The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,32
away his patrimony before he’d reached the age of twenty-five and had subsequently been living off a succession of well-born mistresses.
Although his usual targets were widows rather older than Mary, Francome wasn’t the sort to balk at seducing a young innocent in pursuit of a fortune.
That said, he had to be desperate to try for a Cynster.
Francome knew all the ways; he’d engaged Mary so that she’d turned slightly, and he and she were now speaking semiprivately despite still being within the circle. Looming as close as he dared, Ryder eavesdropped on their exchanges, but Francome was toeing the line, carefully avoiding any subject or suggestion that might trigger Mary’s suspicions.
Then the damned musicians started playing again.
Mary raised her head, confirmed that it was to be another waltz, then angled an encouraging look at the intriguing Mr. Francome. She had met him before, but only in passing at some ball or other; she hadn’t previously had occasion to converse with him, and he was certainly more interesting than the younger gentlemen she’d assessed.
Perhaps she needed to widen her net?
Francome smiled; his brown eyes danced invitingly. “I would ask you to waltz, Miss Cynster, but it’s become such a crush I wonder if, instead, you would prefer to take a stroll on the terrace?”
They were standing mere yards from a pair of French doors left open to a paved and balustered expanse and the balmy summer night beyond. Glancing at the couples already strolling in the moonlight, Mary was seized with a sudden yearning for fresh air. “Thank you. I would.” She looked eagerly at Francome, and gallantly he offered his arm. She reached out to lay her hand on his sleeve—
A large male hand closed over hers, preventing the contact.
Surprised—indeed, shocked—she looked up at Ryder. The last she’d seen he’d been speaking to the lady on his other side. Her weak “What are you doing?” was drowned out by his forceful and deadly “I think not.”
She stared at him; he wasn’t speaking to her but to Francome. Ryder’s face was harder than she’d ever seen it; carved granite would have been softer. As for his eyes, they were locked on Francome’s face.
If looks could kill . . .
Suddenly breathless, she looked at Francome. He was staring at Ryder.
As she watched, Francome paled, swallowed, then, lowering his arm, rather more quietly and with a great deal less of his until then charming bonhomie, said, “I didn’t realize . . .”
With something of an effort, Francome wrenched his gaze from Ryder’s and looked at her, then his eyes narrowed. “But perhaps—”
“Think again.” Ryder’s voice remained hard, his tone laden with menace—enough to have Francome immediately look back at him.
After a second’s pause, Ryder went on, “Most especially think about how lucky you are that I am not one of her cousins.”
Looking from one to the other, Mary glanced at Ryder as, his features easing not at all, he said, “How much are you willing to wager on that?”
She gritted her teeth; there was nothing like being treated like a bone by two dogs to send her temper soaring. She drew in a huge breath. “Ryder—”
Francome spoke over her. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cynster, I believe I’ve been summoned elsewhere.”
She blinked. “I . . . see.”
With a brief bow, not meeting her eyes but, as he straightened, exchanging a much longer glance with Ryder, Francome turned and took himself off, rapidly disappearing into the crowd.
Mary watched him go, then rounded on Ryder—and caught a glimpse of the faces of the others in their circle.
Everyone had heard, or at least seen, the exchange, even though they were pretending they hadn’t, but what struck her forcibly was the lack of surprise.
Their acceptance of Ryder’s actions . . . like a kaleidoscope, phrases, looks, fragments of memory shifted and swung, realigned—and fell into place.
And she suddenly saw what had been happening.
Over the last three nights, in front of her unsuspecting eyes.
Raising those now opened eyes to Ryder’s face, she stared at him. He looked blandly back at her; even as she watched, his expression eased the last little way back into his customary affable mien.
Nothing like it had been a few seconds before.
His gaze lowered to her hand, which he still held in a firm, but not crushing, grip. Slowly, as if he had to force his long fingers to uncurl, he eased his hold and released her.