The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,21

and rose. “I have to hurry.” She met Mary’s eyes. “Be good and take care.”

Mary laughed and waved her off. “Just go!”

Henrietta whirled and went.

Left to her own amusements, Mary took her time savoring her tea, then ate a second slice of toast and jam.

While she considered just where her plan to find her hero currently stood.

Her instinctive reaction to Ryder’s interference was to redouble her efforts and even more adamantly forge ahead on her predetermined path, to cling even more tenaciously to her direction. But she was growing too old to react thus blindly to opposition; she hoped she was growing wise enough to acknowledge that sometimes she might not be entirely correct in her assumptions.

And, in truth, it wasn’t Ryder’s behavior the previous night that was leading her to question her until-now unwavering certainty but Randolph’s. He’d all but pushed her into Ryder’s arms and run away.

Definitely not hero-worthy behavior.

The more she dwelled on that moment, the less amused she was.

Setting down her teacup, she looked down at her chest—at the necklace visible above the scooped neckline of her pale blue morning gown. The rose quartz pendant dangling between her breasts wasn’t visible, but she could feel it, sense its weight.

If, now you’re wearing the necklace, you don’t feel something special for this mystery gentleman of yours, if he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off, then please, promise me you’ll listen to The Lady’s advice.

Her cousin Angelica’s words, uttered at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball—the first evening she’d worn the necklace. Of all her cousins, Angelica, also the youngest of one branch of the family, was most like Mary in temperament; everyone acknowledged that. The necklace had worked for Angelica, and Mary still believed it would work for her.

But with Randolph she’d felt nothing beyond exasperation arising out of frustrated expectations.

That didn’t necessarily mean that Randolph was not her one true hero, but he certainly wasn’t now, and, it seemed, might not attain that status for years. . . .

One hand rising to trace the necklace, she whispered, “I’m not going to wait years, and that with no guarantee.” After several moments of thinking, of absentmindedly tapping a fingernail against one of the amethyst beads, she grimaced and lowered her hand. “I have to accept that Randolph might not be my hero. I can use tonight’s musicale—at which Ryder will definitely not appear, thank God—to test Randolph one last time, and then, if, as seems likely, he fails to meet my standards, I will start to look about me for my true hero.”

Who was proving damnably reticent over coming forward and presenting himself.

If he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, or get under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .

The latter description might have applied to Ryder, who, now she thought of it, was the first gentleman she’d actually interacted with after Henrietta had clasped the necklace about her throat, but last night he had, directly and openly, confirmed her supposition as to why he was pursuing her, and no great stretch was required to imagine that he might, indeed, feel protective of Randolph to the extent of acting as he had. Ryder was the head of his house, his family as old as the Cynsters, and she understood the protective impulses that accrued to that station; he would without a second thought act to protect any he considered in his care. Like his younger half brother.

So there was no reason to imagine Ryder might be her hero—and many, many reasons to be certain he was not.

Not least the fact that they were so much alike in character and temperament, the principal differences, aside from their genders, being that he was older, infinitely more experienced, and consequently stronger.

She wrinkled her nose. No, the truth was he was inherently stronger; she wouldn’t allow herself to be so foolish as to not recognize and acknowledge that. But for a lady who intended to be in charge of her own life, Ryder was assuredly the antithesis of her hero.

Which meant the damn man hadn’t yet made an appearance.

With one last, faintly bothered glance at the necklace, she set aside her napkin, rose, and headed for the breakfast parlor door.

At least tonight she could be assured of not having to deal with the distraction, the sensual discombobulation, of Ryder’s interference. Musicales such as Lady Hopetoun’s were the province of the matchmakers,