The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,74

was the case that her pleasure defined his.

He enjoyed the things they did, the moments they spent together, because she did.

He measured the success of anything he caused to happen against the yardstick of whether it pleased her.

That could have been a purely superficial exercise, one dictated more by reason than feeling, more deliberate than instinctive, but for him, with her, his focus on pleasing her seemed an intrinsic part of him.

Something that sprang from somewhere deep within him.

When Marcus turned to respond to Portia, on his other side, Mary seized the moment to, from beneath her lashes, slant a glance at Ryder; she couldn’t stare too hard or he would notice, but . . . seeing him in this setting, joking with her cousins, her brother, and brother-in-laws, all of whom she knew well and of whom over the years she’d heard revealing tales aplenty from their wives, she had to wonder if, perhaps, Ryder’s propensity to focus on a lady’s pleasure had become an intrinsic part of him because of his lengthy reign as one of the ton’s great lovers.

That was a thought to give any lady pause.

Feeling warmth rise in her cheeks, she quickly looked away before he—or anyone else—noticed.

Glancing around, she confirmed her assessment that the dinner was a resounding success; both it and the preceding gathering in the long drawing room looked set to pass off without the slightest hitch. Ryder’s family were all present, including his stepmother, but, as he’d predicted, Lavinia appeared to be on her best, albeit it rather chilly, behavior, although to give her her due she was warm and encouraging to everyone except Mary and Ryder.

Making a mental note to, at some later date, see what she could do to thaw the marchioness’s ice-clad spine, Mary rose along with everyone else as, under Honoria’s direction, the company quit the table and moved toward the doors and the stairs up to the ballroom.

Ryder had risen and drawn back her chair; he offered his arm with a smile. Smiling back, she laid her hand on his sleeve; as they walked slowly along the table, following other couples, it registered just how familiar walking beside him, at his side, had so quickly become.

Familiar, and on some level reassuring. Safe.

She had never felt any physical threat from him. A sensual sparking of her nerves, definitely, but even that instinctively flaring alarm had transmuted to something more akin to . . . curiosity.

Smiling still, she glanced up at him, but he was watching those ahead. She was about to speak, to draw his attention back to her, when movement ahead and to the side drew her eye.

Lucilla, slender, almost elfin in pale green silk with her rich red hair cascading in ringlets about her face, was weaving through the crowd, her green gaze locked on Mary, her expression intent.

Mary halted and looked up as Ryder glanced at her. “I have to speak with Lucilla for a moment—in private. Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll join you and the others in the receiving line.”

Ryder’s gaze shifted to Lucilla, who had halted several paces away; smiling, he inclined his head to her, then his gaze returned to Mary’s face. He briefly searched her expression, as if to confirm that she wasn’t anticipating any difficulty, then he simply said, “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.” Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she made for Lucilla.

As she neared, Lucilla said, “I believe you have something for me.”

“Indeed, I do.” Grinning, Mary took Lucilla’s hand. “Come on—I’m fairly certain we’re supposed to do it over here.”

Lucilla looked puzzled, but she allowed Mary to tow her to one side of the room, to a spot beside one of the long sideboards. “Why here?” Lucilla asked as Mary released her.

“Because this is where Angelica gave the necklace to Henrietta, and where Henrietta then gave it to me.” Reaching for the clasp at her nape, Mary slipped it free. “I don’t know where Heather was when she handed it to Eliza, or where Eliza was when she gave it to Angelica, but it might well have been here, too.” Gathering the necklace as it slid from her throat, Mary considered it, then held it up by the clasp so that the chain of amethyst beads and gold links hung straight and the rose quartz pendant swung. “It just seems to be sensible to follow the same pattern, given we can.”

Lucilla nodded and reached for the necklace, closing her hand around the links. “Thank you—and