The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (42 page)

But she could smile. Ryder held the door to the sitting room open; she flashed a beaming smile at him as she stepped inside—and, catching his hand as she passed, she towed him to the left—to her bedroom. The room he’d had decorated so superbly for her, but which they’d yet to use.

Collecting the lighted candelabra from the sideboard as they passed, he followed readily enough, as, indeed, he had all day, but when she halted and swung to face him, he looked into her eyes, arched a brow. “Are you sure you want to sleep here?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “This morning we buried the past, this afternoon we drew a line under it, and this evening we’ve started on our future. It’s fitting that we use this room tonight—the first night on our new journey.”

Briefly, he searched her eyes, enough to see her decision, her commitment, then nodded. His lips lightly curved. “As ever, your wish is my command.”

She laughed and turned away to pull the pins from her hair.

Setting the candelabra down, Ryder watched for a moment, then shrugged off his coat. Trying to decide where in this room he would leave it, he followed the thought further . . . “I just hope we don’t cause consternation tomorrow morning when Collier and Aggie look for us and find us apparently gone.”

“They’ll realize, I’m sure. No one would dream that you and I would run away.” She presented him with her back. “Help me with these laces.”

Tossing his coat on the end of the bed, he obliged, then, leaving her to strip away her gown, he retrieved his coat and walked down the room to lay it over a chair. After stripping off his waistcoat, he set his fingers to his cravat. He’d just finished unraveling the long band when a rustle had him glancing around—in time to see a nicely naked Mary slip under the sheets.

His smile was all appreciation, not just for the brief sight but in anticipation of what he would shortly find waiting for him in the bed. The lovely bed he’d had created just for her.

They’d been married for only three weeks, yet already they were behaving like a long-married couple. He’d wondered about her unvoiced but clear preference for, most often, undressing separately, each stripping their own clothes off, until he’d realized she liked watching him disrobe. Until he’d realized that she hurried to get her own clothes off so she could lie back in the bed and watch him strip—exactly as she was doing now.

Even if she tried to undress him, if he got his hands on her first, she didn’t get to see this—him revealing himself to her. And in oh-so-many ways.

He didn’t hurry but took his time drawing the cravat away and letting it fall on his waistcoat and coat, then unbuttoning his cuffs before starting on the long placket of buttons closing his shirt.

Beneath the covers, she shifted.

Glancing down to hide his grin, he remembered something he’d been dying to ask. Perhaps tonight was the right time, now the right moment. Stripping off his shirt, he raised his head and looked at her—saw her gaze wasn’t on his face. “I wondered . . .” He waited until, reluctantly, her gaze, followed by her attention, rose to his face before continuing, “If there was anything you wanted to tell me? To share with me?”

She held his gaze for a moment, then, openly coy, arched a brow. “What sort of thing?”

He didn’t immediately reply but slipped off his shoes, sat and stripped off his stockings, then stood; refocusing on her, he prowled slowly to the bed, unfastening the buttons at his waist as he did.

Reaching the bed, he knelt on it, continued his prowling, crawling advance until he was poised on hands and knees over her, all but nose to nose. “I can count, you know.”

Although her eyes remained locked with his, her body stirred, eager, impatient, restless and reckless. Her hands tensed, but she kept them where they were, her arms draped over the pillows above her head, while she debated.

Then she made up her mind and, slowly lifting her arms, wound them about his neck, clasped her hands at his nape, used the leverage to evocatively settle herself beneath him, and smiled.

Cornflower blue glory met his gaze. “Yes,” she murmured and, stretching up, she touched her lips to his chin. “I believe I’m pregnant.” She pressed her lips to his briefly, then drew back to whisper, the words a wash of sensation over his lips, “With your heir.”

She kissed him again—and he kissed her back, the sudden surge of emotion catching them both.

Then she pulled away again, lay back, lips lightly swollen, eyes darkening with desire, and imperiously waved down his body—at his trousers. As he shifted to strip them off his long legs, she said, “Of course, it could well be a girl.”

“I don’t care.” Naked, he lifted the covers and slid beneath—and found her, all silken skin and firm curves, waiting to draw him into her arms. Coming over her, propping himself on his elbows above her, he looked into her eyes, saw her faintly skeptical expression, and smiled. Kissed the tip of her nose. “I truly don’t care—girl or boy, they’ll be the first new bud on our family tree.”

She smiled, then laughed, then she pulled him down to her and their lips and desires met, fused, merged.

And joyously, with open hearts, with minds attuned and souls committed, they gave themselves over to what waited for them—to the power, the passion, and the solid, abiding love that now anchored them.

Their future was clear, the journey defined; as they loved and laughed, they had one goal, one aim, one desire to which they devoted themselves. To which they renewed their commitment with each gasp, with each frantic, desperate clutch of their hands, with each heady, hungry beat of their hearts.

Neither needed any longer to even think of that desire, to shape it with words. It was forged within them and branded on their souls.

They would create a family of their own.

They would fill their house with their children, and work to draw in and encourage their siblings, to build the network of uncles, aunts, and cousins to form the branches and twigs of a healthy family tree.

They would reinvigorate and revitalize and reestablish the Cavanaughs.

Soaring on cataclysmic sensation, they raced, then flew, then tumbled from the peak, spiraling through ecstasy, riding the surging tide.

Hands locked, fingers entwined, in that moment when their hearts beat as one, they breathed in and, from beneath heavy lids, met each other’s eyes.

They would do all that, and then take it further.

Into the future.

Breaths mingling, they held tight to the moment, to the promise in each other’s gazes, then their lips touched, brushed, in a wordless vow. Together they had so much strength, so much passion. So much they could bring to, could devote to, the task.

Family. Forever.

There was no greater, no more satisfying goal.

Epilogue

August, 1837

Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

T
he Cynsters gathered that summer, as they had for the past seventeen years, to celebrate the bounties the year had brought. The weddings, the connections, the children—as always especially the latter. To welcome, to give thanks for, to appreciate all the blessings being such a large, well-anchored, and fruitful family had wrought.

Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, hostess and chief instigator of the gathering, stood on the porch of the sprawling mansion that was her home and surveyed the sea of heads dotting the lawns with deep satisfaction. “For the first time in a very long time—since the triple wedding, I think, and that was in ’29—every last one of us is here.”

Standing beside Honoria, Patience Cynster smiled. “You can thank Henrietta, and even more, Mary, for that. Their timing really was impeccable. With two weddings to attend in such quick succession, and then the death of the king, and Victoria’s ascension, all those who traveled from a distance for the weddings had no chance even to ponder going home before the timing made it too tempting to remain for this event.”

“Indeed.” Catriona strolled along the porch to join them, Phyllida and Alathea ambling beside her. “As one of the second furthest-flung party, while I hadn’t planned on being away for so long, I’m grateful Mary and her Ryder kept us here. If they hadn’t, we would have been in the Vale again before we heard of the king’s illness, and then on his death Richard would have wanted to come south again to assess the political situation.”

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.