The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (27 page)

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

S
everal 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 expected, 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.

T
hey 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.”

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?”