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.”