The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page B

Randolph—preferably in a setting where he would be at ease—while simultaneously avoiding Ryder.
    Of those connected aims, avoiding Ryder was the most important; regardless of what she might openly acknowledge, much less wish, he truly did distract her to the point of forgetting what she was about.
    She dallied in the withdrawing room long enough, she judged, for him to have grown bored and, hopefully, been distracted by someone else. Finally emerging and returning along the corridor to the ballroom, she stepped through the archway, paused to glance around—and felt long fingers close about her elbow.
    Before she could protest, Ryder said, “There’s a discussion raging over there about that book, The Yellowplush Papers, by that fellow Thackeray. I thought you might find it of interest.”
    Which, of course, diverted her instantly. Allowing Ryder to lead her to a large group that included some of the more erudite personages in the ton, she told herself it was merely a pause in her campaign—and a worthwhile one at that. She’d heard of the work, a fictional memoir, and had been intrigued.
    She and Ryder were welcomed into the circle with murmured greetings and polite nods, although the principal interlocutors, Lord Henessey and the Honorable Carlton Fitzsmythe, barely paused in their verbal exchange to acknowledge them.
    The debate, centering on the value of such works as a mirror for society, shifted back and forth, but, to her ears at least, seemed to have no real starting point, much less any sense of end.
    After a time, Ryder murmured, “It seems that it’s the fact that the work purports to be this Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush’s memoirs that’s exciting most interest.”
    “Indeed,” Mary murmured back. “But it’s fiction—invented, made up—so I cannot, I confess, quite see the point in such high feelings.”
    She glanced up and met Ryder’s eyes, and saw her own native cynicism reflected in the sharp hazel.
    “Shall we move on?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    Which he took as permission to wind her arm in his and, excusing them with a few murmured words, lead her from the group into the still considerable crowd. “Thackeray—is he the same Thackeray who writes literary reviews for the Times ?”
    “I believe so.” She tried to hold back the words, but . . . glancing up at him, she asked, “Do you read literary reviews, then?”
    Eyes scanning the crowd, he shrugged offhandedly. “On occasion.”
    Which was something of a revelation; she found herself wondering if Randolph—and promptly cut off the thought. As Ryder himself had pointed out, six years of maturity lay between him and Randolph; comparisons weren’t appropriate.
    Only . . .
    She shook aside the distraction—and, yes, just strolling a ballroom beside Ryder qualified as a distraction—and once again doggedly brought her mind to bear on her campaign.
    Glancing down at her, Ryder read her expression, and immediately raised his head and searched for a fresh diversion. “Ah—we’ve been summoned.”
    Mary frowned and looked about, but with the crowd so dense she couldn’t see far. “Who by?”
    “An old aunt of mine—well, I call her aunt. But I’m sure she’s seen you, too, so we’ll have to grit our teeth and bear it.” Without giving her a chance to argue, he tacked through the crowd, making for the chaise in one corner of the room on which he’d spotted his father’s cousin, Lady Maude Folliwell. She had terrible eyesight and could barely see ten feet in front of her, but she always liked to speak with him, and he had no compunction whatever in using her in pursuit of his current aim; aside from all else, were she to be informed of that aim, Maude would not just approve but applaud.
    Mary found herself facing a type of lady she recognized well, but Lady Maude had nothing on her own late aunt Clara. Lady Maude’s conversation was still entirely rational and easy to follow, but noting the thickness of the glass in the