The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  She paused to pour. When they both sat back, cups in hand, she sipped, then asked, “So what do you think?”

  His heavy-lidded hazel gaze was resting on her, yet she got the impression he wasn’t truly seeing her but was considering, juggling options and outcomes . . . then he refocused on her.

  “I’m in complete agreement with the argument that, having announced our betrothal, regardless of the proximity of Henrietta and James’s wedding, society will expect some formal acknowledgment of said betrothal by both our families.” He sipped, then went on, “More, that our engagement surprised most observers also argues for a sooner rather than later acknowledgment, simply to quash any potential speculation on our families’ attitudes to the match, no matter that there aren’t any adverse views.” He grimaced lightly. “You know what the ton is like.”

  She inclined her head. “Indeed.” She was pleasantly surprised that his grasp of society’s foibles was so acute.

  “So,” he went on, “although a formal dinner and engagement ball four nights from now would, in the general way of things, rank as somewhat precipitous, it would nevertheless suit our purposes best—and, of course, the imminent wedding gives us a solid excuse.”

  “Agreed. So that’s the timing of the dinner and engagement ball decided—it will be held at St. Ives House.” She sipped, over the rim of her cup met his gaze. “In recent times, all the family’s engagement balls have been held there.”

  He nodded in acceptance.

  Lowering the cup, she went on, “There’s one point I didn’t discuss with Mama—I couldn’t while Henrietta was with us. However . . .” She met his eyes, held his gaze for an instant, then simply said, “In social importance, your engagement to me rates significantly above James’s marriage to Henrietta, but I don’t want our engagement ball to”—she waved—“outshine Henrietta’s wedding.”

  Ryder slowly blinked; seeing opportunity beckon, he asked, “Is there any reason it should?” Leaning forward to set down his cup, he went on, “In light of the nearness of the wedding, if you and your parents are agreeable I see no reason our betrothal dinner can’t be restricted to our families—principal cousins, but no connections—and the ball could be similarly restricted to the more important connections and acquaintances.” He raised his eyes to hers, arched a brow.

  She smiled, plainly delighted. “Thank you—and the correct term isn’t ‘restricted.’ It’s ‘select.’ ”

  Grinning faintly, he sat back. “My apologies—our engagement ball will be a highly select affair.” He studied her, read the clear approval in her face, watched her drain her cup, lean forward and set it on the tray, then sit back. “One thing.” He waited until she raised her gaze to his. “Our wedding. It must be an event befitting the alliance of two of the oldest, most powerful and wealthy families in the ton.”

  Brows slowly arching, she held his gaze for several moments, then said, “I have nothing against your suggestion—but is there some reason . . . ?”

  He shrugged lightly. “Other than my appreciation of the benefits of applying the right degree of pomp in certain circumstances . . . not really.” For himself, he didn’t truly care, but for her . . . he wanted their wedding to be an event to remember, and in ton terms that meant a major production. Her comment about not wanting to outshine Henrietta had been a sacrifice on her part; she hadn’t intended him to see that, but he hadn’t been fooled. Mary was a lady who thrived on big events, and in the matter of their wedding he saw no reason to shortchange her.

  Indeed, he saw multiple reasons to ensure their wedding was as big an event as she might wish, but he wasn’t about to articulate any of them, not to her.

  When she continued to regard him with a not-so-faint degree of skepticism, he gave her another reason, one he was fairly certain she would accept. “Aside from all else, a very large wedding will ensure no one even vaguely imagines either family is less than thrilled with our union.”

  Slowly, she nodded, her eyes on his. “Speaking of which . . . yesterday, when your half siblings were here, I gained the distinct impression that there’s some . . . strain, shall we say, between them and their mother over you. And therefore over me.”

  “I should warn you about that.” Regally, she waved to him to proceed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, only to realize . . . he grimaced and sank back in the chair. “In order to properly explain, sufficiently to adequately prepare you for what you might, at some point, find yourself facing with Lavinia, I suspect I need to go back to how and why she became my father’s second wife.”

  Mary considered him, then shifted into a more comfortable position on the chaise. “You perceive me all ears.”

  He smiled, then, levity fading, commenced, “Believe it or not, I was a sickly babe. Then my mother died of a fever when I was three, and I caught it, too, and nearly died. The doctor was astonished that I survived. Subsequently, any ailment of any sort in the vicinity and I caught it. I was deemed at death’s door more times than my poor father could count. After a few years, the medical men all agreed that it was highly unlikely I would survive to adulthood. My father had been devoted to my mother, and throughout his life he remained devoted to me, but he knew his duty. He wasn’t getting any younger and he had to have an heir, so he married again—and he chose Lavinia. Aside from her unexceptionable birth and background, her principal attractions, my father later informed me, were her willingness to marry a man twenty years her senior, and to bear him several children. Rand was born in short order, then Kit, then a few years later, Stacie, and then Godfrey.

  “At that point Lavinia and my father reached an accommodation, and their marriage became one in name only. Both lived their separate lives, and from all I ever saw the arrangement proved satisfactory.” Ryder paused, then, lips curving cynically, continued, “For my father, myself, and my half siblings, all rolled on relatively peaceably. We all got along and there were no real tensions—to the others I was their older brother, and to me they were my younger brothers and sister. But for Lavinia it transpired there was one fly in her ointment—namely, me.” Ryder met Mary’s gaze. “She’d been led to believe I would die, but I didn’t.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “She wished—wishes—you dead?”

  He quickly shook his head. “No—it never was that, has never been quite like that. As I explained to your cousins, while Lavinia would be happy to see me dead, she’s never shown any inclination to act to make that happen. It’s more that she’d expected Rand to inherit, for her son to become Viscount Sidwell, as I was, and later step into my father’s shoes as Marquess of Raventhorne, and my continued existence means something she’d assumed would ultimately come her way out of marrying my father isn’t being delivered. In a convoluted way, she views my not dying as something akin to a breach of promise.”

  “Ah.” Mary nodded. “I see.” Then she frowned. “What about Randolph? How does he feel about your continued health?”

  Ryder smiled. “Rand has absolutely no aspirations to be marquess. Oh, he would step up if he had to, but he has no ambition to take on the responsibility—as you might have noticed from his congratulations yesterday.”

  She nodded. “I would have sworn he was sincere—I would have been surprised if you’d told me he had eyes on the title.”

  “He doesn’t, and Kit is even less enthralled by the prospect. As for Godfrey, I doubt it’s ever occurred to him to imagine himself the marquess—and he’d be horrified if he did.” Ryder paused, then went on, “But, of course, the four of them are very aware of Lavinia’s . . . shall we say continuing frustration with me, with my being alive. And, naturally enough, as they and I are close, and they’re devoted to me—as you correctly divined yesterday—it leaves them feeling exceedingly awkward when Lavinia and I are forced to interact. When she and I are in the same room, in the others’ presence, for any length of time.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever being
so gauche as to insult your stepmother. Not even in private.”

  “You’re correct—I don’t. Oh, I might think the words, but as a general rule I treat her with the chilliest civility—I’ve learned from long experience that that serves best. And although she is occasionally indiscreet, even, if we’re alone, insulting, Lavinia has a very fine notion of her position as marchioness, and as her standing derives from the title I hold, she’s not going to do anything to diminish the Marquess of Raventhorne in society’s eyes.”

  Mary nodded, appreciating the point. “So she’s caught in a cleft stick of sorts and can’t curse you in a ballroom.”

  “Or over a dinner table, but in order to spare both our nerves, I try to avoid her. Given our respective circles, that’s usually easy enough.”

  “I can’t see why she’s still so frustrated.” Mary studied him; regardless of his injury, he exuded palpable physical strength, and with his color back to normal the last thing he appeared was weak. “It must have become apparent long ago that, whatever ailed you as a child, you’ve grown out of it. No one would imagine you’re likely to readily succumb now.”

  Ryder pulled a face. “Well, yes and no. My sickliness had receded by the time I reached ten, enough for me to go to Eton. But my exploits there, and later at Oxford, and even when I first came on the town would have encouraged Lavinia to believe she would hear of my death any day. I’m quite sure she, as well as my father, were told that by various masters and others over those years.”

  He glanced at Mary. “I was wild to a fault—a hellion, a hell-raiser. Having been told for so long that I couldn’t expect to live, that I wouldn’t see my majority, I . . . grasped every second of life I could. I wrung from every second all the life I could. From childhood scrapes, the inevitable falls, and consequent injuries, to schoolboy fights and pranks of all the most dangerous kinds, to horse racing, phaeton racing, hunting—in all truth there was every reason for Lavinia to believe that where illness hadn’t done the deed, I, myself, would accomplish it.”

  He paused, then smiled faintly and went on, “Actually, it was Sanderson, when he returned from his medical training in Edinburgh, who finally convinced me that the only way I wouldn’t die of old age was if some self-inflicted injury did for me first.”

  “Remind me to thank the good doctor when next I see him.”

  “Indeed. However, as had happened through my earlier years, whenever I grew out of one area of danger, another always seemed to loom, at least in Lavinia’s eyes.” Ryder met Mary’s gaze. “She’s told me, more than once, that she fully expects to hear of my death at the hands of some cuckolded husband.”

  Coolly sober, Mary arched her brows. “As very nearly occurred.”

  “True. If she only knew . . . but, even then, you turned up to save me.”

  Mary met his eyes, held his gaze for an instant, then in a tone of discovery stated, “That’s why you’ve kept the attack so secret.”

  Trapped in her eyes, he hesitated for too long for an effective denial. He shrugged. “There’s no reason to encourage her to believe she has cause to resent you.”

  “Because I helped you cheat death?”

  “Because you helped me avoid the one thing that would have delivered to her her ultimate desire—seeing Rand in my shoes. That’s what her focus is—it’s purely incidental that I have to die for it to happen.”

  After a moment, Mary said, “Your poor brother must feel . . . quite set upon.”

  “Sometimes, yes. He bears with it—she is his mother, after all. He knows I know and understand his feelings, and the others do, too, but it is, indeed, hardest on him. I, at least, can avoid her—he can’t.”

  “Is that—her antipathy to you—why she doesn’t live here?”

  Ryder hesitated, then admitted, “I bought her the other house . . . not just because of that.” After a moment, he went on, “At Raventhorne, she lives in the Dower House, with her own staff. Here in town, she lives in a house in Chapel Street, again with her own staff—for the same reason. After my father’s death, she . . . I suppose you might say tried to usurp me. Tried to take over the Abbey, and also this house—both are kept fully staffed. When the staff at the Abbey, and later here, too, refused to accept her orders on matters that properly needed my consent, she attempted to dismiss them.” He met Mary’s gaze. “These are all people from families that have served the Cavanaughs for generations. In the end, Lavinia became so heedlessly disruptive, I had to banish her from the house. All my houses, actually.”

  Mary reviewed all he’d told her—and why he had; protectiveness was, indeed, one of his major motivating forces. She glanced at the clock—and was shocked to see the time. “Heavens!” She grabbed her reticule. “I really must go—I’m due at a luncheon at my aunt Celia’s.”

  Ryder rose to his feet as she stood.

  Turning to the door, she started tugging on her gloves. “Is there anything else I should know about your stepmother and your relationship with her, or with your half siblings?”

  Falling in beside her, he went to shake his head, then stopped. “Perhaps one other thing.”

  Glancing up at his face, she arched her brows invitingly.

  Shifting his gaze to the floor, he walked several paces alongside her before saying, “On his deathbed, when I was sitting alone with my father, he asked me to promise I would marry well and continue the line. By that point, he had grown to distrust Lavinia, and he . . .”

  When he didn’t continue, she filled in, “He didn’t want her blood in the main line?”

  His lips twisted. “Yes. Exactly.”

  Connecting the facts . . . she opened her eyes wide. “And that, I suppose, explains why you were in the ballrooms at all, enough to bump into me and realize I was pursuing Randolph.” Reaching the door, she paused and faced him, waiting for him to open it.

  Halting, he looked down at her, searched her eyes, her face, then, voice low, said, “It’s exceedingly tempting to leave you believing that, but in the interests of complete honesty, I was hunting you—specifically you—for days before I realized it was Randolph you had misguidedly set your sights upon.”

  She tried to keep her eyes from narrowing on his. “Why?” He seemed disposed to answering her questions, and that one ranked at the top of her list.

  Without moving, he said, “For the same reasons I gave you on Lady Bracewell’s terrace.”

  And just like that she was back on that moonlit terrace with him, standing close enough for her senses to riot, to be overwhelmingly aware of him, of all he was, all that, beneath the fashionable clothes and civilized manners, he had the potential to be . . .

  Temptation whispered over and through her. She knew she shouldn’t, yet still she said, “Remind me.”

  Challenge, deliberate and clear, rang in the words.

  He heard it; one tawny brow faintly arched. “Because I believe we will suit.” His green and gold gaze grew sharper, more intent. “Very well. In many if not all ways.” His voice deepened to a mesmerizing purr. “And because I want you. And for me . . . that’s enough.”

  Hunger, desire, passion—all were there, unscreened, in his eyes. Mesmerized in truth, she moistened her lips, found breath enough to evenly state, “Words such as those are not terribly compelling.”

  His lips curved; he inclined his head slightly. “As you find it so . . . perhaps we might try actions.”

  Then she was in his arms and his lips were on hers, and she inwardly exulted.

  She hadn’t even admitted it to herself, but this was what she’d wanted—the most important thing she’d come there that morning to further explore.

  Letting her reticule dangle from her wrist, she spread both gloved hands, fingers wide, on his chest. The fine fabric of his coat met her leather-sheathed palms and fingertips, but beneath lay him, solid and hard and immensely intriguing.

  Fascinating. H
er senses flared, then raced, reaching and searching, absorbing every last little insight they could.

  She’d yielded her mouth from the first; as her senses reeled, overwhelmed by all there was to take in, she grew increasingly aware of his slow, typically lazy—unbelievably possessive—claiming of her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

  As if he were branding her in some subtle, addictive way; even as she followed his lead and started to copy and return his undeniably expert caresses, some inkling of just how potent was their allure was blossoming in her brain—

  Enough. Ryder artfully drew back and broke the kiss. Holding her easily within one arm, he studied her delicately flushed face, drew satisfaction from the vestige of sensual haze clouding her eyes. “So have I convinced you of my proposition?”

  She blinked, twice, faintly frowned. “What proposition is that?”

  He couldn’t entirely hide his triumph. “That we will suit—exceptionally well. In many if not all ways.” Even though he wasn’t holding her tight, she had to be able to feel the tangible evidence—proof, if she wished it—of the truth of his statement that he wanted her.

  If the sudden consciousness that flooded her expression, the awareness that flared in her eyes, was any guide, she wasn’t likely to question that point again.

  But then her gaze, the cornflower blue a fraction more intense, steadied, and she gave a small nod—whether to him or herself he wasn’t sure. “Perhaps. You might be right.”

  She eased back and, faintly surprised, he let her go; even though he didn’t like losing her warmth, much less the tantalizingly light touch of her hands on his chest, he reminded himself, his instincts, that there would be plenty of time for more, later.

  That it was wiser not to push for more yet. Strategy, tactics; better she come to him.

  As she just had.

  He watched her step back, shake her skirts straight, take her reticule in one hand, and felt a definite spike of satisfaction; not only had he met her immediate challenge more than adequately but his strategy of how best to deal with her was also bearing fruit. If he played his sensual cards correctly, she would come to him, and then he would have her without having to admit to anything more binding than desire.