The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Yet to his cynical surprise, his devotion had proved both durable and persistent; despite being taken for granted for more decades than he cared to count, he was still there, still listening to Lavinia’s ravings—still quietly amused by her unending, ceaseless quest for self-advancement.

  “I tell you it’s insupportable!” Eyes flashing, fists clenched at her sides, she whirled to face him. “How dare that wanton seduce Ryder?”

  Claude blinked. “Ah . . . was that the same wanton you wanted for dear Randolph? Mary Cynster?”

  Lavinia huffed. “Yes—her! To have landed herself in Ryder’s bed—and then—”

  “You know, my sweet, I fail to follow . . . well, several points in your thesis. For instance, everything we, and indeed all the ton, know of Mary Cynster strongly suggests that she is highly unlikely to use seduction as a means to secure her future. As the last Cynster girl of this generation unwed, she has no reason even to expend effort—every eligible gentleman would shortly have been lining up to offer for her hand.”

  Before Lavinia could interrupt, Claude continued, “And while I admit your stepson has never been backward in seducing ladies, he’s never preyed on young ladies, much less any of Miss Cynster’s caliber.” Intrigued by the little Lavinia had thus far let fall, Claude fixed her with an innocently inquiring look. “Are you sure, my dear, that what you and your friends saw wasn’t something rather different? That you didn’t leap to a conclusion that wasn’t, in fact, correct?”

  Lavinia scowled and kicked her skirts about. “I don’t see how else one could interpret what we saw. She was sitting on his damned bed, still in her ball gown, and he was looking like a cat who’d supped well.”

  Claude frowned. “Actually, another point that escapes me is why you and your bosom-bows called on Ryder at all.”

  Lavinia avoided his gaze. After another round of pacing, she all but spat, “If you must know, after Ryder appeared at Lady Hopetoun’s musicale and spent the whole evening by Mary’s side, I realized that he must have decided to look for a bride, and, of course, he isn’t stupid, so he was looking at Mary—”

  “Ah.” Claude nodded. “I see it now. You wanted Mary for Randolph, so you and your friends . . .” He blinked, then trained a mock-disbelieving look on Lavina. “The three of you went to Ryder’s house to offer to help him find a suitable bride?”

  “Why not?” Lavinia gestured to herself. “I am his stepmother. I’m the current marchioness. If anyone would know what the position entails, and which young ladies might best fill it, it’s me. And Joyce Jerome and Kate Framlingham both know all the young ladies on the marriage mart.”

  “Let me guess.” Claude’s voice dripped cynicism. “If Ryder had proved amenable, you and your friends would have tied him up in pursuing unsuitable young ladies for years.”

  “Well,” Lavinia said, “there’s really no reason he has to wed at all. Randolph soon will, and after Ryder, he, and then his son can carry the title. My dear departed husband would, I’m sure, have been entirely content with that. Randolph is, after all, as much his son as Ryder.”

  “Oh, dear.” Claude fought very hard to keep his lips straight.

  Lavinia frowned at him. “What?”

  “Well, my dear, if we do entertain the possibility that Mary Cynster was at Ryder’s house for some other reason entirely . . .” Sitting back so he could better watch Lavinia, Claude went on, “Then it’s possible that your . . . ah, well-intentioned attempt to interfere in Ryder’s life might just have landed him with Mary Cynster as his wife.”

  Lavinia stared at Claude for several seconds, then, fists clenching, arms rigid by her sides, she gritted her teeth, tipped back her head, and screamed.

  Chapter Seven

  “You look like hell.” Ryder peered at David Sanderson as the later adjusted the wick on the lamp beside the bed.

  David’s gaze swept his face. “I take it no one’s offered you a mirror.”

  “I have an excuse. What happened to you?”

  “Difficult first delivery. It ended well, but it was touch and go there for a while.”

  “I’ve just decided that I don’t want to know. Childbirth.” Despite his prevailing lack of strength, Ryder managed a shudder. “The one topic guaranteed to make grown men weak—and I’m weak enough as it is.”

  David humphed. “I want to take a look at that wound.”

  Ryder tried to turn down the covers, but David rapped his wrist. “Just lie still and let me do it. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll be somewhat weaker than a kitten.”

  Ryder sighed and obediently desisted. “If it were a matter of arm wrestling, the kitten would win.”

  David grunted. He inspected the bandage, then raised the pad covering the wound itself. “Amazing.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  That elicited a bark of laughter. “Well, let’s see how amazing.” His gaze rising to Ryder’s face, David gently palpated around the wound. When Ryder sucked in a breath, he asked, “Pain?”

  Ryder considered, then replied, “Not lancing. More a solid ache.”

  “Better when I take my hands away?”

  “Fading rapidly.”

  “Mostly bruising, then. Understandable. I had to poke around to make sure nothing vital was nicked.”

  “Again, I’m sure I don’t need to know.” Ryder forced himself to lie still and let David cover him up again. “I’m alive—oh, and incidentally, I’m also now engaged to be married.”

  Straightening, David looked down at him, then his surprise gave way to a frown. “Not that young lady who was here—Miss Cynster?”

  Ryder grinned. “The very one.” He proceeded to tell David what had happened.

  At the end of the tale, David studied him, then arched his brows. “So is this good or bad?”

  Feeling like a cat with a bowl of cream promised and certain in the offing, Ryder beamed. “It’s excellent.”

  Laughing, David shook his head. “I have never encountered anyone with luck to match yours.” He paused, then more soberly said, “You do realize you came within a whisker of dying? That if it hadn’t been for Miss Cynster acting as decisively and effectively as she did, I would have been attending your funeral, and not your sickbed?”

  Growing serious himself, Ryder nodded. “So I gathered. But she did, and I didn’t, so tell me—how long before I’m up and about, and can . . . er, enjoy my good fortune.”

  David pulled a face at him. “Were it any other man, I’d say a few weeks at least, but knowing you and your powers of recuperation, I’d recommend eating whatever and however much you wish, and in a few days you should be downstairs—going up and down will help rebuild your strength—but as for enjoying your Miss Cynster, for God’s sake, not within a week.”

  Ryder grimaced. “I think we can be sure it won’t be that soon.”

  “What? Losing your touch?”

  “Not this side of hell. But she’s a Cynster, and she’s to be my marchioness, so our relationship will progress very much by the book.”

  In pursuit of that aim, the next morning, feeling significantly improved, Ryder sat in the chair beside his bed and wrote several formal notes, which he subsequently dispatched to various houses around Mayfair.

  Mary arrived shortly after and bullied him into getting back in bed. As she promised to spoon-feed him the restorative chicken broth Cook had prepared for him, he acquiesced. He couldn’t recall ever having any female other than a nurse fuss over him before; he decided that, in small doses, he rather enjoyed it.

  But he drew the line at her feeding him the rest of the five courses Collier ferried up; when she realized he was fully capable of wielding knife and fork, she narrowed her eyes at him, then allowed Pemberly to serve her her meal at a small table he set up beside the bed.

  After the meal, he grew drowsy, much like a well-fed cat. She watched his lids droop; when
she thought he was asleep, she approached the bed, stood staring down at him for a long while, then bent and dropped a kiss, light as thistledown, on his forehead and left.

  He felt like he’d been branded. Pleasurably so.

  He dozed, read, and dozed again through the afternoon, then Mary returned to share an early evening meal with him. She brought news of the first reactions of the ton to the inevitable rumors of their engagement, then he and she discussed the notice he would, eventually, send to the Gazette after he and her father had dealt with the matter of the settlements.

  Everything, he was determined, would be done correctly.

  She left while he was still awake, so he didn’t receive another tantalizing kiss.

  The next day, as David had predicted, Ryder conquered the stairs in time to meet with Lord Arthur and their mutual man-of-business, Heathcote Montague, to negotiate and finalize the settlements. When Lord Arthur departed, Montague remained to discuss various aspects of Ryder’s changing circumstances. After Montague left, Ryder remained downstairs; he was looking forward to sharing luncheon with his betrothed, who had sent word via her father that she would arrive in time for the meal.

  Had his household not already known of their pending relationship, Mary’s reaction on finding him downstairs would have made the connection plain; rushing into the dining room and seeing him standing by the head of the table, she strode down the room, skirts swishing, her gaze raking him from head to toe, then returning to his face. “What by all that’s holy—or even unholy—are you doing downstairs?”

  He smiled and pulled out the chair beside his. “Waiting to have luncheon with you.” He wasn’t game to try a full bow yet, but he gracefully waved. “Your seat, my dear.”

  Halting, she narrowed her eyes at him—a habit he was growing quite fond of. “You,” she stated, “are a terrible patient.”

  He arched his brows and looked from her to the chair.

  On a muted sound of frustration, she swept her skirts in and sat.

  Allowing a footman to settle her chair, he moved to his own. “I’m surprised David—Sanderson—didn’t mention that I tend to recover from injuries fairly rapidly.”

  “He did mention something about you having the constitution of an ox.” She smiled briefly up at Pemberly as he shook out her napkin, then, more sharply, looked back at Ryder. “The good doctor, however, didn’t say anything about you having the brain of a mule.”

  Ryder laughed. The footman smiled. Even Pemberly had trouble maintaining his usual imperturbable demeanor.

  Ryder held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “Pax. I promise I’ll resist overtaxing myself.” When she met his eyes, a distrustful look in hers, he held her gaze and more quietly said, “You can’t seriously imagine I don’t want to recover as fast as I possibly can.”

  She was passably good at comprehending his meaning, even when he spoke obliquely. A soft flush of delicious color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Instead, somewhat to his surprise, she held his gaze for just an instant too long for the action to be anything other than a challenge, then she glanced at the platters Pemberly was laying before them. “Just as long as you agree not to push too hard.”

  Leaving him to wonder how she intended him to interpret that, she directed Pemberly as to which delicacies to place on her plate.

  After the meal, they repaired to the library. While she acquainted herself with the room, ambling down its length admiring the artworks and examining the leather-bound tomes, he sat at his desk and dealt with the most urgent of his neglected correspondence.

  As the afternoon wore on, he debated gently suggesting she leave, but he couldn’t quite make up his mind to do it. Consequently, when the front doorbell pealed at three o’clock, she was there to greet her cousins—and their wives—as Pemberly ushered the six into the library.

  Ryder had invited the gentlemen—Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives and the head of the Cynster family, plus Vane and Gabriel Cynster, the three being Mary’s oldest male cousins—but wasn’t surprised that their ladies had elected to accompany them. Rising from his desk, he strolled up the room, aware that Mary, who had been examining books in the corner behind his desk, had shaken off her astonishment, directed one of her narrow-eyed looks squarely between his shoulder blades, and was now swiftly walking forward to join the company.

  Reaching Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, Ryder smiled, took the hand she offered, and was about to bow when Mary hit him on the arm with one small fist.

  “No!” she told him, when, surprised, he glanced at her. Then she looked at her cousins’ wives and explained, “He’s been stabbed. He shouldn’t even try to bow.”

  “Ah.” Honoria recovered first and pressed his fingers. When he looked at her, she smiled, richly entertained. “In that case, you’re excused.”

  Mary made the introductions; although he knew the men, and had recently met the ladies at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball, he was nevertheless grateful to have the names repeated.

  As he’d expected, they’d all heard the news. All offered their congratulations, which he and Mary accepted with due grace. Waving them to the chairs and sofas angled about the fireplace, he added, “Lord Arthur and I signed the settlements this morning. The official announcement will appear in the Gazette tomorrow.”

  Devil sat on a straight-backed chair alongside the chaise on which his duchess had settled, and regarded Ryder with a direct and rather penetrating gaze. “But I’m sure you didn’t invite us here simply to share that information.”

  Sinking into an armchair facing them all, Ryder inclined his head. “Indeed.” Briefly, he looked at the others. “I invited you here to explain that the attack in which I sustained my recent wound wasn’t, as no doubt the wider ton believes, a random act of opportunistic thievery that went sadly awry.”

  Several moments of silence ensued while his guests—and Mary, who, seated on the nearer end of the sofa, turned a stunned face to him—digested that.

  “I had wondered,” Vane eventually said, “why any thief in his right mind would accost you.”

  “No matter how dark the alley,” Gabriel said, “they had to have been able to see your size.”

  Ryder nodded. “And I was openly carrying a swordstick. Any of the miscreants who frequent this area know well enough to be wary, even if they can’t be sure it is, indeed, anything more than a cane.”

  “But the two who attacked you—it was two?” Devil asked. When Ryder nodded, Devil continued, “They weren’t so aware.”

  “No. They weren’t. But they did know my customary route home from the south—I almost always walk if I attend an event in Mayfair.”

  “As do we all.” Vane leaned forward. “But are you saying they were lying in wait?”

  “Not just lying in wait but in the perfect position to best ambush me—along a short stretch, no more than ten yards, where the alley to the south narrows so much I can only just pass freely through.”

  Gabriel grimaced. “The one place where you would be most vulnerable.”

  “What you’re saying”—Devil’s green eyes had narrowed—“is that you were specifically targeted. By whom?”

  Ryder inclined his head. “And that is a question to which I have no answer.”

  “Your two attackers?”

  “Sadly, dead. I . . . ah, slew them before I realized I might need to question them as to who’d hired them. However, I had a private investigator examine the bodies before having them carted off to the police, and he’s searched, but other than confirming that the pair were killers-for-hire more normally employed around the docks, and that they and their services had been solicited by an unknown man of indeterminate years and character, the investigator got no further. His inquiries have met a dead end.”

  “So,” Gabriel said, “the question is: Who would want you dead?”

  Ryder lightl
y shrugged. “As to that, I have no idea.”

  A short silence was broken by Vane’s wife, Patience. “I hesitate to mention it, but I suspect there are several gentlemen of the ton who would happily see you if not dead, then severely wounded.”

  Ryder managed to convert his grin to a grimace. “Actually, no. Not that many, if any. I fear that, at least in that regard, my reputation has been somewhat exaggerated.”

  Honoria humphed. When Ryder met her eyes, she stated, “That I find very hard to believe. However, I can think of one instance that might prove relevant. Lady Fitzhugh.”

  He stared at Honoria, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve even met Lady Fitzhugh.”

  Honoria nodded. “I didn’t think so—she’s not at all your type. A more highly strung female I’ve yet to meet. However, I know for a fact that she has used a supposed liaison with you to goad her husband into fits of jealousy—and Fitzhugh, one must remember, is a red-haired Scotsman with a temper to match.”

  “I’ve heard him railing about you myself,” Alathea, Gabriel’s wife, said. “He was all but apoplectic.”

  “True,” Gabriel said, “but in all fairness to Fitzhugh, if he was disposed to come after you, he would be more likely to do it in person.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Devil said. “I heard a tale last night that last week he’d been frothing in fury over some new jibe by his wife, and the next day he packed her up and hied north to that castle of his in the Highlands.” Devil met Ryder’s eyes. “While I hesitate to voice the possibility, I could imagine Fitzhugh being so consumed by rage that, in lieu of being able to deal with you himself, he had two thugs hired to exact his vengeance.”

  Ryder looked his disgust. “But I don’t even know the woman.”

  “Sadly, Fitzhugh doesn’t know that.” Vane met Ryder’s eyes. “But one way or another, we can take care of that. And if it was Fitzhugh behind the attack, it’s unlikely there’ll be another.”