But handsome was as handsome did, and, put simply, Ryder was too handsome, more, too attractive on all levels and in all ways, for his own or anyone else’s good.
Especially not for hers. She held no illusions regarding her own strength; Ryder possessed a will stronger than hers. She would never be able to manage him; no woman ever would.
Randolph, on the other hand, was entirely within her scope; he would suit her very well.
“At the risk of having you bite off my head,” Ryder murmured from beside her, “just how do you envision convincing Rand that you are the lady for him?”
Ryder could hear movement in the gallery above their heads; with any luck, the musicians had arrived and would soon be putting bow to string. All he had to do to further his present cause was to keep Mary with him until they did.
Slowly she turned her head, just enough to bend on him what she no doubt imagined was a blackly discouraging gaze. She had a lot to learn; he would have been more discouraged if she’d smiled sweetly. Her resistance lured him as little else might; to one with an appetite as jaded as his, novelty was enthralling. However, in keeping with his aim to delay her departure from his side, he said nothing more but waited for her response with the infinite patience of the experienced hunter he was.
Her darkling gaze converted to a black frown. “I cannot imagine why that should be any concern of yours.”
He opened his eyes wide. “I would have thought that was obvious—Rand is my younger brother, after all.”
“Half brother.” Tipping up her nose, she looked across the room at Rand again. “Admittedly, he’s nothing like you, but I can’t see why you should imagine he needs his older brother to shield him from such as I.”
His lips twitched. “Impertinent chit.” But she’d hit the nail very much on the head; she’d set her sights on his innocent younger brother and he did, indeed, feel protective. A lady like her would scare the breeches off Rand, at least at his current age.
That Ryder’s protective impulses were presently aligned with his personal agenda was pure luck. Or, as most often occurred with him, a helpful twist of fate.
Eyes still on Rand, Mary lifted one delicate shoulder. “I am as I am, and what I am can hardly be construed as any threat to Randolph.”
“That depends very much on one’s point of view.”
She shot him another dagger glance, but before she could speak, a raucous screech from above was promptly followed by the teasing lilt of the introduction to a waltz.
Perfect.
Before she had time to react, let alone escape, Ryder stepped out of the shadow of the overhang into the bright lights of Lady Felsham’s crystal chandeliers and swept Mary a bow he made damn sure was magnificent. Extending his hand, he met her widening eyes. “Permit me to beg the honor of this dance.”
Her gaze grew a touch wild and—yes—faintly horrified. He was watching intently so knew when she realized what would happen when he had her in his arms; she wouldn’t be able to smother her response to him—the instinctive, innate response he knew, simply knew, she’d been suppressing.
Her gaze fell to his hand, then rose to his eyes. “No.”
He smiled. Intently. “I’m sure you can see the sense in not causing a scene and focusing the attention of every last grande dame present on us. After all”—he arched one brow—“what possible excuse could you have for refusing to dance with me?”
Her eyes, locked with his, slowly narrowed. Her lips, those luscious lips he’d started to fantasize about, firmed, then compressed to a thin line. A second more and she nodded. Once. “All right.” She raised her hand, reached out—but froze with an inch separating her fingers and his palm.
Resisting the impulse to grab, to seize, he recaptured her gaze and arched a brow.
Indomitable will glimmered like steel in her blue eyes. “One dance. And then you’ll take me to join Randolph’s circle.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Done.” Fingers closing around hers, he drew her nearer and turned toward the middle of the room, to where guests were drawing back, clearing a space for the dancers.
As he led Mary forward, his lips spontaneously curved. From the way she moved, light on her feet and almost eager by his side, he knew she thought she’d won, or at least had gained equal ground from the exchange.
But she was fencing with a master. He’d forgotten more than she would ever know about this particular game; he was entirely content to fall in with her plans.
But first came his price—the waltz. The first of many, regardless of her present inclination.
Reaching the dance floor, he turned and smoothly drew her into his arms, unsurprised when she stepped forward fluidly, raising one small hand to his shoulder, without a heartbeat’s hesitation letting him settle the fingers of her other hand within his clasp, but rather than rising to his face, her gaze went to his right, to where Randolph had elected to remain chatting with his cronies.
Almost as if, despite being in his arms, her mind was elsewhere. . . .
He set his hand to the delicate planes of her back—and yes, there it was. The telltale quiver of reaction that shivered through her, no matter that she fought to damp it down.
Lips curving in anticipatory delight, he stepped out and swept her into the dance, and reveled in her instant, impossible-to-conceal response. The way her eyes flared as her gaze snapped to his face. The way her luscious lips parted just a fraction, the way her breath hitched.
From that instant on, her attention was his.
He didn’t intend to ever let it go, let it wander.
Capturing her blue eyes, the color of cornflowers under a stormy sky, he whirled her down the floor, focusing on the swoop and sway, the sweeping dance of their senses, feeding the power, ruthlessly heightening the intensity of their effortless, near perfect grace.
If he was an expert on the dance floor, she was a svelte goddess. She matched him—not intentionally but instinctively stepping up to his mark.
Even while, her gaze locked with his, she held fast, denying any and all susceptibility.
Pure challenge.
Him to her, and her to him.
Like an invisible gauntlet, as they swirled around the floor they tossed intent and defiance back and forth between them, relying not on words but on the sheer power of what both of them could say with their eyes, communicate with their gazes.
All any observer would see was a couple absorbed with the dance, locked in each other’s eyes.
No one else could see the tussle—the elemental battle—they waged.
A private war that, he suspected, would very soon advance to a siege.
His inner predator delighted, encouraged and enticed. He hadn’t made any conscious decision; that wasn’t how he operated. He’d long ago learned that, for him, success in life most frequently came through following his instincts.
That was what he was doing now—his instincts had led him to Mary Cynster, and now he was intent on capturing her.
She would be his, and he knew that outcome would be right. The right outcome to lead him forward, to getting what he wanted and needed from his life.
To making his life into what he wanted it to be.
And that was all he needed to know.
That, and that the battle was his to win. No matter her dismissiveness, his innate talents hadn’t failed him. She might not want him now, but she would.
Mary could barely breathe. Her lungs felt tight, constricted, and then Ryder’s lips slowly curved, and the intent in his gaze grew only more heated. More definite, more acute, more pronounced.
She couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand. She didn’t waste time attempting to do so; he, damn him, had seen through her shields, if not from the first, then certainly in the moment when she’d glanced at Randolph and had temporarily forgotten that the far larger danger, in every conceiva
ble way, had been standing directly before her.
That instant when Ryder’s hand, large and so strong, had touched her silk-clad back—
She cut off the thought, the memory; that alone was enough to make her shiver. Again. And she didn’t need to throw the lion whirling her down the floor any further bait.
What she did need to do was to regain control. If she’d learned anything tonight it was that Ryder—for whatever incomprehensible reason—had taken it into his head to hunt her, and he was one of the few within the ton with sufficient wit, talent, and skill to manage her. To inveigle and steer and, most irritating of all to admit, manipulate her—witness this waltz. Just the thought of being managed by anyone made her set her teeth, metaphorically dig in her heels and refuse . . . but she knew very well that, in this case, the course of wisdom was not to fight but to flee.
Wise ladies never took on more than they could handle—and she couldn’t handle Ryder. No lady could.
Worse, an instant’s consideration was enough to confirm that there was no sphere in her world in which he wouldn’t dominate; he was, she judged, as adept at twisting the social conventions to his advantage as she.
So yes, she needed to run—to put as much space between them as possible and keep him at a distance, at least until he gave up the chase and turned to more willing prey.
Assuming, of course, that he was merely amusing himself in his customary way . . .
A worrying thought intruded, worming its way into her brain. There was no denying that she—young, unmarried, of extremely good family—didn’t in any way match the specifics of his customary partners in dalliance . . .
She allowed the frown in her mind to manifest in her eyes. The fraught silence they’d maintained—a silence full of pressure and weight, and the tense clash of their characters, of two dominant personalities neither of whom would yield—still held.
Without thinking further, she broke it. “Why are you doing this?” She was perfectly certain she didn’t need to be more specific.
A second ticked past, then he arched one tawny brow. “Why do you think?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask—and in your case, I wouldn’t presume to know your mind.”
His lips quirked, then, apparently reluctantly, curved in an appreciative smile. “Very wise.”
She opened her mouth to pursue her point—and he drew her closer.
Close enough that the warmth of his body reached her through their clothes; close enough that she—all of her—was abruptly submerged in a sea of sensation, in the blatant physicality of being surrounded by him, by a male body so much larger and harder, heavier and more muscled, infinitely more powerful than hers.
Alien, so different, and yet so viscerally attractive.
Her lungs seized. Her thoughts scrambled. Her wits whirled faster than her feet.
As he whisked her through the turn—one unexpectedly constrained by the press of couples around them—she lost all ability to breathe. She couldn’t even mentally blame him when he urged her closer still, the arm at her back tensing and tucking her protectively against him for that fraction of a second at the point of the curve, his hard thigh parting hers as he swirled them around . . .
And then they were free, out of the melee, and she fought to get her lungs working again.
The instant she did . . . “Ryder—”
The music slowed, then ceased. Lips curving, he quirked a brow at her, but very correctly released her and bowed.
Compressing her lips, she curtsied, then let him raise her.
Before she could speak and try to get an answer—any answer—from him, he raised his head, scanning the guests. “Now—where’s Rand?” Ryder glanced down at her, a question—utterly mild and almost innocent—in his eyes. “If you’re still keen to have me pave your way?”
She stared into his hazel eyes and didn’t know what to think. She was suspicious—of course she was—but . . . she inclined her head. “Yes, please.”
His eyes on hers, he waited, then arched a brow. “And . . . ?”
She knew what he wanted but let the moment stretch before yielding. “Thank you for the waltz.”
He smiled—and that really wasn’t fair. His smile was utterly heart-stopping. With a flourish, he offered his arm. As she placed her hand on his sleeve, he dipped his head to hers and softly murmured, “It was entirely my pleasure.”
The undiluted sensuality in his tone sent another frisson of awareness streaking down her spine. Fighting the impulse to meet his eyes, she raised her head, breathed in, and looked around. “There’s Randolph over there.”
Without meeting Ryder’s eyes, she tipped her head to where his half brother stood in a group of other guests, both male and female.
Ryder hesitated for only a second, then, as he’d agreed, escorted her to Randolph’s side.
After insinuating Mary into Rand’s circle at his brother’s side—and earning a suspicious glance from his intended for his pains—Ryder exchanged a few polite words, then retreated. Although he knew all the males—all friends of Rand’s—and was distantly acquainted with the young ladies in the group, he was sufficiently older to qualify as of a different generation; other than the young ladies’ unwarranted interest in him, there was little real connection either way.
Idly drifting toward the refreshment room, he reviewed the evening’s advances and owned himself satisfied with what he’d achieved. Having decided to marry sooner rather than later—later being when the grandes dames decided to take a hand in scripting his life—he’d thought to take advantage of having to attend Henrietta Cynster and James Glossup’s engagement ball to further his aim. His eye had alighted on Mary, and instantly appreciating her potential he’d attempted to waylay her with nothing more definite than assessment in mind, only to be summarily dismissed.
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.