The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh by Stephanie Laurens

rabbit, all but quivering with the urge to flee.
    Before Ryder could intercede and claim Mary’s hand—as he’d fully intended to do anyway—she brazenly laid said hand on George’s arm and smiled sweetly at him. “Dare I be so bold, sir, but I do love to waltz.”
    “Aah . . .” George looked terrified. “Ah . . . gamy leg.”
    Mary blinked. “Oh?” She looked down at George’s until then perfectly stable pins.
    George gripped one thigh and grimaced weakly. “Don’t like to carry a cane, you know—too vain, I suppose you might say. But it really won’t hold me through a waltz, ’fraid to say.”
    “Oh.” Her gaze still on George’s legs, Mary all but visibly deflated.
    Before she could throw George into paroxysms of lies by asking for details of his invented injury, Ryder closed his fingers about her elbow—and hid his smile when she jumped just a fraction. “Come and dance with me, and let’s leave poor George to his pain.”
    Mary glanced up at him; for a moment her cornflower blue gaze was unfocused—as if she was absorbed with other things—then she blinked and focused properly on him. “Oh, all right.” She glanced back at George and inclined her head. “Thank you for the conversation, sir. I hope your leg improves.”
    His smile firmly suppressed, Ryder nodded to George; the degree of heartfelt thanks George managed to infuse into his wordless reply threatened Ryder’s composure, but he’d already realized that Mary had no notion of how much she rattled the meeker gentlemen of the ton.
    Leading her to the floor, he turned her into his arms. “Not George, I fear.”
    “Clearly not.” Frowning, Mary allowed Ryder to sweep her into the dance. And fought valiantly to keep her mind on her self-appointed task.
    Within two revolutions, two powerful sweeping turns, her mind had wandered to the puzzling question of why waltzing with Ryder felt so good, so right, so fitting, so . . . perfect. Yes, he was beyond expert, but he was so much taller and larger than she that she would have imagined she would feel overwhelmed, yet instead she felt . . . protected. Not caged—the effect was too ephemeral for that—but certainly shielded from any touch, any contact with anyone else.
    While waltzing, she and he formed a unit, an entity disassociated from everyone else.
    Waltzing with him was like whirling freely within a fragile, essentially intangible construct, their revolutions powered by his harnessed strength, their senses and awareness given over to it, true, but not so much in surrender as in indulgence.
    They’d gone down the long room once and were heading up it again when her mind caught up with reality, and she realized she’d relaxed and was delighting in the dance, and smiling easily—freely and sincerely—up at him.
    And he was smiling, lazily, but with a certain satisfaction glinting in his hazel eyes, down at her.
    She debated telling him that she was inclined to believe she shouldn’t waltz with him again; he was spoiling her for all other men. But on the other hand, perhaps she should take all she experienced with him as a guide, as a standard, so to speak; surely, when she finally found her true hero, waltzing with him would trump even this.
    This golden, delightful, deliciously scintillating experience.
    Of course, given this was Ryder—who needed no further encouragement and even less any further challenges—she kept her lips shut and simply enjoyed the rest of the dance.
    When it ended, she thanked him with sincere gratitude, then fastened her eye on the Honorable Warwick Hadfield, who had been waltzing with his cousin, Miss Manners, and had halted nearby.
    Warwick had been on her original list, and in all the ways society counted was possibly more eligible as a suitor for her than Randolph had been. Warwick’s father was Viscount Moorfield, and Warwick would inherit the significant Moorfield estates. Not that she or her family would care, but as Ryder had pointed