The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,25

Mews, as the night enveloped him in its dark and its peace, he strode along easily, neither hurrying nor idling. He didn’t direct his mind to any particular track but allowed it to wander over the last hours, observing and noting as it would.

The impulse that had moved him to wait on the porch until he saw Mary safely on her way home was . . . interesting. He’d never felt such a compulsion before, not even with those ladies with whom he’d shared a bed. Presumably it was an expression, a natural enough one, of how he saw Mary, an upshot of the role in which he’d cast her.

Brows faintly rising, he considered the matter but saw nothing to be alarmed at; he was who and what he was, and as he now viewed her as his marchioness, such impulses were to be expected.

Also intriguing was the sudden awareness that had swamped her right at the end of the evening. Until then she’d been conversing freely, without thought or restraining consideration, but she’d suddenly become aware—he assumed because of the myriad speculative glances thrown his way by other ladies—that his presence by her side required explanation.

He’d wondered what she would make of it. In her exchange with Amanda, she’d stated her conclusion plainly enough, but . . . did she truly believe he’d remained by her side solely because of his—admittedly genuine—enjoyment of the music?

Reaching the end of Hayes Mews, he turned left into Farm Street. Smiling to himself and swinging his cane, he crossed the cobbled street and walked on to the opening of the alley that was his habitual shortcut to his home in Mount Street when returning from the southern section of Mayfair.

At this time of night, even in this bastion of the haut ton most law-abiding citizens would avoid the narrow alleys, but he strolled on without concern; not only did his size deter most would-be assailants but should they nevertheless make a try for him, the rapier concealed in his cane provided a more potent discouragement.

He knew how to use it, and no one his size survived Eton without learning all there was to know about fisticuffs, and even more to the point, outright brawling.

In truth, there was little he feared in life, not as pertained to his physical person. There was little that might effectively threaten him, not physically, but he’d come to understand that there were other threats in life, many potentially more damaging, holding much greater risk of true loss than anything on the physical plane.

Those threats were not ones he was constitutionally comfortable debating, not even with himself, but they largely arose from the issues that, having attained the age of thirty, he’d decided it was time to address.

Before they turned and bit him.

The alley narrowed for the last ten yards, the gap between the walls only just sufficient to allow him to walk freely through. Emerging from the dimness into the more affluent and commensurately well-lit ambiance of Mount Street, he turned left, walked several yards, then angled across the cobbles to the opposite pavement, stepping onto it a few paces short of the steps leading up to his own front door.

He let himself in with his latchkey. Stepping over the threshold into the lamp-lit splendor of the foyer, he was unsurprised to see his butler, Pemberly, come striding forward from the nether regions, eager to take his hat and cane. Pemberly had been butler to his father, and like the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and several other members of his staff, had been constants in Ryder’s life.

“Welcome home, my lord. I trust the evening went well?”

“Yes, indeed.” Ryder dutifully surrendered hat and cane. “If anything, better than I’d hoped.” He’d gone to Lady Hopetoun’s assuming Rand would be present; Rand’s absence and Mary’s consequent acceptance that Rand was not her future husband had simplified matters, without any effort from Ryder effectively clearing his path, and the subsequent time interacting with Mary had advanced his campaign further than he’d anticipated.

So what next?

“Will you be going out again, my lord?” Pemberly inquired.

To another ball, to a club or hell, or to some lady’s bed . . . Ryder shook his head. “No. You can lock up.” He started toward the corridor that led deeper into the huge house. “I’ll be in the library for a while, then I’ll be going up to bed.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ll tell Collier.”

Ryder nodded. Collier had been his father’s valet but had been too young