The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (3 page)

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 face. Brown-haired, dark-eyed, with the remnants of the beauty of her earlier years still visible in her face, now in her midforties and growing sadly dumpy, Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, had little to do with him—as little as he could manage. Moving with calculated slowness, he inclined his head. “Lavinia.”

She flicked an irritated gaze up and down his figure, her gaze lingering on the large diamond he wore in his cravat; it had been his father’s and was part of the family jewels, none of which she’d been permitted to appropriate after his father’s death.

Alongside Lavinia, one of her bosom-bows, Lady Carmody, smiled obsequiously and bobbed a curtsy, to which he responded with an abbreviated bow. He’d long ago learned that implacable, icy civility worked most effectively in keeping Lavinia and her cronies at a distance.

“I have to say I’m surprised to discover you here.” Lavinia fixed her slightly protuberant eyes on his face, as if searching for some hint of his agenda in his features.

“Really?” Meeting her eyes, Ryder slowly arched his brows. “I thought you knew this is my usual hunting ground. At present, I’m lacking succor, so decided to cast my eye over the herd.”

Lavinia blushed. “Really, Ryder! There’s no need to be explicit.” She waved with exaggerated hauteur. “I’m sure I don’t care where you search for your paramours.”

Lady Carmody chuckled. When Lavinia and Ryder looked at her, she explained, “Well, Lavinia, the poor boy needs must find lovers somewhere, and I’m sure you would rather he find them here, in this crowd, than at some theater, or so I would think.”

Ryder had never previously had reason to like Lady Carmody, but in return for that comment he stepped in to deflect Lavinia’s burgeoning ire, about to break in a wave over her ladyship. “I spoke with Rand a little while ago. He’s in that group over there.” Ryder paused to allow Lavinia to follow the direction of his nod and locate her firstborn. “As to anyone’s presence here . . . am I to take it that the interest that brings Rand here is similar to mine?”

Lavinia literally swelled with indignation. “Don’t be silly!” But she continued to examine the group. “Unlike you, Randolph has no interest in dalliance. He’s very correctly looking for the right lady with whom to settle down and continue the Cavanaugh line.” Lavinia glanced at Ryder. “Someone needs to—it’s what your father would have wanted.”

Which was undeniably true, but it had been Ryder his father had asked for a promise to marry and continue the line. But rather than inform Lavinia of that, Ryder seized on the contemptuous dismissal in her tone to murmur, “And on that note I believe I’ll take my leave.” He inclined his head. “Lavinia. Lady Carmody.”

Lavinia barely acknowledged him, but Lady Carmody shot him a conspiratorial grin.

Turning away, he set down the brandy glass and moved into the crowd.

Ryder was barely out of earshot when Lavinia gripped Lady Carmody’s sleeve. “Look!” Lavinia breathed. “I hardly dared hope, but it appears my oh-so-delicate scheme has borne fruit.”

Lady Carmody followed Lavinia’s rapt gaze. “Well, well.” After a moment of studying the group in which Randolph stood, her ladyship continued, “I have to admit, dear, that I really didn’t believe that anyone could influence a chit like Mary Cynster, but there, indeed, she is, chatting quite determinedly to your Randolph.”

“Yes!” Lavinia drank in the sight. “I told you—one just has to understand that suggesting anything to the likes of Miss Cynster requires an excessively delicate touch. I’ve never once spoken to the girl myself, and I made sure none of the messages I seeded said anything specific about Randolph—the entire thrust was to very gently raise her awareness of him.” Hauling in a deeply satisfied breath, Lavinia straightened. “And, clearly, my strategy has worked!” She glanced at Lady Carmody and beamed. “Now, I believe, we can leave nature to take its course. Randolph is no fool, and Miss Cynster will quickly discover she will find no better gentleman in the ton.”

“Hmm.” Lady Carmody was still studying the pair in question. “I assume that you’ve . . . ah,
seeded
the thought that Mary Cynster is the last Cynster girl unwed, and therefore the last chance for any family to secure a connection with her family, into your dear son’s head?”

“Of course!” Lavinia linked her arm in Lady Carmody’s. “But very gently, you see. Gentlemen of that age are so prickly about taking advice from their mamas, after all. But trust me.” With a last glance across the ballroom at Randolph and Mary, Lavinia turned her friend to stroll in the opposite direction. “My seeds are well planted, and all looks set to bloom as it should.” Raising her head, Lavinia smiled. “Which, I must say, I find
immensely
gratifying. I can’t wait to inform Ryder once the engagement is made.”

“W
ell, darling, how was your evening?”

Mary glanced at her mother, Louise, seated next to her in the family’s town carriage as it rolled sedately over the cobbles, taking them home. “Useful.” She grimaced. “But, sadly, nothing more.”

Louise smiled, her face lit by a street flare. Reaching out, she patted Mary’s wrist. “Don’t be in such a rush, darling. Your hero will come for you in good time.”

Mary smothered a humph. Glancing down through the gloom, she considered the necklace, specifically the rose quartz pendant that lay nestled between her breasts. Stupid thing. She’d stood beside Randolph for over half an hour and once again . . . nothing. No real connection of any sort, and all he and his friends had wanted to talk about was horses!

There’d been a dearth of frissons of delicious expectation, and an absolute absence of any tightening of her nerves.

And certainly nothing even remotely like the sensations she’d experienced during that exquisite waltz with Ryder.

But she wasn’t so stupid as to imagine that Ryder—he who could so effortlessly evoke said sensations—was her one. He couldn’t possibly be; no female deity would ever pair a lady such as she, who valued being in charge so highly, with a nobleman who, beneath his lazy lion pelt, was nothing less than a lordly dictator.

And that Ryder did incite such feelings in her was neither here nor there; he elicited the same feelings in at least half the female population, if not more.

It was simply his way, his gift as it were, an intrinsic part of him he didn’t even have to think to use.

“Incidentally, I was speaking with your aunts about the final arrangements for the wedding. Amazingly, everything seems to be falling into place perfectly, sufficiently so that the others and I have decided that a few days of peace in the country would be an excellent tonic to set us up to weather the stresses of the big day.” Head back on the squabs, Louise continued, “We’ve decided to seize this moment of relative calm, so we’ll be leaving for Somersham tomorrow and will return three days later. Just enough time to refresh ourselves.”

Turning her head, Louise studied Mary. “You are, of course, welcome to come, but it is the height of the Season and your married sisters and sister-in-law are in town, so if you wish to stay . . . ?”

Mary frowned. She hadn’t got anywhere with Randolph yet. She wasn’t ready to even contemplate that she might be wrong and he might not be her one—perhaps she needed to spend time with him alone, or at least not in a group. “I’d rather stay.” She shifted to face Louise. “And Amanda and Amelia, and Portia, too, attend all the balls I would wish to go to.”

Louise nodded. “I’ll send all three notes when we reach home. Provided they’re willing to act as chaperons, I see no reason you can’t remain and attend all the balls on our calendar.”

“Good.” Facing forward again, Mary turned her mind to evaluating the sort of situations into which she could draw Randolph Cavanaugh in order to reveal his herolike nature. His true nature with respect to her.

Chapter Two

“H
ave a nice rest and don’t worry about anything!” Mary hugged her mother, then stood back so her older sisters, Amanda and Amelia, could sweep in and plant fond pecks on Louise’s cheeks.

“Never fear.” Stepping back, Amanda cast an affectionate glance at Mary. “We’ll keep her in line.”

Louise laughed and patted both twins’ shoulders. “I know I can rely on you both—and on Portia, too.”

On cue, Portia stepped forward to hug Louise, then Henrietta, who had been in the library with her fiancé, James Glossup, wrestling with the question of where those of his more country-based family who were coming up to town for their wedding should be housed, came hurrying into the front hall, James in tow.

“Good-bye, Mama! Papa!” Henrietta bussed Louise’s cheek, then turned to their father, Arthur, standing beside his wife, to repeat the process. “Have a lovely, restful time.”

Arthur kissed Henrietta back, then released her. He and his brothers had elected to seize the opportunity to join their ladies for a few days of country peace—and shooting; while they’d waited for Louise to don her coat, the other girls had farewelled him.

It was an hour after breakfast, and Amanda, Amelia, Simon, and Portia had arrived to see Louise and Arthur off, and to ease any concerns they might have; with the whole family gathered in London to celebrate the upcoming wedding, everyone was eager to do their part.

Looking at his son, Simon, Portia’s husband, who, smiling benevolently, was standing to one side of the hall, James, his best friend, alongside him, Arthur rumbled, “You’re the effective man of the house, my boy—make sure you keep this gaggle in line.”

Simon laughed.

So did everyone else.

“I’m sure everything will run perfectly smoothly,” Amanda stated in her best haughty-matron voice. “And, after all, you’ll only be gone for three days.”

“Don’t be anxious.” Amelia squeezed Louise’s hand. “Just enjoy the rest—you and the others have earned it.”

Hudson, the butler, swung open the door and the jingle of harness reached them. Louise glanced outside. “Excellent—the carriage is here.” Turning back to her brood, she swept them with a mother’s eye. “Now be good and take care—in whatever manner those injunctions apply.” Turning to Arthur, she smiled into his blue eyes, then let him twine her arm with his.

“Come along,” Arthur said, then dramatically lowered his voice. “I think it’s safe to leave them to it.”

Louise laughed and allowed him to lead her down the steps.

The rest of the family followed them outside, gathering on the narrow porch to wave them away.

Once the carriage had turned the corner, Simon and Portia took their leave, Henrietta and James returned to the library and their delicate task, and Amanda, Amelia, and Mary retreated to the front hall to decide on their social arrangements.

“I can’t go with you tonight.” Amanda grimaced. “A rather dull dinner with some relatives of Martin’s—it’s been organized forever. But if you want to take a turn in the Park this afternoon, I could pick you up at four o’clock.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, all right. It looks like it’s going to be a splendid day. But”—she looked hopefully at Amelia—“what about the Castlemaine House ball this evening?”

Geraldine Carmody had been standing beside Mary in Randolph’s circle last night, and had moved on with Mary when she’d quit the group; Geraldine had mentioned that she’d heard Randolph and his friends say that they would be attending Lady Castlemaine’s event.

“Oh, I can chaperon you for that,” Amelia said. “Portia, too. We’ll both be attending.”

“Excellent!” Mary beamed. She and Amelia agreed that it would be best for her to take the family’s town carriage to the ball and meet Amelia and Portia, both of whom would be traveling to the event in their own carriages, in the Castlemaine House foyer.

“Just in case,” Amelia said, pulling on her gloves. She and Portia had small children, so emergency summonses were always a possibility.

With all arranged to their mutual satisfaction, the twins departed to walk to their own homes, leaving Mary somewhat at a loss. She debated joining Henrietta and James for all of two seconds, but decided it was best to leave them to work through the hurdles by themselves—if she joined in, she would take over. She usually did.

And others usually let her.

Because it was easier that way.

She was very good at organizing, especially anything to do with people, but Henrietta needed the experience of dealing with James’s family more than Mary did.

Feeling rather virtuous for turning her back on the chance to interrupt and take charge—the activity would at least have kept her occupied—she drifted down the corridor to the back parlor. Walking in, she shut the door, then continued her idle drift to stand before the windows.

Crossing her arms, she looked out over the rear garden and waited for the wispy thought that had been nagging at her all morning to grow more solid.

Eventually, it did.

“Ah.” It was, she had to admit, a pertinent point. “Why on earth was Ryder there?” At the Felsham ball last night, and at the Cornwallis soiree the previous evening.

A few more minutes’ consideration and the most likely explanation coalesced in her mind. “He must be looking for his next conquest.” His next short-term lover; according to all reports, Ryder was not one for lengthy liaisons. Apparently he grew bored rapidly, much to the dismay of the ladies involved.

From all she’d gathered about gentlemen like him—wolves of the ton such as her brother and cousins prior to their marriages, or in Ryder’s case, a lion of the ton, but the same framework applied—their preferred source of paramours was the bored matrons of the ton, women of their own class who understood society’s restrictions and the rules pertaining to such illicit affairs.

“I suppose he has to find them somewhere, and there was certainly a good selection of bored matrons at those events, but there shouldn’t be quite the same crowd at Lady Castlemaine’s tonight—that will be more a matchmakers’ gathering—so with any luck, Ryder won’t be there, and I’ll be able to get a clear tilt at Randolph.” Without the distraction of his overpowering older brother. “Half brother. Regardless of what Ryder thinks, Randolph’s nothing like him.”

Encouraged by her deductions, she reviewed the possible opportunities the Castlemaine House event might offer in terms of getting Randolph alone.

“W
e’ll be somewhere over there.” Pausing on the steps leading down to Lady Castlemaine’s ballroom, Portia waved toward the far end of the room, then glanced back at Mary, on the step behind her. “Come and find us if you need us.”

Already engaged in quartering the room, Mary merely hmmed.

Beside Portia, Amelia flicked open her fan and plied it vigorously. “Yes, indeed! That’s where we’ll be. It’s already so stuffy, but at least the windows at that end are open.” She, too, glanced back at Mary. “You know the ropes. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t have done at your age, and we’ll come and find you when we’re ready to leave.”

Having located Randolph, once again standing in a circle composed of his male friends and several young ladies, Mary nodded. “Yes. All right.”

She followed Amelia and Portia down the steps, then turned in the opposite direction and plunged into the crowd. Nearing Randolph’s group, she paused and looked around. Spotting another young lady eyeing the same group, she smiled and glided over, introduced herself, and after a short exchange sufficient to establish their common backgrounds and their common cause, she and the young lady—a Miss Melchett—linked arms and strolled over to join the conversation.

By exploiting the angle of their approach, Mary ensured that, as the circle obligingly expanded to accommodate them, she fetched up by Randolph’s side.

Her immediate objective achieved, she waited patiently for George Richards to complete the story he’d been telling—yet another tale of the hunt and horses. Immediately he’d received the expected accolades from his friends, along with rather weaker applause from the young ladies, Mary fixed her gaze on Colette Markham, directly across the circle and, if Mary was any judge, with her eye on Randolph’s friend Grayson Manners, and inquired, “Has anyone seen the new play at the Theatre Royal?”

Colette met Mary’s eyes and leapt in to remark, “I had heard it was the best theatrical event of this Season.” She turned to Grayson, beside her. “Have you seen it, Mr. Manners?”

As luck would have it, Grayson had. Under Colette’s and Mary’s encouraging tutelage he was induced to give a detailed description of the play. Immediately he concluded, Miss Melchett chimed in with her experience of the competing offering at the Haymarket.

Mary glanced at Randolph, caught his eye, and smiled. Under cover of the others’ conversation, she murmured, “Are you fond of the theater, Lord Randolph?”

“Ah . . . well.” Randolph’s eyes widened fractionally. “I’m not sure I’ve had enough experience of it to judge—well, most of my plays have been viewed from the pit, so it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I daresay, in a few years, I’ll grow quite partial to it—the more formal play-going, I mean.”

Mary kept her smile in place. “But what of the plays themselves? Do you prefer Shakespeare or the work of more recent playwrights?”

Randolph’s eyes widened even more. “Ah . . .”

From across the ballroom, Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, watched her son conversing semiprivately with Mary Cynster, and smiled approvingly.

Seeing that smile, Lady Eccles, beside whom Lavinia was presently standing, followed Lavinia’s gaze, then her ladyship arched her brows. “Well, my dear—that
is
a development.”

“Indeed.” Lavinia glanced at Lady Eccles’s face, noted her ladyship’s suitably impressed expression. “It’s really very gratifying. They spent time together last evening, and clearly all is progressing favorably. They make quite a couple, do they not?”

“And, not to put too fine a point on it, such an alliance will greatly aid your Randolph.” Lady Eccles glanced inquiringly at Lavinia. “I don’t suppose you had any hand in bringing the two together?”

Lavinia chuckled. “I might admit to a very small prod here, an almost imperceptible push there. But it’s been more in the way of a word in the right ear at the right time, just so they don’t miss the opportunity that clearly lies before their feet. You know young people—they never do see their own best interests clearly.”

“Indeed not. I’ve had words on that subject with my own sons often enough.” Lady Eccles gathered her shawl. “But as loath as I am to drag you away, my dear, I do have to get on. I promised Elvira I would look in on her soiree.” Lady Eccles glanced again across the ballroom. “Are you coming, or do you wish to remain and ensure all continues as you would wish?”

“No . . . no.” Reluctantly, Lavinia dragged her gaze from her son. She’d come to the ball in Lady Eccles’s carriage. “I’m sure they’ll manage perfectly well without any intervention from me—and I, too, promised Elvira I would make an appearance.”

“Right then.” Lady Eccles turned toward the ballroom steps. “Let’s be off.”

After one last, quietly delighted glance at the tableau across the ballroom, Lavinia followed.

Mary, meanwhile, had struck the first serious hurdle along her path to wedded bliss. Namely Randolph’s—and his friends’—lack of conversational depth. She was an excellent horsewoman, loved riding, and was reasonably fond of horses as well, but there was more to life than horse races, curricle races, and the hunt. After Miss Melchett’s exposition of the play at the Haymarket, George Richards had reseized the conversational reins and rather bluntly drawn Randolph from their discussion of playwrights to ask him about some mare who had won the last race at Newmarket two weeks before.

Randolph had replied to George’s query with far greater alacrity—and detail—than he had to her own. Randolph had then swung the conversation to the latest sale at Tattersalls.

With the air of one driven beyond bearing, Miss Fotheringay had spoken up the instant Randolph and Julius Gatling had finished exchanging views on the nags sold and the sums paid. “Has anyone visited Kew Gardens recently? The new conservatory is particularly fine.”

Despite the obvious desperation and consequent weakness of the gambit, Mary, Miss Melchett, and Colette did their level best to keep the conversation on plants, herbs, and anything other than horses.

Mary had a strong suspicion that Julius knew precisely what he was doing when he seized on the mention of feverfew to swing the conversation back to the poultice his stableman recommended for a bruised hock.

Jaw setting, Mary glanced around the circle. Exasperated desperation—or was it desperate exasperation?—shone in the other young ladies’ eyes. Were all young men really this . . . young?

This immature?

Randolph, she felt sure, was not—could not be so—but thus far she’d only interacted with him in the presence of his cronies. Clearly, she needed to separate him from his pack.

As if in answer to her need, the strains of the first waltz of the evening floated out over the room. Brightening, she turned expectantly to Randolph, only to see a positively hunted expression flash across his face. He looked across the circle, to where Colette had turned, as expectantly as Mary, and was waiting for Grayson to ask her to dance.

Grayson looked at Randolph, then glanced at George, for all the world as if none of them had ever waltzed before, which was nonsense.

Looking back at Randolph, Mary saw his features briefly shift, signaling to his friends:
If we must, we must
.

But before she could do more than blink, Randolph smiled and bowed. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Cynster?”

If his bow was a poor imitation of Ryder’s, and his voice held no subtly suggestive undertones, at least he’d asked. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you, Lord Randolph. I would like to dance.”

Taking her hand, Randolph smiled. “Please—just Randolph.”

Telling herself that it was unrealistic to expect to feel any flash of awareness from his perfectly correct holding of her hand, Mary allowed him to lead her to the floor. She stepped into his arms, eager anticipation bubbling in her veins.