“Indeed?” She hesitated, but if anyone would know his half brother’s aspirations, Ryder would. She arched her brows and infused sufficient disbelieving hauteur into her tone to, she hoped, tempt him to share. “And why is that?”
While he considered obliging and she waited, she wondered if perhaps denying having any particular interest in Randolph—Lord Randolph Cavanaugh, one of Ryder’s half brothers and the nearest to him in age—might have been the wiser course . . . but when at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball she’d summarily dismissed Ryder, declining an invitation most ladies of the ton, young, middle-aged, or ancient, would kill to receive, she’d unintentionally piqued his curiosity, and just like any feline he’d been, albeit apparently idly, stalking her ever since.
Even though tonight was only the second evening since the engagement ball, Ryder was more than intelligent enough to have divined her purpose. So no, there really was no point attempting to mislead him on that score—he would only grow more diabolical.
As his lips gently curved and he drew breath to speak, she fully expected him to be diabolical anyway.
“Permit me to list the ways.” His voice was so deep that it was a rumbling purr. “First, allow me to point out that, as the last unmarried Cynster female of your generation, you are regarded as a matrimonial prize.”
She frowned. “That’s the last thing I need, but”—she searched his eyes—“I don’t see why I should be considered so. I’m the youngest, and while admittedly my dowry is nothing to be sneezed at, I’m certainly not a diamond-of-the-first-water or a major heiress.” As, apparently, she had to put up with him, she saw no reason not to pick his well-connected and well-informed brain.
Inclining his head, Ryder bit his tongue against the impulse to inform her that while she was correct in stating that she did not qualify as a diamond-of-the-first-water, that failure stemmed more from an excess of personality than any lack of beauty; she was more than attractive enough—vibrantly and vividly attractive enough—to turn male heads and engage male imaginations, something he’d grown exceedingly aware of over the few days during which he’d been shadowing her, driven by curiosity, pricked pride, and some less identifiable fascination. “You have, however, missed the critical point. You are the last chance for any of the major families to ally themselves with the Cynsters in this generation. It’ll be a decade or more before your cousins’ children, the next generation, come on the marriage mart. Consequently, no matter what you might wish, you are, indeed, a prize in that regard. And, of course, Rand will inherit neither title nor estate.” Unlike him. His eyes locked on hers, he dismissively arched his brows. “Ask any of the grandes dames and they’ll tell you the same. Everyone expects you to marry well.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. A smile tugged at his lips; he understood the sentiment.
But then she shook her head. “No. If that were the case, I would have been besieged.”
“Not yet.” He saw no reason not to share the news. “But next Season you will be. You’re only twenty-two, and this year there’s Henrietta’s engagement and her upcoming wedding—major distractions for your family. Matrimonially speaking, no one is looking at you at the moment.” Only him. And he was now intent on stealing a march on all his potential competitors.
Her lips—rosebud pink and unexpectedly lush in such a youthful face—firmed. “Be that as it may, that’s all about what others think, while in the matter of whom I wed, it’s what I think that counts.” Her expression grew even more belligerent. “And in all other respects—”
“Rand will not suit. He’s six years younger than I am, only two years older than you.” As he stated those facts, he realized what one of the reasons she’d chosen Rand as her potential husband was. “And in case it’s escaped your notice—although I’d wager a significant sum it hasn’t—while at twenty-four a gentleman might be mature in body, he’s rarely mature in mind.” The smile he allowed to curve his lips was entirely genuine. “Give Rand time and, trust me, he’ll be just like me.”