The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,35

words he hadn’t said, then she sniffed and elevated her nose.

Content enough, he handed her over the threshold, and at her direction escorted her to where Amelia was rising from a chaise, shaking out her skirts and gathering her shawl, preparing to depart.

Leaving Mary with her sister, he didn’t dally but quickly left the ballroom; better that any interested observers thought nothing specific had come of that interlude on the terrace, and that he was heading off supremely unconcerned as to Mary’s passage home.

Allowing his protective instincts to show at this point would, he felt certain, be counterproductive. And she was safe enough with Amelia.

From the corner by the terrace windows, Lavinia watched her stepson quit the ballroom—and presumably Bracewell House—without a backward glance. Eyes narrowing, she swung around and focused on Mary Cynster. “I don’t believe it! How dare that dastardly knave try to poach the young lady I’ve selected for Randolph?”

Alongside Lavinia, Claude Potherby, an old friend and Lavinia’s escort that evening, was engaged in shaking out and refolding his lace handkerchief. “Now, now, my sweet. There’s really no reason to get so het-up. As you haven’t informed your stepson of your plans for dear Randolph and so can hardly accuse Raventhorne of intentionally interfering, perhaps you should view his interest in the young lady as confirmation of your astuteness in choosing her for your son.”

Lavinia scowled at Potherby. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care what Ryder thinks.”

Potherby glanced at Mary, presently walking beside Amelia toward the ballroom steps. “Regardless, from all I can see your stepson’s agency met with little success. The young lady does not appear enamored.”

“Mary Cynster has too much sense to tangle with Ryder. He’s too much a hedonist for any sane lady’s taste.” Lavinia waved dismissively, then rearranged her shawl, preparing to join the stream of departing guests. Potherby gallantly offered his arm. Lavinia took it, then leaned closer to whisper, “But you’re right. There’s no reason I need to worry about Ryder. It won’t be he who fronts an altar soon, at least not with Mary Cynster by his side.”

Potherby’s smile was both wry and cynical. “Of course not, my dear. Perish the thought. Your plans will doubtless succeed wonderfully. How could they not?”

As she had with Amanda at Hopetoun House, Mary parted from Amelia on Lady Bracewell’s steps and climbed into her parents’ town carriage. As the footman, Peter, shut the door, she lowered the window, leaned out, and waved to Amelia as her sister, about to be handed into the Calverton carriage further along the line of carriages drawn up at the curb, looked back to check on her.

Satisfied, Amelia waved back, then climbed up.

Closing the window, Mary sat back; a second later, the carriage jerked, then started to roll slowly along the cobbles. Bracewell House was in Berkley Street, just south of Berkley Square. Given it was the height of the Season, countless balls, parties, soirees, and dinners had been held that evening in Mayfair; judging by the chaos of carriages surrounding the square, many events had finished at much the same hour.

Accustomed to such delays, Mary sank back into the comfort of fine leather and welcomed the darkness and relative coolness. The carriage rocked and managed the turn onto the south side of Berkley Square, only to immediately halt again. Glancing through the window, Mary glimpsed the Calverton carriage pull free of a snarl of carriages and roll at a decent clip up the west side of the square; Amelia, at least, was well on her way home.

Alone and with no real distraction, Mary embraced the moment, drew in a deeper breath, and, finally, let her thoughts free. From the moment she’d stepped back into the ballroom she’d kept them and her reactions contained, restrained, suppressed; she hadn’t wanted to alert Amelia or anyone else to the sudden and cataclysmic uncertainty that now ruled her.

Ryder had just changed the rules of her world, in the process shaking her to her foundation; she needed to deal with the ramifications, the questions of where she was now, and where she truly should aim to go, and that sooner rather than later.

Drawing in another breath, she let it out slowly, waiting for the whirl of her thoughts to subside. No matter what Ryder thought or did, she remained in charge of her own life—the decisions that would define her future were still hers to make.

Gradually, her customary self-confidence returned. Growing calmer, she turned her mind to her new situation, to the