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.
“You 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 liver
y, 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.
As they swirled down the floor and with her usual abandon Mary gave herself wholly to the dance, he drank in the sight—and clung to his façade of sophisticated and languidly bored lion of the ton for all he was worth.
He’d spent the last two days lusting after her with a sense of utterly blinkered need he couldn’t recall feeling for any other woman, much less after he’d had her beneath him. After a first engagement, normally several days, even a week, would pass before he would feel any impulse to a repeat performance.
With his bride-to-be, he’d been plotting a repeat engagement while he’d been taking her home—and he wasn’t at all sure if that was an encouraging sign, or, instead, a portent that should have him backpedaling. Fast.
Regardless, his now thoroughly focused inner self wasn’t at all interested in stepping back. And Barnaby’s suggestion that anyone taking another tilt at him could harm Mary, too, had only escalated his burgeoning need to have her safely under his paw.
Sleeping safely beside him. Sated and drowsy and . . . as happy as only he could make her. That was how his inner self saw things, and in that it wouldn’t be moved.
He’d never felt the smallest iota of possessiveness toward any of his previous lovers; even though he excused his newfound compulsion on the grounds that she was destined to be his wife, he still felt oddly off-balance. A tad uncertain as to where their interaction was leading him; it wasn’t down a path he knew.
Yet regardless of how he rationalized, whether the reason his instincts saw her as different was due to her more willful, challenging character or because said instincts already deemed her his, the impulse to seize and hold remained, and more, continued to grow; against his expectation, the waltz did nothing to allay it. Much less slake it.
The music slowed, then ended; they swirled to a halt and he bowed, she curtsied, then he raised her, tucked her hand in his arm, and they resumed their strolling.
The afternoon wore on, until, laughing and joking, the bulk of the company clattered down the stairs to see a radiant Henrietta and a proud James off on the beginning of their journey as man and wife. Rice was hurled, comments and recommendations flung, then James handed Henrietta into the waiting carriage, climbed in and shut the door, and the beaming coachman cracked his whip, and they were off, trotting smartly along the side of Grosvenor Square, and then out along Upper Brook Street.
“Wiltshire?” Ryder turned to Mary, one step higher than he on the steep front steps.
She nodded. “They’ll be back in five days, in time for our wedding, but they wanted to start where they intend ending, so to speak, and that as soon as they could.”
He arched his brows. “As impatient as you?”
She met his gaze. Held it for an instant, then softly said, “I seriously doubt that’s possible.”
The opening was there; he took it. “In that case . . . leave that window open tonight.”
She stared levelly back, then shook her head. “No—you’ll break my bed. I’ll come to you as I did the other night.”
“No.” His protectiveness wouldn’t allow that. But seeing haughty independence welling in her eyes, he rapidly reevaluated, then amended, “I’m not enamored of you wandering even as far as your mews alone, so let’s do the reverse of what we did the other morning. I’ll meet you in the garden outside the window. My carriage will be waiting to take us home.”
The last word was an instinct-driven, semi-deliberate slip of the tongue; she caught it, tipped her head as she considered, but then she smiled and left it unchallenged. “All right.” With a general wave, she indicated the wedding breakfast, now winding down. “After this, we’ll be retiring early tonight. Meet me at eleven.”
He didn’t smile, just nodded. “I’ll be there.”
He was waiting in the shadows at the rear of the house to give her his hand as she climbed out of the window. Quietly lowering the sash and reclaiming her hand, he led her out through the night-shrouded garden, then along the street to his unmarked town carriage.
Harness jingled as he handed her up, then followed and shut the door. The night was overcast, the moon screened, leaving little risk of anyone seeing them well enough to recognize. He sat beside Mary on the leather seat; as the carriage shifted, then slowly rolled on, with the deeper shadows within closing around them, he was tempted—sorely tempted—to draw her into his arms and kiss her witless, to plunder her mouth and taste her passion . . . but he didn’t.
In
stead, anchoring her hand, still locked in his, firmly on the seat between them, he pretended to watch the houses slide past. And tried not to think about why he didn’t dare surrender to the nearly overwhelming impulse.
It had been a long, long time since he’d questioned his control. Since he’d had any reason to doubt it. But the hunger presently crawling beneath his skin was simply too powerful to ignore; once he started kissing her . . .
Luckily, the drive to Mount Street took only a few minutes. The instant the carriage halted, he opened the door, stepped out, and handed her down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he nodded to his coachman, Ridges, then escorted Mary up the front steps into the concealing shadows of his porch.
Pulling out his latch-key, he fitted it to the door.
“No Pemberly?”
“I’ve dismissed him and the rest of the staff for the night.” Through the dimness, he looked down at her. “Ridges will return to drive us back to Upper Brook Street in the small hours.” Opening the door, he ushered her in.
“Poor Ridges.” She walked further into the shadowed hall.
Shutting the door, Ryder snorted. “Not so poor, and he’s only too happy to assist.”
Swinging to face him, she arched her brows. Crossing the tiles to halt before her, he added, “He knows you’ll soon be his mistress.”
“Ah.” After a moment of studying his face, she asked, “Are they happy with the prospect then, your staff?”
He hadn’t brought her there to discuss his household. “If anything, they’re ecstatic.” Her brows rose; a smile curved her lips. He studied the sight and found himself admitting, “They are not, however, as happy as I am.” He hesitated, then, entirely against his better judgment, asked, “You know that, don’t you?”
She continued to study his face, then her smile deepened. “Perhaps I do.” Turning, skirts swishing, she headed for the stairs. “But then again”—pausing with one hand on the newel post, her foot on the first step, she glanced back at him—“perhaps you should remind me just how enamored you are over our prospective union.”
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 23