The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Flick, who had paused to lean over the balustrade and admonish one of her sons, caught up; joining the others in looking over the crowd, she sighed contentedly. “It’s growing bigger every year—who would have thought, in that first summer in 1820, that we would, all together, create such a large and robust brood.”

  Honoria snorted. “I’m quite sure our husbands, were they standing here, would claim all honors and declare the sight only right and appropriate, their due and nothing more.”

  The others laughed.

  “Where are they, incidentally?” Like the others, Catriona had instinctively searched for the particular Cynster head that inevitably drew her eye.

  “I saw them heading for the stables.” Resignation colored Flick’s tone. “Demon insisted on riding his latest acquisition over, and, of course, the others all have to look and salivate, and ask when any offspring might be available.”

  The other ladies all smiled, their shared understanding of their husbands’ foibles etched in their expressions. For several minutes, they stood and watched in silence, proud matrons regarding their growing children, while viewing the antics of those even younger with an indulgent eye.

  “I have to say”—Phyllida leaned one hip against the balustrade—“that while I’m quite looking forward to getting my brood home to Devon again, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this year’s gathering.” She glanced at the others. “It feels very much as if it’s the end of an era, with a new one hovering, but not quite here yet.”

  “Hmm.” Alathea was looking at a group of youngsters playing knucklebones at the bottom of the steps. “Gabriel heard that the palace is saying the coronation won’t be until the middle of next year, so we’ll have a little time before the new eventuates.”

  “Socially and politically.” One fine brow arching, Honoria regarded the others. “And possibly on the family front as well.”

  Patience nodded. “It is the end of a generation, isn’t it? Mary was the youngest yet unwed.”

  “True,” Catriona said. “But while it will be ten or more years before the next round of weddings, the births will continue, and those we must celebrate as we always have.”

  “As we always will,” Alathea affirmed. “Monarchs, politicians, and even social habits will wax and wane, but family goes on.”

  “This one at least,” Honoria stated. “And given it’s up to us—and the other ladies—to steer it on, I have no doubt whatever that we’ll manage it.”

  They all laughed, but underneath their amusement, all were resolved, and all understood that. When it came to family—this family—they would stand together, manage together. Go forward into the future, whatever it held, together.

  As if setting out on that next phase of their journey, in a loose group they trailed down the steps and spread out among the throng.

  The last to step down from the porch steps, Honoria, smiling, watched the others as they strolled into the crowd, locating and keeping watch over their bountiful broods. Every union represented there that day had proved fruitful, as the significant number of the next generation milling across the lawns and spilling into various areas of the extensive gardens testified.

  Crossing to where her mother-in-law, Helena, considered the elder matriarch of the clan, sat on a bench, one of the newest additions—Portia and Simon’s Persephone—cradled on her lap, Honoria felt her smile grow wider. The tiny tot, only months old, was gurgling and waving her tiny fists in the air.

  Helena looked up as Honoria approached, met her eyes, smiled her lovely smile, then directed her green gaze round about. “How many are there—do you know?”

  Honoria chuckled. “I counted. We’ve reached seventy-nine, if you can believe it.”

  Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, who had gone for a short walk, returned in time to hear those words. Sinking down on the other end of the bench, she protested, “But you Cynsters can’t take credit for all of those—you’ve the Carmarthen pair here, plus the Kirkpatricks—let alone the Anstruther-Wetherbys, the Ashfords, the Tallents, the Morwellans, the Caxtons, not to mention the Adairs.”

  “True.” Honoria turned to look over the crowd. “But they are all connected in one way or another, and . . . well, that’s how it works, isn’t it? The friendships our children form at gatherings like this will stand them in good stead all their lives.”

  Both Lady Osbaldestone and Helena nodded decisively.

  “You have it exactly right,” Helena said. “This is how it happens, and you and all the others are to be commended for bringing the Cynsters to this.” She paused, then, unusually wistfully, murmured, “I wish Sebastian had lived to see this—he would have been so proud.”

  Lady Osbaldestone humphed. “Aye, well—it wouldn’t have been the same, and might not have happened at all if he’d lived. Sylvester would have been St. Earith, which is not the same as St. Ives, and none of the rest of it might have happened as it did, and . . . well, you take my meaning. Fate has her own ways of taking, then giving, and while she took him, she gave you this. I suspect Sebastian would see that as fitting.”

  Helena softly laughed. “Oh, yes—you’re right in that. He would definitely see this as what should be—an appropriate legacy.”

  Leaving the two grandes dames pointing out and swapping comments on various members of the younger set, Honoria moved on, like any good hostess keeping her finger on the pulse of her widely dispersed guests.

  Helena’s grandson Sebastian, her husband’s namesake and Honoria’s elder son, better known as the Marquess of St. Earith, was the most senior of the next generation; eighteen years old and bidding fair to becoming even more lethally handsome than his father, he was standing with a group comprised of the other seventeen- and sixteen-year-old males—budding gentlemen all. Michael, Sebastian’s brother, was there, as were Christopher and Gregory, Vane and Patience’s older sons, Marcus, Richard and Catriona’s eldest son, Justin, Gabriel and Alathea’s older son, and Aidan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s eldest son. They were, Honoria suspected, swapping tales she’d rather not hear.

  Males, she was well aware, changed little with the generations.

  Luckily, someone had persuaded the fifteen-, fourteen-, and thirteen-year-old lads that overseeing the younger boys playing a spirited game of cricket would be much more fun than listening to their elders fill their heads with adolescent dreams. Nicholas, Demon and Flick’s older son, Evan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s middle son, Julius, Gyles and Francesca’s older son, and Gavin and Bryce, Dominic and Angelica’s wards were actively engaged in the rowdy game presently being waged between two teams formed with the assembled nine-, ten-, and eleven-year old males, of which there were eleven.

  Flick, the most tomboyish of the matrons—and the one who had a passing understanding of the rules of the boys’ game—had been keeping a watchful eye over the group; she ambled up to stand alongside Honoria.

  Registering the names, the faces, the ages, Honoria grinned. “Twenty-six was a good year for males—we added eight to the score that year.”

  Flick frowned. “There were no girls, were there?”

  “Not that year, but we had five the next, and the year after we added two girls, but no boys at all.”

  “Hmm . . . well, if you’re wondering where our young ladies are”—Flick tipped her guinea-gold head toward the walled garden—“I believe they’re swapping secrets in amongst the roses.”

  Honoria smiled. “Predictable, I suppose. Did you see who went that way?”

  “Only Lucilla, my Prudence, and Antonia. As for the rest, your daughter appears to have taken on your mantle—the last I saw she had the others, at least all the girls beyond the stage of rushing about madly playing tag, sitting in a circle on the grass beyond the oaks.”

  Honoria arched her brows. “Knowing Louisa, I suspect I’d better check that they’re all still there and haven’t decided to embark on some adventure or quest.
”

  Laughing, Flick nodded and they parted, Flick to continue ambling beneath the trees, pausing to chat with the other ladies while watching over the boys, while Honoria, also pausing to chat here and there, circled the gathering.

  She passed close enough to the entrance to the rose garden to glimpse the three young ladies seated on the bench at the far end of the central path. Lucilla’s red hair, highlighted by the sun, burned flame bright. Prudence, Demon and Flick’s fair-haired older daughter, was on Lucilla’s right, while Antonia, Gyles and Francesca’s oldest child, dark-haired and vivid, sat on Lucilla’s left. Lucilla was seventeen, the other two sixteen. The three made a striking picture. Honoria noted it, noted the expressive way they were talking, hands gesticulating; smiling, she left them undisturbed.

  By the time she reached the line of oaks bordering the far side of the lawn, more than twenty minutes had passed; she was therefore somewhat relieved to see the bevy of girls still seated on the grass, their dresses a spectrum of pastel hues making them look like so many blooms scattered upon the sward.

  Honoria counted, verifying that all twelve girls aged between nine and fourteen years old were there. Although they were sitting in a circle, there was no doubt who was their leader—her own daughter, Louisa, at fourteen already well on her way to becoming her father’s worst nightmare.

  Louisa was a female version of Devil in oh-so-many ways. Shrewdly intelligent, quick-witted, and very accomplished in managing people, their daughter’s pale green eyes were eerily similar to Devil’s and Helena’s, but the mind behind was, in Honoria’s estimation, even more willful, more stubborn.

  Honoria wasn’t entirely looking forward to managing Devil through the coming years.

  But, as usual, watching her daughter made her lips twitch, made maternal pride well and overflow in quite a different way to when she viewed Sebastian or Michael.

  Turning away, Honoria quit the shadows under the oaks and moved back into the main body of the crowd assembled on the wide south lawn.

  She paused to chat to Francesca and Priscilla, joining them in admiring Jordan, Dillon and Priscilla’s new baby, born mere weeks before and currently lovingly cradled in Priscilla’s arms, then passing on to spend a few minutes with Sarah and Charlie, similarly admiring their young Celia, almost old enough to sit up in her father’s proud arms. The men had started strolling back from the stables to rejoin the gathering, gradually finding their way back to their wives.

  The eleven eight- to six-year-olds, boys and girls both, were engaged in a rambunctious game of tag, weaving in and about their elders, all of whom kept a wary eye on the darting figures flashing past like fish in a stream. The activity had become something of a tradition; quite how the participants managed never to come to grief was a mystery that, despite the years, Honoria had not yet solved.

  Those younger still, five years old or less, were by general consensus relegated to the firm hands of their nursemaids. The maids had clustered on one corner of the lawn, using perambulators, baskets, and satchels to hem in their charges. There were blocks, rings, and a variety of other toys scattered on the grass while toddlers staggered drunkenly and younger ones crawled and they all yelled and laughed.

  Deeming that group safe, Honoria did nothing more than cast a glance over the bright heads. Including those currently in their parents’ arms, there were twenty-five, a number to make any matriarch puffed up.

  Smiling, she moved on through the crowd, then noticed two men standing alone, plainly having failed to find their wives among the once again thickening throng. James Glossup and Ryder Cavanaugh looked faintly lost, but then Luc and Martin strolled up, and an instant later, Portia, having left little Persephone in her grandmother’s care, joined the group, and, no doubt, explained.

  About the one who wasn’t there. And that Amanda, Amelia, Simon, Henrietta, and Mary unfailingly slipped away from the gathering every year to spend a few quiet minutes at Tolly’s grave.

  Just them, the siblings; none of them had been married when Tolly had died.

  Honoria paused, remembering—hearing again the echo of the shot that, for her, too, reverberated down the years. That shot had taken Tolly’s life and had brought her and Devil together. All but forced them together. It had been the start . . . in some ways, of it all.

  Glancing around, she saw all those gathered, acknowledged the number, the strength, the depths of the connections, and, as she had in years past, she raised a mental toast to Tolly. In part, this—all they had become—was because of him. Because of his sacrifice.

  Family in all its aspects—the heartache and the pain, as well as the joy, the warmth, and the wonder.

  After a moment of quiet reflection, Honoria rediscovered her smile and walked on.

  Ten minutes later, Mary materialized at Ryder’s side. When he arched a brow at her, she twined her arm with his, lightly squeezed. “I’ll tell you later.”

  He smiled gently. “No need.” He tipped his head to where Portia stood, Simon having just joined her, while next to Mary, Henrietta had returned to James’s side. “Portia explained.”

  Mary smiled a touch mistily, then drew in a breath and turned to the others.

  As if by agreement, they slid back into their previous occupation, chatting about family and family happenings. Henrietta and James’s bridal trip, from which they had only just returned, provided an easy start.

  “Italy was simply marvelous!” Henrietta assured them.

  “Lots of old ruins, all of which she perforce had to see.” James grinned. “Mind you, some of the statues were arresting.”

  The others laughed, then a shrieking wail cut through the conversations and Portia, alerted, looked around. “Oh, good heavens!” She poked Simon’s shoulder. “Go and rescue poor Milly from your son. He’ll quiet if you carry him about.”

  “My son?” But Simon was already turning to the circle of nursemaids. “Why is he always my son when he’s being difficult?”

  “Well, he didn’t get ‘difficult’ from me, so who else would be responsible?” Portia prodded him on his way, waved to the others, and followed.

  Leaving the other four staring after them, watching . . . after an instant, each couple drew their gazes away and exchanged a private glance, then Henrietta turned to Mary just as Mary turned to her.

  “We’re expecting . . .”

  They’d spoken in unison. Both blinked, then identical smiles bloomed, lighting their faces.

  Henrietta whooped and hugged Mary.

  Who jigged and hugged her tightly back. “When?”

  “March! And you?”

  “Sometime in March, too!”

  James and Ryder, both beaming fit to crack their faces, shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder. “We haven’t told anyone else yet,” Ryder confessed.

  “Neither have we,” James confirmed. He glanced at the crowd all around, then arched a brow at Ryder. “We thought we might wait a few months.”

  “Sound notion,” Ryder said. “We thought the same.”

  The men stood shoulder to shoulder and, with proud expressions stamped on their faces, watched their wives, heads together now, chattering nonstop. Then James said, “It takes a little getting used to, the notion of having a child in your life.”

  “It does.” Ryder nodded. “But I can’t think of a more . . . glorious expectation.”

  “True.” James drew in a half-laughing breath. “It’s a scarifying prospect, but so damned wonderful.”

  Later, when they’d parted from Henrietta and James, each couple swearing to keep the other’s secret, and were once again ambling idly through the crowd, Ryder glanced at Mary, strolling by his side, her arm twined with his. “Would you like to go on a wedding trip, too?”

  She considered, then looked up and, smiling, shook her head. “There’s a lot I want to get settled, at the abbey, on your other esta
tes, and in the London house, too—all before March. I’d rather devote myself to that, and to all the rest we have on our plate, than swan around to places unknown. Sometime, perhaps, when our children are grown . . .” Brows rising, she added, “I really ought to suggest that to Mama. Once we go up to town and Stacie is settled with us, there’s no reason Mama and Papa can’t travel and see more of the world.”

  Ryder’s lips twitched. “The only event I would consider less likely than your father agreeing to leave England when you and Henrietta, or Portia, or even the twins might decide to be increasing is for your mother to agree to such a trip.”

  Mary grimaced. “There is that.”

  A moment later, she drew him to the edge of the lawn. “I’ve been thinking that, quite aside from the estate picnic—which, by the way, I’ve decided should coincide with the harvest—as head of the Cavanaugh family, we really ought to host an event similar to this. Not just for your half siblings, but for the connections, too. As is done here.” She glanced up at him. “It helps—”

  “To bind people together,” he supplied. “To give them common cause.”

  “To underscore the common cause.” Mary nodded, then arched her brows. “So can we?”

  Ryder smiled and started them strolling again. “Organize away, wife, with my blessing.”

  “Excellent!” Beaming with anticipatory delight, Mary walked on.

  Fifteen minutes later, she and Henrietta met again at the tea trolley. Once supplied with full cups by Webster, they retreated to the shade of an oak to sip.

  They were sharing quiet comments on their expectations of the coming months when Lucilla walked past.

  Mary frowned. “Lucilla!” When Lucilla turned, Mary beckoned.

  As Lucilla drew near, Henrietta, too, frowned. She glanced at Mary. “You handed on the necklace, didn’t you? At your engagement ball?”