The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (23 page)

Even as the question formed, his senses registered the slow, gentle touch of her fingers stroking his hair. For long moments, eyes closed, he simply savored; if he’d been the lion most likened him to, he would have purred.

He couldn’t recall ever feeling this degree of postcoital glow.

He dwelled on the feeling for several smug seconds, but as his senses expanded and registered the glory of her very female body lying surrendered and thoroughly possessed beneath him, some part of him insisted he had to take his weight off her. Surrendering to the compulsion, he shifted his arms and eased up. Looking down at her face, he murmured, “Are you all right?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curved in a smile that reinforced the words. “I’m de-light-fully splendid.” Her hand resting on his shoulder gently squeezed. “Thank you.”

The degree of triumph he felt was ridiculous. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

A spurt of soft laughter escaped her. “We could go on for ages if I tried to cap that, so I won’t.”

“Good thinking.” He started to ease back, to withdraw from the slick sheath still lightly gripping.

Her legs, which had at some point risen to grip his flanks, tightened, along with her sheath. “Must you?”

He looked back at her face; she still hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was not a single tense line marring the madonna-like bliss stamped over her features. “No, but aren’t I too heavy for you?”

She shook her head, dark curls whispering across his pillow. “I feel like Goldilocks. You’re
just
right. I like the feel of you on me, inside me—I like the hardness and the heat.”

Arguing with that . . . was impossible. With a soft grunt, he let himself back down, not entirely as he had been before, but enough to satisfy her as well as him.

Relaxing again, he settled with his head beside hers, and she resumed her gentle stroking of his hair.

Sensing that remarkably intense satiation rolling back, he mumbled, “I’ll have to take you home fairly soon.”

“Hmm,” was all Mary said. Her boldness had gained her far more than she’d hoped. Her lips curved lightly. “Soon.”

Chapter Ten

“I
t’s beyond bearing!” Lavinia swept into her boudoir. Tossing her fashionable bonnet across the room uncaring of where it landed, she rounded on Claude Potherby as he followed her in; her color high, she spread her hands in appeal. “Who will rid me of this wretched knave?”

Claude smiled. “Very dramatic, my dear. Sadly, I see no one lining up to do the deed, and if you imagine I might be moved to consider it, do please hold me excused.”

“Hah!” As was Lavinia’s wont when agitated, she fell to pacing back and forth before the hearth. Eyes cast down, she gnawed on a nail. “Did you see that new phaeton of his? It’s the most outrageously dangerous contraption—I’m surprised the Cynsters didn’t raise a fuss rather than allow their darling to be driven at such a clip about the streets.”

Having joined Lavinia in the park, Claude had seen the couple of the moment tooling about the avenues. Sinking into an armchair, he inwardly sighed. “My dear, if you’re entertaining any notion that Ryder might lose control of his horses, overturn his carriage, and break his neck, I fear you’ll be disappointed. He’s a highly regarded whip, and while I grant his horses are headstrong, he’s more than capable of holding ’em.”

Lavinia replied with a disgusted sniff.

After a moment, she said, as if reciting a litany, “First, he was born sickly, and everyone, even his doting father, was sure he would die. But he didn’t. Then he went off to school and embarked on every dangerous exploit you might name. And he survived them all.
Then
he took up with blades and bucks and hunted and whored and raced curricles and mail-coaches and God knows what. Others died, but he never came close!” Dark eyes burning, she kicked at her skirts. “And then he came on the town, and started on his merry way seducing every second lady—you’d think at least
one
of the small army of husbands he cuckolded would have had the grace to challenge him, but did they?”

Claude converted his involuntary grin into a grimace. “My dear, you really will have to excuse them. As I understand it, Ryder has never given any gentleman cause to risk their necks—and it would be that, you know. He’s a tolerably good shot from all I’ve heard.”

“I don’t
care
!” In a huff, Lavinia flung herself into the other armchair. “I just want him gone and Randolph the marquess.”

Claude studied her for a moment, then quietly, soberly, said, “My dear, you really must give this up. All you said of Ryder might be correct, but if anything, that should convince you he leads a charmed life. He’s not going to die, and Randolph is not going to become the marquess, and no good ever came of railing thus against Fate.”

“Huh!” Lavinia sulked.

Regarding her critically, Claude quietly sighed. He really didn’t know what he saw in her. Certainly he had no good explanation for why he continued to remain so devotedly by her side.

Rather like a spaniel.

He didn’t see himself as a lapdog, and he doubted others did, either. The truth was . . . Lavinia had become a convenient habit. Remaining by her side allowed him to move in their mutual social circles without becoming the target his wealth would otherwise have made him, and as he’d never been interested in any other woman, the arrangement suited him. It still did. So he waited with a patience that was growing wearyingly thin for her to set aside her impractical dreams and return to real life, and him.

“Y
ou know, it’s a very good thing that you insisted that our wedding be a lavish affair.” Mary glanced up at Ryder, standing beside her midway down the St. Ives House ballroom; it was midafternoon, and all around them, the guests gathered to celebrate James and Henrietta’s wedding mingled and conversed. “Given Henrietta and James elected to have a small wedding, and it’s been more than a decade since Amelia and Amanda wed, then I’m sure if we’d opted for a small wedding, too, poor Mama would have felt quite shortchanged.”

Settling his hand over hers as it rested on his sleeve—a proprietary gesture he couldn’t seem to resist and one she didn’t appear to notice, or did and chose to allow—Ryder smiled and, like her, considered those present. Although small by ton standards, the wedding and this subsequent breakfast had overflowed with familial warmth, genial good cheer, and the expectant joy of a new couple devoted to their joint future. Participating had left him even more certain that, on his own quest for a similar future, he was precisely where he needed to be—by Mary Cynster’s side.

As Henrietta’s maid of honor, Mary was wearing a gold gown, rather than her signature blue. Most of her gowns were blue—not just her ball gowns but her day gowns and walking gowns as well—in a variety of shades that either matched or made the most of her eyes.

Which, admittedly, were a striking color.

He wondered whether their children would inherit his hazel or her blue.

Which thought, unsurprisingly, led to memories of their activities two nights before.

When they’d finally stirred and left his bed, the sense that, regardless of appearances, with her he’d stepped into unfamiliar territory had only intensified. There’d been a pronounced lack of any awkwardness; their admittedly temporary parting had all gone too easily. He’d told himself it was because between them the question of whether they would meet again in a bedroom did not apply, yet . . .

Why that ease had bothered him he had no clue, but getting her safely home had been a simple matter; if her coachman was discreet, his was even more so. But he’d insisted on seeing her into the house, thus learning of the back parlor window she used to gain access.

He hadn’t seen her last night, which the experienced strategist within considered just as well. No reason for her to realize that he was as eager for their second round as she had been for the first. She’d seemed in fine fettle the following morning when he’d taken her for a drive in the park, but from midday yesterday to now she’d been caught up in the whirl of the wedding; he’d used the time to catch up with business, but last night had joined James, most of the Cynster males, and several others in bidding adieu to James’s bachelorhood.

It had been a merry night, one filled with more examples of the familial camaraderie the Cynsters possessed in such abundance and that he craved; he wanted to establish and nurture that same feeling between the Cavanaughs, starting from his generation. Deep in his instinctive warrior-brain, he viewed such a fundamental and emotional linking as a massive strength—one his family lacked.

Beside him, Mary stirred. Before she could direct him, he stepped out, taking her on a perambulation through the gathered guests.

She shot him a glance, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, feigning obliviousness; he delighted in confounding her, especially when she thought to order him about.

They paused to speak with Lord and Lady Glossup, James’s parents and connections of Ryder’s. The senior Glossups spent most of their time at Glossup Hall in Dorset, but they had traveled to London for the wedding. Their delight in their son’s joy was transparent, and in the company of those present the reclusive pair felt little restraint in allowing their pleasure to show.

As Ryder and Mary moved on, she leaned close and confided, “Henrietta was worried that they might find the crowd difficult, but they seem quite at ease.”

Ryder glanced at her. “They used to spend much more time in the ton, but as the years went by, they grew to prefer the country—Catherine, mostly, but Harold, too.”

“I think Henrietta was more concerned that after the unfortunate incident involving the wife of James’s older brother Henry”—Mary gestured—“Lord and Lady Glossup might find socializing more difficult, but they seem to have recovered, enough at least to do James and Henrietta proud, which is the main thing.”

“Indeed.” Ryder glanced over the heads at a sober gentleman standing quietly by one wall. “Although he put on a brave face for the wedding, Henry still seems . . .”

“Sad,” Mary supplied. “Just that—simply sad. One can only hope he’ll recover.”

Ryder arched a brow at her. “You do realize he’s a connection of mine? And once we wed, you will be the matriarch of the wider family. I would have thought,” he went on, looking ahead, “that you might consider assisting with Henry’s recovery.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mary’s smile brighten. “What a lovely idea—I hadn’t realized the connection was so definite.”

Ryder nodded, without compunction throwing Henry to her wolf. “Roundabout in a way, but solid.” From all he’d seen, male familial camaraderie invariably involved encouraging those not leg-shackled to surrender to their fate. And if one could earn approval from one’s wife along the way, all the better. “And don’t forget Oswald—James’s younger brother. He’ll assuredly need help.”

“Hmm,” was all Mary said.

Simon hove out of the crowd and waylaid them. “There you are.” He grinned at Mary, then addressed Ryder. “I—” Simon broke off as the Honorable Barnaby Adair joined them.

Barnaby greeted them with his customary debonair charm; Mary knew him well, and Ryder had met him on several occasions since throwing his lot in with the Cynsters.

“We,” Simon resumed, “wondered if you’d got any firm word on who sent those two men to kill you?”

Ryder hadn’t intended to bring up the subject, but . . . “No. St. Ives sent word that Fitzhugh had denied any knowledge, and those who heard him are inclined to believe him—and I’d have to say that would be my reading of the man, too. In the throes of a red-hot rage he might have sent men after me, but he’s not the sort, once he cools down, to lie and deny.”

“No matter the likely repercussions?” Barnaby asked.

Ryder considered, then slowly shook his head. “I would say that, regardless of his temper, Fitzhugh is an honorable man.”

Simon wrinkled his nose. “That was Devil’s view, too.” He met Ryder’s gaze. “So as matters stand we still have no idea who hired those men to kill you, much less why.”

Mary shifted so she could see Ryder’s face. His gaze flicked her way, rested on her eyes; she didn’t need speech to know he would rather she wasn’t exposed to the discussion, but if he thought she would excuse herself and move away—or let the three of them leave her—he could think again.

Apparently doing so, he shifted his gaze to Simon and Barnaby, and after a moment said, “My investigator pushed harder and learned that the man who hired the pair was a shady solicitor, but one working well outside his patch. The investigator paid said solicitor a visit, but only hit an even more definite dead end. The solicitor helpfully described the man who hired him to hire the pair of thugs, but the description would fit thousands of men in ton household staffs.”

Barnaby frowned. “The man who hired the solicitor was a servant?”

Ryder nodded. “No livery, of course, and the solicitor thought not upper-level staff, but from the solicitor’s description the man could have been anything from a footman out of uniform to a groom or stableman.”

“Or he could have been someone hired to hire the solicitor, and so on.” Simon shook his head. “Our chances of finding such a man amid the thousands . . .”

For a moment, no one said anything, then Barnaby stirred. He met Ryder’s eyes. “Given the situation, while I would rather it wasn’t so, I feel compelled to point out that you need to stay alert.” Barnaby’s eyes shifted very briefly to Mary, then returned to Ryder’s face. “If someone went to all that trouble to hire two men to kill you, then in my experience it’s unlikely that after a single failure, they’ll stop. It’s much more likely that they’ll try again.”

An instant passed; Mary looked from Ryder to Barnaby and back again. Then Ryder inclined his head. “Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.”

Mary inwardly frowned. Bear what in mind? She got the distinct impression that the last part of the conversation had turned masculinely oblique.

Before she could think of how to press for clarification, Barnaby distracted her with a message from Penelope, and then an observation about his heir, young Oliver.

Simon trumped that with an anecdote about his two, also very young children. Mary had to hide a grin; it was truly amazing how fatherhood affected men like her brother, like Barnaby—and presumably, like Ryder. Something to look forward to; her grin blossomed into a smile and she shot a glance at him.

He felt it, met it; his eyes studied hers briefly, and she suspected he read her thoughts reasonably well, for he arched a brow at her.

But then the musicians started playing the wedding waltz, and the crowd eagerly drew back to give Henrietta and James the floor.

Mary watched her sister revolve in James’s arms and had no trouble at all discerning the love that flowed between them. It was there for all to see, given shining life in the gaze they shared, in the way Henrietta’s lips softly curved and her whole countenance glowed. Equally definite love shone in James’s expression, not intent any longer but focused in that particular way that signaled to any who were sensitive to the sight that his entire life was now Henrietta’s, devoted to her, committed to her and to the life they would establish and share.

With my body, I thee worship.

That was what the wedding waltz signified. They’d made the vow earlier, but this—this was the physical expression, one that brought tears to many eyes and a soft smile to the faces of all those watching.

Mary blinked, and realized she, too, was smiling, but beneath the joy for her sister and her new brother-in-law welled a determination that she, too, would have that. Precisely that.

A wedding waltz like that was what she wanted.

Simon had left to find Portia; Barnaby had gone to hunt for Penelope.

Ryder gripped Mary’s elbow, bent his head, and murmured, “Time to join them.”

“Indeed.” Keeping her smile appropriately gentle, keeping her determination screened, she allowed him to lead her forward and turn her into his arms, and together they stepped into the swirl of family members joining the newlyweds on the floor.

Ryder was grateful for the waltz; it gave him something with which to satisfy, however temporarily, the hungry beast prowling within. To soothe and distract that inner self from the concatenation of provocations all prodding him in one direction.