The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,2
were broad, although not as strikingly broad as Ryder’s, and his frame was long and tended more to the lean than Ryder’s did, but then Ryder was taller by several inches, so the impressive breadth of his chest was in proportion. Randolph was entirely in proportion, too—just on a more mundane, less godlike scale.
That, Mary inwardly admitted, more or less summed up the difference between the half brothers. Not just between Ryder and Randolph, but also Randolph’s younger brothers, Christopher—Kit—and Godfrey. Ryder was the only child from his father’s first marriage; Randolph, Kit, and Godfrey were the sons of the late marquess’s second wife, Lavinia. There was a sister, too—Eustacia, known as Stacie. Mary knew them all socially, but not well; she had yet to learn all she wished given she intended to marry into the family.
She was impatient to get on, to move forward with her campaign to convince Randolph to offer for her hand. She’d spent the earlier months of this Season determinedly examining all the potential gentlemen; once she’d realized Randolph matched her requirements perfectly, she’d turned her attention to poking and prodding her older sister Henrietta into wearing the necklace a Scottish deity known as The Lady had gifted to the Cynster sisters. The Lady was connected to the family via Catriona, the wife of Mary’s cousin Richard. Catriona was a principal, and apparently well-favored, priestess of the deity. Through Catriona, The Lady had decreed that successive Cynster female cousins should wear the necklace to assist them in finding their true heroes. As a group, they’d long ago defined their “one true hero” as the man who would sweep them off their feet into love and wedded bliss. Although initially all had been skeptical of the necklace’s power, it had wrought its magic, first for Heather, then Eliza, then Angelica, and even though she’d persisted in not believing in it at all, most recently for Henrietta.
The necklace of amethyst beads and gold links from which a tapered rose quartz pendant hung had been passed on to Mary; it now circled her neck, the crystal pendant warm between her breasts.
And she believed—with all her heart and considerable will believed—that it would work for her.
But to help matters along, she’d already done her homework, studied the field, and identified Randolph Cavanaugh as her one—the perfect husband for her. All she really needed the necklace to do was to confirm her choice.
She’d received the necklace two nights ago, just before Henrietta’s engagement ball; Henrietta had clasped it about Mary’s throat and she’d been wearing it ever since. The previous evening had been the first opportunity she’d had to speak with Randolph while wearing the necklace; they’d both attended Lady Cornwallis’s soiree, but while she’d spent more than half an hour in the same circle as Randolph, chatting and conversing, she, at least, had sensed . . . nothing specific.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but from all she’d absorbed from her cousins and Henrietta the necklace didn’t actively do anything. It was more in the nature of a catalyst; wearing it would ensure her true hero appeared before her, but she couldn’t count on more help than that. Couldn’t count on any definite sign.
So she was going to have to spend more time with Randolph. If he was indeed her true hero, her undisputed one, then . . . something should happen. Something should ignite.
She shifted, casting her gaze wider, evaluating the ways of approaching him. “How best to do it?” she whispered.
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 effortlessly 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.