The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,72
recovering from any near-fatal wound rather than nursing a twisted ankle.
Then her awareness refocused on him and she smiled. “I’m delighted you did.” The quality of her smile assured him she was sincerely happy to see him.
Which led him to ask, sotto voce, “Has it been that bad?”
Her smile escalated by several degrees. “Worse,” she whispered as, beaming smile in place, she turned to the two matrons now even more eager to engage.
He dutifully stood beside her and played second fiddle to her lead; it was, after all, what he’d come there to do—to support her in whatever way he could. Hiding in the peace and quiet of his library while leaving her to face the social barrage alone hadn’t appealed on a number of counts; given his wound no longer troubled him unless he twisted and his strength had returned enough to risk the time on his feet, he’d sent a footman to inquire of her parents’ butler as to where she might be found, and had followed her there.
Despite his intentions, within ten minutes his lazy smile had grown somewhat forced. Slanting a glance at Mary, he seized a second between congratulatory exchanges to murmur, “How the devil can you swallow such syrup?”
Glancing up, she arched a brow. “With more than a grain of salt?”
“Ouch.” He had to desist while they chatted with the next couple waiting to offer their felicitations and archly marvel at how he and she had managed to reach an understanding without any of the gossipmongers, let alone the grandes dames, realizing they had formed an attachment. Which reduced him to all but whining as the pair withdrew, “Do we have to do much more of this?”
She cast a swift glance at her mother; earlier Ryder had seized a moment to pay his respects. “Perhaps”—glancing around, confirming there were no others immediately about to pounce, she gripped his arm—“we might stroll.”
“Excellent idea.” Closing his hand over hers, anchoring it on his sleeve, he immediately stepped out. “Perhaps if we’re ambulatory we won’t be such easy targets.”
He glanced down at her—and discovered she was studying him, her eyes faintly narrowed.
“I didn’t expect you to turn up here. Are you sure you’re strong enough to weather this?”
He grinned. “Quite.” He felt a trifle guilty over the pleasure he derived from the concern filling her eyes. He held up a hand, palm out. “I swear I won’t overtax myself. There—will that do?”
She made a huffing sound. “I suppose it will have to, but I warn you I expect to enjoy my engagement waltz, and I won’t be able to if I have to hold you up through half of it.”
He laughed. When she arched a haughty brow at him, he waved. “The image was just a little too much.”
She pinched his arm. “You know what I mean.”
Still chuckling, he patted her hand. “Never fear—I swear you’ll have an engagement waltz to remember.”
“Very well.” She tipped up her chin. “Just as long as you don’t forget.”
He resisted the impulse to assure her he wouldn’t, not now she’d made such a point of it, and instead devoted his energies and talents to the twin tasks of steering them clear of those trying to catch up with them through the crowd, wanting to wish them well while simultaneously trying their hand at extracting more details of their unexpected romance, and amusing her, which in turn amused him.
Although Fate had determined that they would wed without benefit of any real wooing, he saw no reason not to claim the days until their wedding to give her what he could of the moments her saving his life had denied her.
They strolled and talked, teased and laughed, and occasionally stopped to chat with others.
Somewhat unexpectedly, he enjoyed the hours—principally because he knew she did, too. He’d known she was direct, that she didn’t often bother with guile, but the openness she displayed in interacting with him was something he was growing to treasure.
They reached the end of the evening in pleasant accord. After handing Louise, then Mary, into their carriage, Ryder waved them off, then climbed into his own, smiling to himself as he sank back in the leather-cushioned dimness. Mary had, of course, demanded to be told how he intended returning to his home; that he’d brought his carriage had earned him an approving, if somewhat imperious, look.
As the carriage rolled along, he realized he was still smiling—for no specific reason that he could discern.