The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,66
here nor there, at least not with regard to her stepson.
“Bah!” Lavinia flung the sheet into the fireplace.
The flames flared and consumed the thin paper. Claude didn’t care; he’d already read all the news it had contained.
Tightly folding her arms, Lavinia fell to pacing. “I’d thought the Cynsters would decide that Ryder was no fit husband for their darling.” She flung out an arm. “He’s a known seducer!”
Of bored matrons only too ready to be seduced. Claude thought the words but knew better than to utter them. Instead, he drawled, “I believe you should take this as a sign that Mary Cynster is not the lady for your Randolph.”
Lavinia snorted. “Clearly.” Still pacing, breakfast forgotten, she started to chew one fingernail. “I’ll have to find someone even better for Randolph—a young lady of impeccable background with an even bigger dowry—and with all speed.”
Lucky Randolph. Content that he’d discharged the duty of a friend and circumvented any public display of unseemly temper on Lavinia’s part, Claude raised his cup, shut his ears to her mutterings, and gave himself over to savoring the really quite excellent coffee Lavinia’s cook produced.
Half an hour after seeing her mother and Henrietta off to Covent Garden, Mary walked into Ryder’s library unannounced. Seated behind his desk, he’d glanced up at the sound of the door opening. Seeing her, he smiled, the gesture carrying open appreciation of her statement in not permitting Pemberly to usher her in.
“Good morning, Mary.” Ryder’s deep, sonorous tone resonated through her. Rising, his gaze traveling from the top of her head to her feet, then somewhat more slowly returning to her face, he came forward to meet her. “I trust you slept well?”
“I did, thank you. But what about you?” Suppressing all awareness of his hungry lion gaze, of the sheer physicality of him, heightened now they were again alone, halting before the chaise she pointed to his side. “What about your wound?”
Waving her to sit, with only the slightest check he sank into the armchair beside the chaise. “Sanderson called this morning and examined his handiwork. Both he and I are in agreement that all is healing well.”
“Good. Given what we need to discuss, that’s just as well.” When he raised his brows, she continued, “The dates for our engagement ball and, subsequently, our wedding.”
He stared at her for an instant, then said, “Ah—I see. Henrietta and James’s wedding is . . . when? Six days from now?”
She was pleased he saw the difficulty. “Precisely.” Setting her reticule beside her, she drew off her gloves. “According to the collective wisdom of the ladies of my family, we have two choices—sooner, or later.” Briskly, she outlined the arguments; Pemberly arrived with the tea tray as she concluded, “So that’s why they’ve suggested four nights from now for a formal dinner and engagement ball, with our wedding to follow Henrietta and James’s, but with at least a week between.”
She paused to pour. When they both sat back, cups in hand, she sipped, then asked, “So what do you think?”
His heavy-lidded hazel gaze was resting on her, yet she got the impression he wasn’t truly seeing her but was considering, juggling options and outcomes . . . then he refocused on her.
“I’m in complete agreement with the argument that, having announced our betrothal, regardless of the proximity of Henrietta and James’s wedding, society will expect some formal acknowledgment of said betrothal by both our families.” He sipped, then went on, “More, that our engagement surprised most observers also argues for a sooner rather than later acknowledgment, simply to quash any potential speculation on our families’ attitudes to the match, no matter that there aren’t any adverse views.” He grimaced lightly. “You know what the ton is like.”
She inclined her head. “Indeed.” She was pleasantly surprised that his grasp of society’s foibles was so acute.
“So,” he went on, “although a formal dinner and engagement ball four nights from now would, in the general way of things, rank as somewhat precipitous, it would nevertheless suit our purposes best—and, of course, the imminent wedding gives us a solid excuse.”
“Agreed. So that’s the timing of the dinner and engagement ball decided—it will be held at St. Ives House.” She sipped, over the rim of her cup met his gaze. “In recent times, all the family’s engagement balls have been held there.”
He nodded in acceptance.
Lowering the cup, she went on, “There’s one point I didn’t discuss with Mama—I couldn’t while Henrietta was with us. However . . .” She