The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,24
unheard of, yet previously that interest had never to her knowledge been sufficient to move him to attend an event such as this. From the interrogatory glances leveled at him, no other lady had seen him—lion that he was—at such an event before, either.
A tingling sensation feathered across her nape and slid over the back of her shoulders.
As Ryder himself had pointed out, this type of event held at this time of the Season was expressly designed to promote further connection between those contemplating matrimony, witness the large number of young couples scattered about the room interacting under the watchful eye of chaperons. Consequently, the appearance of a gentleman of Ryder’s status at such an event would be interpreted as a declaration that he was hunting—not for a paramour but for a bride.
The music swelled to a crescendo. Her lungs slowly seized. Barely moving her head, she glanced at Ryder. Gracefully relaxed alongside her, he was fully absorbed in the music.
Fleetingly, she studied his face—the sculpted lines, the undeniable male beauty that in no way disguised the strength and potent power behind the façade—then looked forward again and drew a tight breath.
Nowhere near deep enough to steady her suddenly giddy head.
He was there, and had stayed, for the music.
What else?
The nervous flutter in her chest, in her stomach, was patently ridiculous. There was, she sternly lectured herself, no reason for such a reaction; it wasn’t as if he’d done anything to make her feel . . .
He was there, by her side, large as life.
She mentally shook aside the ludicrous notion that, courtesy of the other ladies’ visual speculation, had inserted itself into her brain.
Grimly determined to conceal her sudden and quite nonsensical susceptibility, she forced herself to listen to the last of the last sonata; when it ended, she applauded as earnestly as anyone else, smiling delightedly as with the rest of the audience she rose to her feet to deliver a standing ovation.
As the applause faded, Lady Hopetoun thanked the players, then everyone clapped once more. As the final round died, everyone turned to find their parties.
Keeping her delighted smile fixed on her face, she glibly took her leave of Ryder, very correctly thanking him for his company, then, faster than she ever had before, made her way to the safety of her chaperon’s side.
His shoulders propped against the last column of the Hopetoun House porch, Ryder hung back in the gloom and listened to the exchange between Mary and Amanda. The pair had walked out of the front door, crossed the porch, and halted on the steps leading down to the street. Other guests streamed past them, leaving in twos and threes, all equally oblivious of him standing silently in the shadows out of their immediate line of sight.
Mary shook out her silk shawl, then resettled it over her largely bare shoulders. “We’ve got both carriages here—there’s no need for you to follow me to Upper Brook Street. I’ll have John Coachman and our footman—I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Yes, well.” Amanda checked her shawl and reticule. “I suppose that’s true, and it isn’t any great distance from here to there.”
“And Park Lane is even closer.” Mary leaned over and bussed Amanda’s cheek. “Thank you for coming and watching over me—I know you wouldn’t have attended otherwise. And don’t worry about Ryder—as I said, he was just interested in the music. I certainly don’t expect to find him dancing attendance on me.”
“Hmm . . . perhaps, but remember what I said. He’s a deep one. Don’t underestimate him.”
Shrouded in shadow, Ryder grinned.
The sisters parted, going down the steps to where their respective carriages waited. He watched as they were handed up by their footmen, then the doors were shut, and first Amanda’s carriage, followed by the carriage carrying Mary, pulled out into the stream of fashionable coaches rumbling slowly westward.
Once Mary’s carriage had disappeared around the bend in Hill Street, Ryder set his hat on his head and, cane swinging in one hand, emerged from the shadows; joining the still steady stream of departing guests, he descended to the pavement and, with polite nods to this lady and that, walked off along the street.
He rarely used a carriage in Mayfair; his long strides ate the distances easily enough, and the relative silence of the night, punctuated though it was by the familiar rattle of passing coaches, was nevertheless soothing. Certainly after an evening spent with others, in the usual cacophony of social events.