The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  But as they’d left, Lavinia had been standing amid the crowd on the steps, and her expression had very definitely not been happy.

  A fact that bothered him not at all. Shifting to sit on the seat beside Mary, he caught her hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it, then said, “Now we can relax, at least for the next several hours until we reach the Abbey.”

  Mary made a humming sound and, her fingers curling to grip his, settled beside him.

  The hard line of her lips belying her otherwise neutral expression, with her hand on Claude Potherby’s arm, Lavinia was swept up in the wave of guests returning to the St. Ives House ballroom when, from a little way ahead, she heard that old battle-axe, Lady Osbaldestone, opine, “I daresay there will soon be countless wagers entered in those ridiculous books the gentlemen’s clubs keep as to the birthday of Ryder’s heir.”

  “Without a doubt.” It was Lady Horatia Cynster who replied. “And equally undoubtedly the favored date will be nine months from now.”

  Several other ladies laughed.

  Lavinia’s lips tightened. She narrowed her eyes, but then Claude squeezed her hand. Reminded of where they were, suppressing her emotions, she smoothed her expression and let him lead her on.

  Mary waited until the carriage had left the outskirts of London before acting on the thought that had grown minute by minute more tempting ever since she’d first learned of this five and more hours’ carriage journey to her new home.

  Raventhorne Abbey lay beyond Hungerford; they’d arranged to leave the wedding breakfast in good time to ensure that it would still be light for her first sight of the great house. That meant they had hours of bowling along in Ryder’s well-sprung traveling carriage down relatively well-made roads to endure—and she was familiar with the road as far as Reading, so felt no need to study the scenery.

  The coachman had drawn up once they were out of sight of St. Ives House and removed the numerous articles attached to the carriage’s rear; subsequently, they’d rolled along in comfortable peace. She and Ryder had exchanged comments and observations on their day, on the guests, on minor social matters either or both had noted; that degree of social acuity, of awareness of issues affecting others in their orbit, was a trait they shared. Information was power; they both understood that.

  Eventually, however, their observations had come to an end, and they’d lapsed into companionable silence.

  She hadn’t traveled in this carriage before, but she was impressed by the modern design and the extra little touches of luxury, such as the brass window locks, the concealed window screens, and the superbly sumptuous dark blue leather seats.

  Appreciation of the amenities, however, did not divert her for long, and by the time they passed through Hounslow and the coachman whipped up the horses to speed on over the fabled heath, she decided the moment to broach her tempting thought had arrived.

  Ryder was sitting beside her, shoulders relaxed against the seat back, long legs bent at the knees, thighs splayed, at ease, one elbow propped on the windowsill. A swift glance showed he was idly watching the trees dotting the heath flash past.

  The coach was now traveling at significant speed, rocking slightly on its excellent springs. Without warning she rose and used the sway of the coach to assist her in tumbling onto Ryder’s lap.

  He caught her, of course. He hesitated for an instant, then as she wriggled to face him, his hands gripped and he lifted her and settled her as she wished—so they were face-to-face and she could smile and lean her arms on his chest, the better to discuss her tempting thought.

  Ryder looked into her brilliant eyes, took note of the luscious curve of her lips, and faintly patronizingly arched a deliberately languid brow. He’d known something like this was coming, but no matter that one part of him—the baser part—was eager to fall in with whatever she had in mind, he hadn’t been about to initiate the event.

  He’d yet to figure out exactly where the road she’d lured him down was leading them, and encounters of the sort she clearly had in mind only pulled him further down said road. Unresisting, because resistance was futile. No, worse, impossible.

  That didn’t alleviate his growing wariness one iota.

  At some point in the last hours it had finally become clear to him that she was his fate.

  She was his now, and in order to keep her he had to pay her price.

  She studied his eyes, then the tip of her tongue appeared and swept over her lips, leaving the lower glistening, ripe and luscious.

  He inwardly groaned and tried not to too obviously react.

  She must have felt something, because the gleam in her eyes grew just a touch brighter, the curve of her lips a touch deeper. “I thought,” she murmured, her gaze falling to his lips, “that given we have this very long and otherwise quite boring drive to live through, we might try enlivening the moments with an adventure.”

  He arched his brows higher. “An adventure.”

  “Hmm. One where we explore just what, for us, is possible within the confines of a traveling carriage.” Her gaze returned to his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve experienced this sort of adventure before, but I haven’t.” She leaned closer. “So I think you should show me.”

  Trapped in her pansy-blue eyes, caught—so effortlessly—in the net of her attraction, he heard himself admit, “Actually, I’ve never . . . indulged in a carriage.”

  Those fabulous eyes flared wide. “Never? Not ever?”

  He shook his head. “The opportunity never arose.”

  He hadn’t thought it possible, but her expression brightened further, eagerness and delight infusing her features. “Even better. We can explore together, learn and discover all . . . there is to uncover.” Her gaze fell to his lips, then lower, to his cravat. “Speaking of which.” She reached for the folds.

  He caught her hands, flattened them against his chest. “No—that’s one thing I do know about such adventures. Clothes stay on.”

  Her eyes widened. “They do?”

  He started to nod, then paused. “Well, mine do. Yours”—he lowered his gaze to her breasts—“more or less.”

  She considered him for a moment, then she laughed—in that register he’d realized she reserved just for him, sultry and sirenlike. To his well-honed instincts, the woman so revealed was the real her, the Mary Cynster who lived inside the bossy, pragmatic, shrewd, and domineering social shell.

  The woman of immeasurable warmth and sensuality.

  The female his inner lion craved.

  Her eyes locked on his and he read the challenge writ in the blue.

  “Very well, my lord. You take the lead and I’ll follow. So.” Leaning closer, she brought her luscious lips to within a whisker of his and breathed, “Lead on, and show me how.”

  He couldn’t have resisted the lure had his life depended on it. Moving slowly, deliberately, he slid one palm up her spine, letting her feel the weight, the strength in his hand as he traced between her shoulder blades and swept higher, skimming the sensitive skin exposed at her nape, then he cupped the back of her head.

  Holding her not just steady but immobile, he closed the last inch, covered her lips with his, and without so much as a by-your-leave took complete and absolute possession of her mouth.

  And did as she’d asked, and went adventuring with her.

  Several hours later, with Mary thoroughly sated and, by all the signs, still blissfully satisfied, lying dozing, secure and safe in his arms, Ryder realized he was smiling inanely, at nothing and for no particular reason.

  Resting his jaw more definitely against her dark curls, he felt his smile turn wry.

  Adventuring, she’d called it, and it most certainly had been that; she was every bit as inventive as he, and significantly more prepared, nay eager, to experiment than he’d expected any young lady of the ton to be.

  She constantly gave him all he wanted, all he expe
cted, and just a little bit more.

  He certainly hadn’t expected the laughter, the sheer rollicking fun that had delighted and teased and spurred them both on, nor yet the sudden spike of passion laced with yearning and sharp, unadulterated desire that had gripped them as they’d ultimately come together, when, straddling him, she’d finally sunk fully down and taken him in—and simultaneously, in the same heartbeat, they’d realized that that moment was the first of such moments for them as husband and wife.

  Even less had he foreseen the incredible closeness that had followed, when she’d laid her hand against his cheek, kissed him, and together they’d stepped beyond all the boundaries, beyond all restraint, and let that sharply vibrant passion unfurl, then dictate.

  He couldn’t have foreseen it because he’d never felt with any other woman what he felt with her.

  So much more potent, powerful, so much more complex. More layered; he couldn’t come close to adequately describing all she made him feel.

  He wasn’t sure where that left him, much less what it meant, yet this was one road that, once having started down it, had no turns, no branches.

  As hints of rosemary and lemon rose from her hair, combining with the lingering scents of their passion to wreath through his brain, soothing and placating, he accepted that going forward with her, hand in hand, was his only option.

  To go forward with her, see what eventuated, and trust in them both to meet the challenges.

  They arrived at Raventhorne Abbey just before the sun slipped below the western horizon. Located just north of the Savernake Forest, large tracts of the estate remained heavily wooded; the sprawling three-storied mansion only came into clear sight when the carriage left the shelter of the massive oaks lining the drive to that point. Thereafter, the view was unimpeded, the drive following the edge of the great south lawn to the graveled forecourt before the steps leading up to the impressive front door.

  Ryder had experienced that first view many times, knew just how the westering sun would be gilding the pale stone, how it would glint and gleam in the leaded glass of the many windows. Regardless, normally he would have looked—would have let his gaze skate over the massive structure, the crenellated roofline, the dome of the skylight above the front hall rising behind—and felt the satisfaction of ownership, of looking upon that which most clearly defined him; today, however, another sight compelled his complete and unwavering attention.

  He watched Mary’s face as she set eyes on her future home—on the house that would be their principal residence, their true home—for the first time. To his disquiet, sudden panic of a sort threaded through his thoughts: What if she didn’t like it?

  Before he had time even to register concern over being subject to such a needy feeling, it was rendered irrelevant by the sheer delight that swept over his new wife’s face.

  Her expression one of avid, eager, indeed covetous interest, she leaned closer to the window the better to drink in all there was to see. Relaxing against the seat, he assured himself that all was, and would be, well.

  As the carriage slowed to swing into the forecourt, he seized the moment to look out himself, an emotional as well as practical reassurance. Although parts of the great house were ancient, the façade had been renovated in the Palladian style so beloved by his grandfather’s generation. The result had been worth the blunt; not even he, who saw it so often, failed to appreciate that first glimpse.

  As per his orders, the entire household were turned out in their best, ranked in a long line that stretched from the middle of the forecourt all the way up the steps to the front porch, ready and waiting to welcome his marchioness.

  When the coach rocked to a halt, he waited for the groom to drop down and ceremonially open the door, then he stepped out, turned, and offered his hand to Mary. Reaching out, she laid her hand in his; looking past him, she hesitated.

  Understanding, he murmured, “Everything’s in place. You look perfect.”

  Her eyes flicked to his, her lips curving in acknowledgment that he’d read her thoughts correctly; after their adventuring, he’d relaced her gown and helped her tidy her hair, but, of course, she’d wondered.

  Gripping his fingers, Mary drew in a breath and allowed Ryder to help her out. She was finally there, at a point she’d always dreamt about—she was about to walk into her own home, to be welcomed by the staff who would henceforth be hers to command.

  Flicking out her skirts with her free hand, she raised her head and fixed her gaze on the stately butler waiting at the head of the line.

  Ryder led her forward. “My dear, permit me to present Forsythe. He’s been butler here since I was in short-coats.”

  Despite Forsythe’s efforts to rein in his smile, it broke through the instant before he bowed. “Welcome to Raventhorne Abbey, my lady.” Straightening, he went on, “On behalf of the staff I bid you welcome to your new home, and tender our sincere hopes that your reign here will be a long and happy one.”

  Returning Forsythe’s smile was easy. “Thank you, Forsythe.” Mary raised her voice as she looked down the length of the line. “I’m delighted to be here, to have been chosen by your master to fill the shoes of his marchioness. I’m looking forward to working with you all.” Glancing at Forsythe, she waved him forward. “If you would?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” With a little nod, Forsythe moved ahead of her, pausing before each member of the household to introduce them, and in a few words outlining their position or duties within the house.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Pritchard, was a thin woman of indeterminate years, with a poker-straight back and an incipient twinkle in her gray eyes; after being greeted by her and exchanging a few words, Mary felt reasonably hopeful that their relationship—arguably the most vital to the success of her tenure as Ryder’s marchioness—would prosper. If she was reading Mrs. Pritchard aright, the housekeeper was disposed to approve of any lady Ryder had chosen as his.

  Very likely the housekeeper was a longtime victim of her husband’s insidious charm; if so, Mary wasn’t about to complain.

  Collier was next in line; Mary greeted him with open pleasure. Her own maid, Aggie, stood next to Collier, beaming fit to burst; Aggie had left Upper Brook Street immediately after the wedding, driven to the Abbey in another of Ryder’s coaches along with Collier and all their luggage. Although Aggie put nothing into words, from her sparkling eyes Mary could tell her maid was beyond delighted with her new post, her new household.

  Following Forsythe down the line, with Ryder strolling nonchalantly behind, Mary quickly realized that she, rather than Ryder, was the absolute focus of every member of the staff’s attention. Ryder, apparently, they knew well—well enough not to exhibit any nervousness of him; curious, she gauged the quality of their ease and concluded his staff had long ago learned that while the lion might roar, he wouldn’t bite.

  Which, given that that relaxed ease extended to even the young grooms and pot-boys, told her quite a lot about Ryder. The Ryder who lived there, away from the ton and the more rigid social demands of his position.

  She looked, too, for any adverse reactions to her advent into the staff’s lives. She’d assumed there would be at least one or two less than happy with her arrival—having a mistress as well as a master was a very different situation—yet all she detected was a universal curiosity and interest, the mirror of the interest she felt toward them.

  Reaching the scullery maid at the end of the line, after smiling encouragingly at the young girl, Mary stepped onto the porch at the top of the steps. Turning, she said, “Thank you, Forsythe.” She nodded at the housekeeper, who had followed behind Ryder. “Mrs. Pritchard.” Raising her head and her voice, she smoothly continued, “And thank you all for your welcome. I hope we’ll have many years of working together in this house, making sure the House of Cavanaugh prospers into the future.”

  An enthusiastic chorus of “Yes, my lady! Indeed, my
lady! Thank you, my lady!” rolled up the steps as the assembled staff bowed and bobbed.

  Mrs. Pritchard beamed. “Thank you, ma’am. Now, pending your approval, we’ve held dinner back until nine o’clock, thinking you might want to see your new rooms and settle in, but if you’d rather dine earlier . . . ?”

  “No, no.” Mary looked at Ryder, recalled the hints Stacie had let fall, and Aggie’s bubbling eagerness. “I believe I would like to see my rooms first.” Glancing back at Mrs. Pritchard, she nodded. “My compliments to Cook—nine o’clock will be perfect.”

  Ryder smiled his slow smile. “In that case, my dear, allow me to show you upstairs.”

  Taking his arm, she smiled and did.

  Ryder hadn’t expected to feel . . . whatever it was he felt. A complex mix of pride, subtle excitement, an insidious eagerness he couldn’t remember experiencing since he’d been a young boy, and, beyond all else, simple happiness. He’d got what he’d wanted; Mary was his wife, and now she was here, in the house he considered his home.

  Triumph had never felt so . . . fulfilling.

  So filled with promise.

  He led her up the wide staircase with its twin suits of armor on the landing. “Incidentally, don’t think of getting rid of these—they’re Forsythe’s pride and joy.”

  She glanced at him, then halted to study the armor; after a moment, she turned and went with him up the next flight. “I think they’re rather fitting. Appropriate. I take it they belonged to some ancestors?”

  “So we’ve been told.” Ryder glanced back at the armor. “Mind you, I’ve never been convinced. They’re rather short for Cavanaughs.”

  She laughed. Smiling, he caught her hand and towed her around the gallery, then on down the wide north corridor. “This is the family wing. Our apartments lie across the end and on either side of the corridor, but the primary access is through the door at the end.”