The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,1
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.”
Which was precisely the transformation Mary intended to ensure did not occur. Turning away, she resumed her scrutiny of the gentleman in question; he was standing in a group toward the middle of the long ballroom. “In my estimation, Randolph will be the perfect husband for me.”
Aside from all else, Randolph was a significantly milder version of Ryder; if she married Randolph, she was perfectly certain she would be able to influence him to the point of ensuring that he did not evolve into a nobleman anywhere near as lethally dangerous to the entire female sex as Ryder was. Indeed, marrying Randolph could be viewed as doing her gender a signal service; the female half of the population definitely did not need another Ryder. In addition to his physical impact, he was utterly unmanageable.
Fixing her gaze on Randolph, she reviewed his attractions. Unlike Ryder’s golden-brown mane, Randolph’s hair was dark brown, more like his mother Lavinia’s brown locks. While Ryder wore his hair slightly longer so that it fell in intriguingly tousled, windswept locks—a potent inducement to women to run their fingers through the unruly mass—Randolph’s hair was cut in a fashionable crop, neither long nor short, similar to many men present.