The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Read Free

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