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The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh(17)

By:Stephanie Laurens


            Rather than his wife.

            Given he now knew that he could play on Mary’s senses, that she was susceptible and, even more enticing, wanted to play at resisting, one part of him had been eager to reengage with her, yet he’d recognized the wisdom of a strategic delay; as he hadn’t been present when she’d arrived, he’d run no risk of being tempted to monopolize her from the instant she’d appeared.

            That would have alerted too many observers, at least to the point of raising questions he would rather never surfaced.

            If the grandes dames got the slightest glimpse of his true intent . . . well, given his eye had settled on Mary, the grandes dames most likely wouldn’t interfere, but his primary motivation for embarking on his search for a bride at the unexpectedly young, at least for such as him, age of thirty had been to remain free to choose and pursue the lady of his choice without the entire female half of the ton insisting on assisting him with that choice.

            In society’s collective mind, at thirty he was yet too young to have accepted the need to marry and sire an heir, but after a few more years, every grande dame would have turned her lorgnettes on him; he’d seen the value in undertaking a preemptive covert mission, so to speak.

            Given his promise to his father, he was slated to marry anyway; giving up a few years of his bachelor existence—an existence that had grown rather wearying of late—seemed a small price to pay for the freedom of making his own choice, of directing his own hunt.

            Especially for the position of his marchioness, a person he regarded as critical to his future.

            To the future he was determined to have.

            Attuned to Mary as he now was—as his quarry, she was the cynosure of his senses—he knew when she reached the point of turning away from Rand and moving on. Physically, at least.

            Her face was a study in disillusioned disappointment.

            “Come on.” He offered his arm. “You probably genuinely could do with some air now.”

            She humphed, but in disgruntled resignation rather than disagreement, and consented to lay her hand on his sleeve. Even that light touch he felt to his marrow.

            “Actually,” she said, as he turned her to the French doors, “I truly did want to stroll outside. It’s quite cloying in here.”

            “No fan?” He held aside the filmy curtains and angled her through the door onto the flags.

            She shook her head. “Too bothersome.”

            He’d noticed she had little affinity for the usual frills and furbelows; she carried a reticule, but even that was more practical than fanciful.

            Resisting an urge to close his hand over hers, he steered her slowly along the terrace, adjusting his stride to hers. Trying to imagine just where she thought she was in her pursuit of his half brother.

            Typically, he didn’t have to imagine too hard—she told him.

            “This simply isn’t right.” Eyes on the flags ahead of them, lips set in a mutinous line, with her free hand she waved at the terrace around them. “Why the devil couldn’t Randolph escort me for this stroll out here?”

            He heaved a histrionic sigh. “Put simply, because you’re too much for him. A dish too rich for his blood.”

            She cast him a narrow-eyed look. “You don’t seem to find me so.”

            He smiled; the notion was nonsensical. “Of course not.”

            “But if you don’t—if you can interact with me—why can’t he?”

            “At the risk of repeating myself, I’m thirty and he’s twenty-four. In the ages of man, that’s a significant difference.”