The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Reaching that door, he grasped the knob; watching her face, he set the door swinging wide. “Which leads to the marchioness’s sitting room.”

  She looked in, and her eyes grew round. Pleasure bloomed in her face as her lips formed a soundless O of delight, then she rushed in.

  Grinning, as delighted as she, he followed.

  “Oh, my lord!” Pirouetting in the center of the room, Mary meant the words literally. “The colors . . . they’re perfect!” A silvery blue contrasted with her signature cornflower-blue, highlighted with a stripe of dark violet; the three colors in various strengths combined in the silks covering the walls, in the fabrics of the upholstery on the twin chaises and various chairs, in turn echoed by a similar but darker version of the same leaf-pattern in the long curtains, presently looped back to allow light to stream in through the two long windows.

  Between the windows sat a delicate lady’s writing desk, the lamp upon it a fanciful design echoing the leaf motif. A set of crystal inkwells and fine ivory pens lay ready to be used beside a blotter framed in blue leather.

  All the wooden furniture—the chests against the walls, the low table between the chaises, the frames of the chaises themselves—was of golden oak, with a patina that just begged to be touched, stroked. As she flitted about the room, trailing her fingers over this surface and that, appreciating the tactile and visual delights and the small, subtle touches like the lamp and the clock on the mantelpiece—a simple gold dial framed in delicate gold leaves—Mary registered the implication. Slowing, she turned to Ryder.

  He’d closed the door but had halted before it, watching her.

  “You had all this done.” Statement, not a question; he had to have for the color to match so perfectly. “In just . . .” She paused to calculate. “Fifteen, sixteen days at most.” She looked around, marveling. “You managed all this.” Clearly he had, but she knew what that must have entailed. Not just the cost, but the organization.

  He shrugged lightly and came forward. “You being you made choosing the colors easy, and as for the rest . . .” He glanced around, then looked down at her. “Your rooms at Raventhorne House are still being finished, but”—he waved to the door to his left—“all your rooms here, your bedroom and more, are ready to receive you.”

  She didn’t need a second invitation but went straight to the door he’d indicated. There was another door in the mirror position in the opposite wall; she assumed it led to his bedroom. Opening the door to which he’d directed her, she walked through, knowing he followed, that he was watching, gauging her reaction, her response, that his satisfaction sprang from pleasing her. From knowing his gift had.

  It wasn’t hard to openly show her pleasure and give him that satisfaction; the bed was a large oak four-poster, solidly framed but delicately carved, the same leaf motif dominating. The fabrics and patterns from the sitting room were redeployed, but in more luxurious, sumptuous weights. The silver-blue sheets were fine satin, the coverlet a heavier, richer satin rendition of the upholstery pattern, with the embroidery on some of the mound of pillows picked out in the deeper hues.

  And then there were the windows. One pair, long and narrow, looked north, but the pair flanking the bed, although equally tall, were wider. Sweeping up to one, she looked out.

  “The rose garden.” Ryder came to stand behind her.

  It was June; the large, well-tended bushes were in full leaf, and buds were starting to unfurl, the rich pink, apricot, white, and deep red blooms splashes of color amid the dark green. Stone paths framed the beds, and an old stone fountain stood in the center of the square garden. Mary knew about roses. “Someone did an excellent job designing it.” She glanced over her shoulder at Ryder. “Your stepmother?”

  He shook his head. “As far as I know, Lavinia never had much interest in the gardens. According to the old head gardener—who is older than Methuselah—it was my mother and he together who made it.” He hesitated, then added, “Even though she died when I was young, I still remember it was her favorite place outside. If she was in the gardens, I’d always be taken to her there. She’d be sitting on that bench at the end of the walk.”

  Mary noted the bench, could guess the view it would give of the house. “There’s a rose garden a bit like this one at Somersham Place—with a similar bench.” She glanced up at Ryder and grinned. “Perhaps it’s one of those things the principal residences of all the major families are supposed to have.”

  He softly snorted, then met her eyes. “More like something all the relevant ladies decided needed to be—their civilizing influence made manifest.”

  She chuckled and turned to the door leading to the next room; as she’d supposed, it proved to be her dressing room.

  A fabulous dressing room, large and airy, with a wide dressing table set between a smaller pair of windows, and numerous chests of drawers and two armoires. Her gowns were already hanging in one, her petticoats and shawls in the other. “This,” she said, slowly twirling to take in the entirety, “is more like a boudoir.”

  Ryder shrugged as he joined her. “Lavinia used it as such—she used to meet with her children here, rather than in the sitting room.”

  Detecting something more behind the comment, Mary arched a brow.

  His lips twisted wryly. “So she ran no risk of my father coming in or overhearing anything she said. By tacit agreement this room was hers, and he wouldn’t have intruded without an invitation.”

  She held his gaze. “Does it bother you that these rooms were once Lavinia’s? That she replaced your mother here”—she gestured—“in the marchioness’s suite?”

  He didn’t try to duck the question. After a moment of consideration—while staring into her eyes so she saw him look inward and actually consult his feelings—his lips slowly curved. Refocusing on her, he shook his head. “No. In fact . . . I suspect that’s one reason I so enjoyed doing this—finally and completely supplanting Lavinia with you—and why I so enjoy seeing you . . . happy here.”

  Holding his gaze, she smiled back, equally sincere. “And I am very happy.” Even more that he’d answered without reserve. Stretching up, placing a hand on his cheek to steady herself, she lightly kissed his lips.

  When he didn’t respond, she drew back and, openly puzzled, cocked her head in question.

  His lips quirked. “Before we get distracted, there’s something I want to give you.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “More?”

  In reply he crossed to the dressing table. Her brushes and combs, her box of hair ornaments, and her jewelry box were neatly arrayed on the surface, reflected in the triple-paned mirror. Opening the narrow drawer below the center of the table, he reached in and drew out a velvet-covered box. Turning to her, he offered it. “These are for you.”

  Eyes locked on the box, eagerness, delight, and expectation flaring, she reached for it. Took it, opened it—and gasped. “Oh!” That was all she could manage; mere words couldn’t do justice to what lay within. “It’s . . . they are . . .” Fabulous, unbelievable, amazing. “Exquisite.”

  She continued to stare at the matching necklace, bracelet, and earrings in utterly speechless delight.

  Ryder drank in the sight and felt his own delight well. Reaching into the box, he eased the necklace from its bed on the white velvet. “I’ll remember, next time I want to see you stunned, to offer you jewelry.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, “but this isn’t just jewelry. This is a fantasy rendered in jewels.” Swinging around, presenting him with her back, she all but jigged. “Put it on. I have to see.”

  Her joy was infectious. His smile couldn’t have got broader as he looped the delicate confection about her throat, then bent to fasten the catch. “There.” He straightened.

  Standing before the mirror, eagerly and excitedly viewing her reflection, with spread fingers she gently patted the necklace into place, then with her fingertips touched
, lightly traced.

  The complex creation of diamonds and violet-blue sapphires quivered. Each marquise-cut diamond represented a leaf or the petal of a flower, each individual diamond suspended on fine wire around the richly colored sapphires. The latter, large and vivid, formed the center of each flower, and were set in the actual links of necklace, while the diamonds trembled in a delicate, glittering, surrounding frame.

  She looked up, in the mirror met his eyes. Then she whirled and flung herself into his arms.

  He laughed and caught her; setting the jeweler’s box aside, framing his face with her hands, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him.

  He tried to kiss her, but she drew back and pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, punctuating each with a “Thank you.”

  But eventually he recaptured her lips and took her mouth, slow and achingly complete, and she sighed, relaxed against him, and allowed it.

  For long moments they communed, through the simple kiss sharing the essence of thoughts and feelings, alluding to the wants and needs that, unsurprisingly, smoldered, presently latent, but nonetheless there.

  The whir and bong of a clock drew them back to earth, to the here and now of their new reality. Their now joint life.

  Breaking the kiss, they yet remained as they were, locked together. She looked into his eyes, her own reflecting a deep content, as if for once she saw no reason to rush, and every reason to savor. Then her lips, lightly swollen from his kisses, curved, and she pulled back. Reluctantly, he let her go.

  Her smile deepened a touch. “Come, my lord, and help me drape myself in your gifts.” Turning to the dressing table, she picked up the bracelet and held it up for him to take. “And then”—she met his eyes—“we have our first dinner to attend.”

  His smile a mirror of hers—his content a mirror of hers—he lifted the delicate bracelet from her fingers and did as he was bid.

  The dinner was, in Mary’s estimation, impossible to fault. Although they were separated by the length of the table, at least it was the smaller table in the family dining room and not the formal dining room’s fifty-plus-foot monstrosity, and neither she nor Ryder was so foolish as to suggest she move up the table to the place on his left, not when the staff were so obviously primed to serve her her first meal in the house with all due pomp and ceremony.

  Aside from said pomp and ceremony, which was flawlessly executed, the dishes were a superb combination of light and delicious for her, and hearty and tasty for Ryder. While he endeavored to do justice to the cook’s offerings, she chatted, wine goblet cradled between her hands, reminiscing about moments during the wedding ceremony and the breakfast, filling him in on scenes he might not have noticed, happenings he might not have observed.

  The table could comfortably seat twelve, but she had no difficulty projecting her voice to the required degree. Ryder clearly heard, nodding, fleetingly smiling or laughing as appropriate. Mary also noted that the two footmen who stood like statues, their backs to the wall, and Forsythe, too, who waited behind Ryder’s chair, were listening avidly, no doubt making mental notes so they could share with the rest of the staff later. Recognizing the likelihood, she extended her descriptions, making them more colorful; at one point, Ryder cut her a puzzled glance, but when she smiled and let her gaze wander to the footman to his right, he realized, grinned, and returned to the business of eating.

  He was a large man; he ate a lot. But when the covers were finally drawn and she arched a brow at him, questioning whether he intended to indulge in a brandy in splendid isolation, he smiled, tossed his napkin on the table, rose, and came to join her as the footman drew back her chair and she came to her feet.

  Taking her hand, Ryder twined her arm with his. “Come—I’ll show you the drawing room.”

  He did. In typical country house fashion, it was a large and comfortable room, sufficiently fashionably furnished to pass muster, but here, in the country, practical comfort had a higher priority. Drifting about the room, taking note of the gentle warmth thrown by the small but cheery fire, she murmured, “It’s a warm place—and I’m not talking about the temperature.” Turning to Ryder, she smiled. “It’s welcoming and relaxing—it feels like home.”

  Eyes on hers, he merely nodded. After an instant’s hesitation, he asked, “Do you want to sit here?”

  She glanced around the room, then looked back at him. “I know Mrs. Pritchard will show me around tomorrow on my official tour, so to speak, but perhaps you could give me a quick introduction to the rooms down here, and tell me which ones are used for what.” She wanted to, was impatient to, find his place—the room he retreated to when in this house—preferably without asking him directly.

  Patently content to fall in with her wishes, he showed her the morning room and the garden parlor; they spent several minutes in the formal dining room while he appeased her curiosity over those of his ancestors who looked down from the portraits on the walls. They glanced into the estate office and his study next door—too tidy, in her estimation, to be his principal den.

  But at the last, he ushered her into the library, and she knew she’d discovered his particular spot. The long room was laid out similarly to the library in the London house, with packed bookshelves lining the walls, a massive stone hearth in the center of the inner wall, three long double windows set in the wall opposite the fireplace, and a heavy desk in prime position at the far end of the room.

  Two long sofas and four well-padded armchairs were grouped before the fire, and nearer to hand a large round library table provided a place on which to consult the leather-bound tomes. A library ladder stood in one corner, providing access to the upper gallery that ran around all four sides of the room.

  Her gaze drawn upward, she slowly turned, taking in the glory of the paintings in the panels high above.

  This library, she realized, was the original the other was drawn from. Both were so similar, but this room was created on a scale several times greater and grander. Also older, and somehow more solid.

  And this room was lived in; she could sense it, a subtle scent of longtime human presence that had sunk into fabric and wood. The desk, moreover, showed obvious evidence of frequent use—marks on the blotter, several pens in the tray along with a letter knife and stubs of sealing wax.

  “Your father used to use this room, too, didn’t he?” She looked to where Ryder had paused near the sofas. When he nodded, she asked, “When did he die? Some years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Six.”

  No lingering effect could be so strong; it was Ryder’s presence she was sensing.

  Satisfied she’d discovered his den, she walked past the desk to study the books in the shelves beyond it. Lamps in the room’s corners had been lit; in the soft light, the lettering on the leather spines glinted. “Philosophy,” she murmured, then continued her ambling perusal.

  Ryder stood and watched her for several minutes, then picked up a book he’d left by his usual chair, sat, made himself comfortable, and left her to it.

  Wondered if he could.

  As he’d suspected, the words on the page failed to divert his attention from her. Weren’t strong enough to drag his senses from her, she who had become their cynosure.

  When she paused to examine the twin suits of medieval armor standing between the windows, he murmured, “Forsythe again. They’ve become his hobby.”

  She glanced at him; even though he hadn’t looked at her he felt the touch of her gaze. “Are there more of them?”

  “In the attics. I gather Forsythe occasionally slips up there to oil and polish them. He’s become something of an authority, I believe.”

  “Hmm.” With that she wandered on, effortlessly leading his senses on a circuit of the room.

  At the end of it, she returned to the southwest corner—books on gardening—selected a tome, then came to sit with a swish of her skirts in the armchair across from his.

/>   Legs curled half under her, she wriggled, then settled, opened the book, and, without a single glance at him, started flicking through it.

  Returning his gaze to the book in his hands, Ryder attempted to persuade his errant senses to focus on the words, and not on her.

  Locating an appropriate page, Mary fixed her eyes on it but didn’t read. Instead, she reviewed. Herself, her state. And his. Here they were, husband and wife, sitting comfortably in his library reading. She’d surrendered to Fate, and The Lady’s dictates, and this was where they’d landed her.

  Which was well enough in its way, yet she was only halfway to her ultimate goal.

  She had his ring on her finger and was certain she could rely on having his strength at her back, but she’d yet to secure that one most vital thing—his love declared and acknowledged, at least between them.

  That was the minimum she would, could, settle for.

  So here they were. How should she move them forward?

  Staring unseeing at the neat black print, she revisited all their previous private interactions; she searched and evaluated, seeking to identify the most direct and unrestrained and unrestricted means of communication, the most certain route to claiming his unfettered attention and persuading and convincing him of the value in taking that one last step.

  She now knew him well enough to be sure that, with him, persuading and convincing was the only way to go. And regardless of all else, she was going to have to demonstrate the value, the real and true purpose of love.

  Which meant she would have to define exactly what that was for him and her and their future together—the shared life they would live in this house.

  And this was, after all, their wedding night; what better time to start?

  Closing the book in her lap, she looked at him.

  Although he responded slowly, she knew that was a sham. Raising his gaze to her face, he searched her eyes, then arched a fashionably languid brow.