from all else, she’d seen too much in his fraught exchange with Francome; there was no point in further dissembling.

Arms slowly lowering, she stared at him, utterly shocked. Then, very slowly, as if only just reteaching herself how to, she shook her head. “No. That is not going to happen.”

He sighed, the sound clearly conveying his lack of faith in her assessment, then asked in the tone of one humoring another, “And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to marry you.”

“So you say at this point—which merely means I’ll have to exert myself to change your mind.”

She stared up at him for several moments, then, in a tone to mirror his, asked almost conversationally, “Do you know how many people have tried to change my mind about something and given up in abject defeat?”

“I had heard. Your reputation precedes you.”

Tilting her head, she studied him, then asked, “If you know so much about me, about my character, why do you want to marry me?”

And that was the truly critical question. The one he couldn’t answer, for the simple reason he wasn’t sure of the truth himself. Dropping his gaze, he adjusted one sleeve. “Because, contrary to your current belief, we will suit very well, you and I.” Raising his eyes to hers, he went on, “There’s no reason I can see for you to resist, but I feel honor-bound to point out that resistance, in this case, isn’t likely to discourage me.” He held her gaze. “I already know you too well.”

That got her tipping her nose in the air. “You understand nothing about me if you believe considerations of that nature are likely to sway me.”

He could have argued the point, but instead grasped the chance to ask, “What is important to you then?”

“Independence. Being in charge—of my own life, certainly, but also those about me. The freedom to act as I choose without forever having to gain a husband’s consent.”

The answers had come so instantly that, given the fervor in her tone and the defiant tilt of her chin, he could not doubt those aspects were critical to her.

Her gaze locked with his. “And you should bear in mind that, regardless of what you might try to tell me, I know your kind. You’re a despot—a genial, amiable, caring one maybe, but a despot all the same.”

He couldn’t argue that, yet . . . holding her gaze, he studied her, considered, then more softly said, “Has it never occurred to you that even despots might be willing to . . . shall we say, find ways to accommodate a lady, a specific, independent, strong-willed, intelligent, and willful lady, who they want as their bride?”

The thought . . . Mary suddenly felt like Randolph and his friends must have, abruptly staring down into a chasm that had unexpectedly opened at their feet. Searching Ryder’s hazel eyes, something very like vertigo se

nt her thoughts, all her previous certainties, spinning . . . “I . . .”

“Don’t know what to say?” He lightly shrugged. “At this point, you don’t have to say anything.”

A general movement of couples back into the ballroom had them both glancing along the terrace; it appeared the ball was winding down.

“We should go in.” She inwardly acknowledged a craven desire to bring this astonishing conversation to an end—before she did something truly silly, like ask him what accommodations—

No. That way lay temptation of a kind she wasn’t yet prepared to face.

She knew what he was, and he hadn’t sought to deny it. Not that denial would have done any good . . .

Instead, he’d offered her something she’d never imagined might exist, a novel option, a chance to seize something she hadn’t known could ever be there to be grasped.

She drew in a breath. Temptation, indeed, and he was intelligent enough, insightful enough, to have guessed how much it would appeal to her.

Which only made him even more dangerous—to her, to her future, to her peace of mind.