The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,13
gentlemanly thing to do, Randolph halted his backward drift but, if anything, looked even more hunted. “I suppose . . . if you really want to—need to—get some air, then . . .”
For a fleeting instant, hope bloomed.
Randolph raised his gaze and looked around. “Perhaps we can find someone to walk with you.”
Mary dragged in a breath. Held it. Spoke through her teeth. “Randolph—”
“Aha!” Randolph’s eyes lit. “Just the person!” His heartfelt “Thank God” didn’t need to be said; his expression relaxed as he looked past her. “Miss Cynster’s feeling faint—she needs some air.”
Mary’s eyes widened as her suddenly jangling senses informed her just who had materialized behind her left shoulder.
“Indeed?” rumbled a deep drawl she recognized only too well. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
Turning her head, she looked up, up, into Ryder’s handsome face. She met his eyes, read the amusement therein, and hung on to her temper. “Good evening, Ryder.”
“Mary.”
His eyes, a crystal medley of intense greens and browns, held her gaze . . . and as had happened the previous evening he seemed to effortlessly snare her senses so that the rest of the world fell away. . . .
Abruptly blinking free of his spell, she tartly stated, “Randolph and I were—”
She glanced at Randolph, only to discover him already gone; all she could see was the back of his head as he cleaved his way through the increasingly dense crowd, hurrying up the ballroom to the safety of his friends.
Ryder murmured, “I did warn you.”
She was still staring after Rand, but he heard a distinct humph.
He allowed her a moment to stew on her failure. Despite his focus on her, on his pursuit of her, he’d arrived at Castlemaine House late, as gentlemen of his ilk normally would; he had no wish to alert anyone to his novel direction. As with Lavinia the previous night, if he adhered to his normal practices, all would assume, or could easily be led to believe, that he was merely looking for his next lover.
Rather than his wife.
Given he now knew that he could play on Mary’s senses, that she was susceptible and, even more enticing, wanted to play at resisting, one part of him had been eager to reengage with her, yet he’d recognized the wisdom of a strategic delay; as he hadn’t been present when she’d arrived, he’d run no risk of being tempted to monopolize her from the instant she’d appeared.
That would have alerted too many observers, at least to the point of raising questions he would rather never surfaced.
If the grandes dames got the slightest glimpse of his true intent . . . well, given his eye had settled on Mary, the grandes dames most likely wouldn’t interfere, but his primary motivation for embarking on his search for a bride at the unexpectedly young, at least for such as him, age of thirty had been to remain free to choose and pursue the lady of his choice without the entire female half of the ton insisting on assisting him with that choice.
In society’s collective mind, at thirty he was yet too young to have accepted the need to marry and sire an heir, but after a few more years, every grande dame would have turned her lorgnettes on him; he’d seen the value in undertaking a preemptive covert mission, so to speak.
Given his promise to his father, he was slated to marry anyway; giving up a few years of his bachelor existence—an existence that had grown rather wearying of late—seemed a small price to pay for the freedom of making his own choice, of directing his own hunt.
Especially for the position of his marchioness, a person he regarded as critical to his future.
To the future he was determined to have.
Attuned to Mary as he now was—as his quarry, she was the cynosure of his senses—he knew when she reached the point of turning away from Rand and moving on. Physically, at least.
Her face was a study in disillusioned disappointment.
“Come on.” He offered his arm. “You probably genuinely could do with some air now.”
She humphed, but in disgruntled resignation rather than disagreement, and consented to lay her hand on his sleeve. Even that light touch he felt to his marrow.
“Actually,” she said, as he turned her to the French doors, “I truly did want to stroll outside. It’s quite cloying in here.”
“No fan?” He held aside the filmy curtains and angled her through the door onto the flags.