The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,77

couldn’t miss the signs. Couldn’t miss the power and passion that burned undisguised in his eyes.

He’d chosen her, he wanted her, and soon she would be his in all ways. She suspected he thought that, via the burgeoning passion rising between them, he would then be able to manage her.

Still trapped in his gaze, she returned his smile with one carrying the same intent.

They would see.

As the musicians commenced the final reprise, she couldn’t resist murmuring, “You should perhaps remember that we’re both rather determined people, and”—tilting her head, she watched his eyes—“we’re now both committed . . . to this.”

To us. To what will be.

Ryder blinked; a faint frown in his mind if not on his face, he returned to reality as the music slowed. Spinning them to an elegant halt, he released her, stepped back, and bowed.

She curtsied—a fully court curtsy perfectly judged for his station.

As she’d no doubt intended, it made him smile and dissipated the lingering tension that had held them.

A tension he’d evoked, yet . . . it had been rather more than he’d expected.

He’d intended to capture her in the moment, not to himself be captured by it.

By it, by her, by what had swelled and welled between them.

That . . . had been more than he’d planned for, significantly more—and different in feel—than what he’d anticipated. Yet . . . as she’d said, they were both determined people, and they were now committed to this.

Raising her, he drew her to his side, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and smiled one of his usual, lazily charming smiles. “Shall we return to the fray?”

She met his eyes; hers glinted commiseratingly. “I fear we must.”

They did. He had only to raise his head and others gathered around, to chat, to comment, to enthuse. As the evening rolled on, courtesy of various oblique comments, he realized that their determination and commitment had been more openly on show than he, at least, had realized.

While passing between groups, he murmured to Mary, “It seems our engagement waltz made a statement more public than I’d intended.”

She blinked up at him, then glanced around. “Ah—I hadn’t realized, but now you mention it, I can see it might have.” She shrugged and looked up at him. “But perhaps that’s for the best.” Arching her brows, she faced forward. “And I can’t see that it will hurt.”

He wasn’t so sure of that—and even less sure what her words portended, of what was going through her willful mind, but as they joined the next group of guests he reflected that, Mary being Mary, he would, most likely, soon find out.

Across the ballroom, Lavinia leaned on Claude Potherby’s arm and sniffed. “Have you heard what everyone—at least all the grandes dames and the major hostesses—are saying? That after that little performance there’s no question but that those two will be future powers in the ton?”

Claude wondered if he should lie. “Well . . . yes.” He didn’t consider himself at all sensitive, yet even he had seen it, the indefinable aura of will and strength that, combined, spelled power that had cloaked the betrothed pair as they’d revolved down the room in the first waltz. “But really, my sweet, not even you can deny that being here tonight is very much like viewing history in the making. Quite aside from their stations, given who they are it’s difficult to view this alliance as anything but major.”

Lavinia all but pouted. “Perhaps. But I would much rather have seen Randolph as her partner in that dance.”

Claude forbore to point out that Randolph wouldn’t agree, nor would the resulting waltz have made the same impact. With no ready way to alleviate Lavinia’s mood, he murmured instead, “Don’t forget, my dear, that as Ryder’s stepmama you have to be delighted.”

Immediately plastering back the false smile that had slipped from her lips, she dipped her head in acknowledgment and turned to greet the next couple intent on paying her their compliments and congratulating her on her stepson’s excellent match.

In Claude’s opinion, she bore up reasonably well, which was really all he and her children—and her stepson and his fiancée—could hope for.

It was past one o’clock, and Ryder had just walked into his dressing room, tossed his evening coat on a chair, unbuttoned his waistcoat and set his fingers to unknotting his cravat when, in the distance, he heard his front doorbell peal.

Ambling back into his bedroom and out into the corridor, he wondered who the devil