The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,26
to retire on his father’s death. Although Ryder didn’t need anyone’s help to dress, much less undress, and he didn’t actually like having anyone so personally close, he permitted Collier’s ministrations; the man had been devoted to his father, and especially helpful through the old man’s last days. Ryder’s current push was to insist that everyone in the household replace the outmoded label “valet” with the more modern “gentleman’s gentleman.” Thus far, it had proved a battle, but it was one he was determined to win.
Reaching the library, he went in. Closing the door, he paused, letting the comforting, welcoming atmosphere of the room—the one he spent most time in and, courtesy of all the hours the pair of them had spent there, also most associated with his father—embrace him, then, with a sigh, one of pleased satisfaction more than anything else, he strolled to the massive fireplace midway down the long room.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes covered every wall, broken only by the twin doors, the fireplace, and the three long windows facing it. With the long velvet curtains drawn tight against the night, the only light came from a lamp left burning on a low table beside one of the twin sofas angled before the hearth, and the leaping flames from a small but cheery fire burning in the grate. The resulting pulsing, golden glow gleamed fitfully off the polished wood, gently winked from the gold lettering on the books’ spines, and softly caressed the dark brown leather of the sofas and chairs set about the room.
Ignoring the large desk at the far end of the room, Ryder paused beside the fireplace. From the end of the marble mantelpiece, he lifted a stack of cards—all the invitations he’d received for the coming days.
As was his habit, he removed that evening’s cards from the top of the pile and tossed them into the flames. Separating out the invitations for the following evening, he returned the rest to the top of the mantelpiece, then walked to the lighted lamp. Fanning the cards for tomorrow night’s events in one hand, he studied them in the lamplight.
This evening, Mary had started to question his motives, had started to wonder. Even if she managed to convince herself that he’d remained at Lady Hopetoun’s for the music, that conviction wouldn’t last long. If he was any judge of such things, and he was, then the time was fast approaching when she would confront him over his intentions, and he and she would have the matter out.
Anticipation welled. His lips curved.
When, exactly, that discussion would take place wasn’t something he could dictate, yet he was certain he could leave initiating said discussion—one he and she had to have—to her. She would raise the matter when she was ready, which was fine by him; he wouldn’t have to trouble himself over trying to guess when she reached that point—he felt confident he could rely on her to tell him.
Lips curving more definitely, he considered the events the haut ton was slated to enjoy the following evening.
As matters stood, he didn’t need to do anything beyond religiously appearing at Mary’s side at whichever evening events she attended. All he needed to do to advance his campaign to the next stage was to be there, and she would do the rest—would create for him the perfect opportunity to make his intentions crystal clear.
Selecting one ivory card from the seven in his hand, he reread the inscription and nodded. “This one.” Tapping the card on his thumb, he murmured, “That’s where she’ll be tomorrow night. At Lady Bracewell’s ball.”
Chapter Four
What, by all that’s holy, is Ryder up to?
The next morning, over her tea and toast, Mary pondered that question with steadily mounting aggravation.
For what seemed the umpteenth time, she replayed their conversations over the past three evenings; she’d asked him, twice, what he was about, and on both occasions . . . he hadn’t exactly answered.
But when he’d challenged her to tell him what she thought his motives were, and she’d laid them out in neat and concise order, he’d agreed she was correct—yet he’d spent the previous evening by her side at a venue where a gentleman of his age should not have appeared unless matrimonially inclined. Although she could have excused his being there on the grounds of protecting Randolph from her, why, once he’d realized Randolph wasn’t there, which he had known even before she’d arrived, had Ryder stayed?