The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,6

she placed her hand on his sleeve, he dipped his head to hers and softly murmured, “It was entirely my pleasure.”

The undiluted sensuality in his tone sent another frisson of awareness streaking down her spine. Fighting the impulse to meet his eyes, she raised her head, breathed in, and looked around. “There’s Randolph over there.”

Without meeting Ryder’s eyes, she tipped her head to where his half brother stood in a group of other guests, both male and female.

Ryder hesitated for only a second, then, as he’d agreed, escorted her to Randolph’s side.

After insinuating Mary into Rand’s circle at his brother’s side—and earning a suspicious glance from his intended for his pains—Ryder exchanged a few polite words, then retreated. Although he knew all the males—all friends of Rand’s—and was distantly acquainted with the young ladies in the group, he was sufficiently older to qualify as of a different generation; other than the young ladies’ unwarranted interest in him, there was little real connection either way.

Idly drifting toward the refreshment room, he reviewed the evening’s advances and owned himself satisfied with what he’d achieved. Having decided to marry sooner rather than later—later being when the grandes dames decided to take a hand in scripting his life—he’d thought to take advantage of having to attend Henrietta Cynster and James Glossup’s engagement ball to further his aim. His eye had alighted on Mary, and instantly appreciating her potential he’d attempted to waylay her with nothing more definite than assessment in mind, only to be summarily dismissed.

That, of course, had been startling enough to focus him more definitely on her, which had resulted in him overhearing her admit that she was embarking on a search for “her hero”—the gentleman she intended to wed. She’d declared she’d already identified the lucky man, but until this evening he hadn’t known which gentleman she’d singled out.

Learning that it was Rand she’d set her blue eyes on might have made him pause and step back, allowing his brother to make his own decision, except he knew very well that Rand had no interest in marrying yet—he was only twenty-four. The only reason he attended events such as this was because his mother, Lavinia, Ryder’s stepmother, was trying her hand at matchmaking, and Rand was still of an age when he would rather acquiesce to his mother’s insistence than face the alternative confrontation. Regardless, Mary and Rand would be a match made in hell, at least for Rand; Mary was far too . . . independent. Willfully strong. Single-minded, ruthless, and manipulative.

She would tie poor Rand in knots, then set him dancing to her tune.

She would, of course, try to do the same with Ryder, but not only was he more than a match for her, he was also quite looking forward to that battle. That tussle.

That challenge.

He knew himself well enough to admit that the prospect held significant appeal, along with the related fact that unlike most young ladies or even those more mature, Mary met his eyes constantly. When they conversed, she concentrated on their interaction, person to person, her and him, and as with all she did, her focus was absolute. Her attention didn’t waver, nor was she readily distracted. When they spoke, her attention was all his.

His inner self had a great deal in common with the beast he was most frequently compared with; Mary’s particular brand of focused attention was like a long stroke to his leonine ego and made his inner lion purr.

Reaching the refreshment table, he lifted a glass of brandy from a tray, sipped, then turned and, over the heads, surveyed her ladyship’s guests. He let his gaze linger on Rand and Mary. They stood side by side, both listening, Rand avidly, Mary with barely restrained impatience, to one of Rand’s friends, who, from his gestures, appeared to be relating some story involving riding.

Even from this distance, Ryder could see that while Rand was absorbed, Mary was disengaged. Well on the way to growing bored.

Which was precisely why he’d left her there, beside Rand, surrounded by the younger set and therefore bereft of stimulating interaction of any stripe. Or, specifically, any interaction that would engage her. All the better as contrast to the waltz immediately before.

Even better, Rand and his friends would find her a trifle overwhelming and would treat her warily—which, more likely than not, would exasperate her.

Smiling, Ryder sipped again; Lady Felsham had provided a decently palatable brandy for her guests.

A stir alongside had him glancing down—into his stepmother’s painted