The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  She’d been staring at him, studying him; he watched her from beneath his lashes and nearly sighed with relief when she gently nodded. “As you say, I’ll be occupied for the entire morning with Mrs. Pritchard and the staff. I suspect it will be afternoon before I’m free. However”—she waited until he raised his head, then trapped his eyes with hers—“if I could suggest a compromise, perhaps you could then accompany me on a stroll through the rose garden. I would like to see it from ground level, and if you’re with me—and perhaps we can take your head gardener as well—then I’m sure between the two of you, you’ll be able to protect me from any lingering rats.”

  Given he felt so much like a drowning man, he recognized the olive branch, grabbed for it and nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

  She smiled easily enough, but there was a quality in her expression that suggested her acquiescence was more strategy than surrender.

  He didn’t care; if she’d agreed to wait for him before venturing outside, she wouldn’t be inclined to venture forth by herself—and that, at present, was his number one concern.

  Mary spent the day operating, or so it seemed, on two levels. On one, she played the part of Ryder’s new marchioness, accompanying Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard on a comprehensive tour of the great house, which, at Mary’s insistence, had included all the staff quarters as well as the attics and the roof. She’d been somewhat relieved to discover that, despite not having any devoted lady in charge, possibly not for decades, the house had been suitably modernized throughout, the facilities brought up to scratch, and the staff quarters remodeled in line with progressive ideals.

  When she’d inquired as to what impetus had driven the changes, Forsythe had informed her, “That’s largely his lordship’s doing, ma’am. He leans toward the progressive side in most things.”

  She’d salted the observation away, making a mental note to inquire more closely as to Ryder’s political aspirations.

  Over luncheon, taken with Ryder in the family dining room, she’d peppered him with questions designed to draw out his approach to the estate, what he hoped to achieve in the immediate future and what his long-term plans were. After an initial hesitation—that strangely fraught tension she’d detected at breakfast had still been there—he’d consented to answer; as her questions had continued, he’d relaxed and his revelations had flowed freely.

  She hadn’t made the mistake of referring to his attitude regarding her venturing out of doors other than, as they quit the dining room, to remind him of his promise to accompany her for a stroll in the rose garden later. He’d nodded and had told her to come and fetch him when she was ready; he would be in the library.

  Content enough, she’d spent the next two hours consulting with Mrs. Pritchard in her new sitting room upstairs. While Mary’s organizing of how they would jointly manage the household had gone well, the housekeeper had seemed a touch distracted.

  Finally free, Mary had made her way downstairs to the library. Ryder had promptly left his correspondence and they’d gone out to the rose garden. The stroll had been pleasant, entirely unmarred by any rodents, rabid or otherwise; she hadn’t even sighted a cat.

  Detecting, once again, that oddly fragile tension, as if it were something Ryder held on a short and not all that strong leash, she’d forborne from teasing him and instead had enjoyed the roses and his company.

  She’d been in a pleasantly mollified mood when they’d returned to the house and the library, and she’d curled up with a book to keep him silent company. He’d studied her for a moment, then had gone back to his desk and his letters. She’d half expected some attempt to send her elsewhere, but instead he’d seemed content to have her there; every time his attention had lifted from his letters, she’d felt the fleeting touch of his gaze.

  It was only when she was dressing for dinner and Aggie, assuming Mary had known all along, blurted out the facts that Mary finally learned the truth of what had caused the odd change in Ryder’s behavior, what had given rise to his extraordinary decree. What had been behind the staff’s somewhat strained reactions.

  The full truth about the rabid rats.

  Aggie, sensing her erupting temper, grew nervous; Mary instantly reassured her, although she didn’t explain. Didn’t admit her until-then ignorance.

  That was an issue to be discussed with he who had caused it—Ryder.

  Her immediate impulse was to leap to her feet, rage down the stairs, and have it out with him then and there, but . . . she drew in a breath, sat still, and allowed Aggie to continue pinning her curls, reminding herself that she was a married lady now, and married ladies needed to be much cleverer than unmarried ladies, especially when it came to dealing with their spouses.

  Rather than go against them—which only results in immediately meeting the solid and instinctive wall of their resistance—I have found it pays to find a way to work with them. Once you make it clear you are entirely willing to find a way to solve whatever issue they have—that you are content to work alongside them rather than oppose them—the poor dears are usually so grateful they’ll happily share the reins, and then one can steer the applecart in a more amenable direction.

  The instant she’d heard those words, she’d recognized their significance and the likelihood that they would, one day, be relevant to her. She’d committed the advice to memory, the words spoken by Minerva, Duchess of Wolverstone, on the subject of dealing with dictatorially inclined noblemen of the ilk of her husband, Royce.

  There was, in Mary’s eyes, no better or more applicable authority with respect to her current situation.

  So . . . she sat and let Aggie fuss, and concentrated on dampening her temper and considering ways to learn what she needed to know to reclaim her share of the reins, namely what about the situation had most exercised her new husband.

  She didn’t rush down to the drawing room the instant she was ready but took her time, using the moments as she walked to the stairs and slowly descended to reinforce her control over her temper and remind herself of her goal.

  Reaching the front hall, she raised her head and glided toward the drawing room. A footman leapt to open the door for her; with a regal inclination of her head, she walked into the room.

  Ryder was standing by the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantelpiece; his gaze had locked on her the instant she’d appeared.

  He’d been waiting for her.

  Drawing in a breath, instinctively raising her head a notch higher, her eyes locking with his, Mary walked toward him.

  Even before she drew near, Ryder knew she knew. And accepted that he had no choice but to do what he’d realized he must.

  He didn’t wait for her to halt but raised a hand to shoulder height, palm toward her, a suing for peace. “Mea culpa. I’m sorry.”

  She halted. Regarded him steadily; he couldn’t read her expression, which made him uneasy.

  Then she faintly arched a brow. “For what?”

  He held her gaze and didn’t fall for that; she’d heard the details from someone. “I should have told you straightaway—as soon as I heard.”

  Her fine brows rose higher. “And?”

  And . . . lips thinning, he stated, “I should have discussed it with you, and then decided how to deal with the situation.”

  She looked faintly intrigued. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because . . .” He filled his chest and it almost hurt. “I wanted your first day here, as my wife, to be . . . perfect. I wanted you to feel welcome here, and to view this place and its people with all—every last soupçon of—your usual wide-eyed eagerness.”

  Her gaze grew cynical, but the line of her lips softened. “I might be wide-eyed, and eager, too, but I’m not blind.”

  “No. I know.” Eyes still locked with hers, he drew in a deeper breath; all in all, this had gone better than he’d hoped. “So.” He let the word lie, an invitation for her to acce
pt and use as she chose.

  She considered him for a moment longer, then gave a fractional nod. “So what have you learned?”

  His instincts bade him seize the question and run, but . . . he couldn’t quite believe he was getting off that easily. “That’s it? You’re not going to rail at me?”

  She didn’t look away; a heartbeat passed, then she lightly shrugged. “As you’ve realized your shortcomings on your own, railing would be superfluous and would only waste time. And my temper.” She tipped her head. “So, to repeat, what have you learned?”

  He had, apparently, saved himself from the worst, but . . . he grimaced. “Absolutely nothing.”

  She frowned, then turned and sat on the nearer end of the chaise. She was wearing a blue-and-black striped evening gown, with a cameo on a blue velvet band about her neck; she looked fresh and vivid, the gown perfect for a quiet country dinner alone with her husband. With him.

  Looking up at him, she stated, “All I’ve heard is that there was an adder found in my bed this morning. I’m sure you’ve been trying to learn how it got there.”

  He fought not to let his expression grow too grim. “We’re surrounded by woods and forests, and there are adders out there, but we’ve never had one in the gardens, much less the house. When the tweeny went into your bedroom this morning to check the fireplace, she noticed movement under the coverlet and had the sense to summon Forsythe. He and the gardeners caught and removed the snake, but . . . to say that everyone’s mystified as to how it got there, on the first floor and between your sheets, would be an understatement.”

  She blinked, for a long moment simply stared up at him, then he saw her breasts rise as she drew in a deep, then deeper, breath. “Someone put it there.” She sounded as disbelieving as he’d felt.

  “Yes, but.” Pushing away from the mantelpiece, he moved past her. “As far as it’s humanly possible to be certain, I do not believe it was any of the staff.”

  Sitting on the sofa alongside her, he met her eyes as she shifted to face him. “Literally everyone who serves in this house, even in the gardens and stables, belongs to one of the estate families. When it comes to loyalty, you know what that means as well as I. According to Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard, and Filmore, the head stableman, and Dukes, the head gardener, everyone’s been in alt over our marriage, and eager and excited over meeting you. Not a word has been spoken against you—and yes, I asked them to check, and they did. Nothing. Everyone in the household has been shocked by the news.”

  He hesitated, then went on, “More to the point, because yesterday was yesterday and everyone was determined to make sure everything was perfect, the maids and footmen were up and down the stairs, constantly in and out of our rooms. Your bed wasn’t made up until about four o’clock, and your maid, Aggie, was in the dressing room next door more or less from the moment she arrived in the early afternoon to when the staff were summoned to line up outside to greet you.”

  Mary blinked, then caught his gaze. “That’s when it was done—when everyone was lined up outside. It was the one time anyone wishing to do such a thing could be absolutely certain there was no one inside the house—that they could get in and out without anyone seeing them.”

  He frowned. “But—”

  Reaching out, Mary gripped his hand. “Have you checked to see if any stranger was seen in the neighborhood?”

  His frown deepened. “No.” Turning his hand, he closed his fingers around hers. “We’ve only just finished checking about the house, making sure everyone here was accounted for.”

  She nodded; a sense of sudden urgency gripped her as another explanation surfaced in her mind. Looking into Ryder’s eyes, gripping his hand more tightly, she asked, “Could this possibly be what Barnaby warned us about—that the same miscreant who tried to have you killed in London wants you dead, and this is his next attempt?”

  He looked into her eyes, but then, lips setting, shook his head. “If that were so, don’t you think they would have put the adder in my bed?”

  “Why? It was our wedding night. They would have assumed you’d sleep in—or at least first come to—my bed, wouldn’t they?”

  “That’s”—he grimaced—“possible, I suppose . . .” Then he frowned and shook his head again. “No—that won’t wash. If we’d followed tradition, then you would have already been in the bed when I arrived to claim my conjugal rights.”

  “Perhaps he put the snake right at the end of the bed and assumed my feet wouldn’t reach—which, in fact, they wouldn’t. Yours, on the other hand, would.”

  “I still think the notion’s fanciful.”

  Mary didn’t, but she wasn’t going to argue, not until she’d had time to properly think. And plan.

  Ryder glanced toward the door. “Forsythe will be here to summon us to dinner at any moment.” Looking back at her, he met her eyes. “So now you know the situation in as much detail as I do, how do you suggest we react?” He tipped his head toward the door. “Toward the staff. They’ll be watching and waiting to see.”

  She held his gaze, then said, “I’ve been trained to believe that loyal staff are our strongest allies. From what you’ve said, from all I’ve observed myself, I see no reason to suspect any of them, even of any degree of complicity.”

  He nodded, plainly relieved. “I concur.”

  “Well, then.” She looked toward the double doors as footsteps sounded immediately beyond them. “I suggest that, at least for now, we pass this off as some sort of freak accident.”

  He hesitated, then inclined his head.

  Rising, he drew her to her feet and together they turned to face Forsythe as he set the doors wide and, with regal assurance, informed them that dinner was served.

  After allowing Ryder to seat her at the foot of the table, then retreat to his own grand carver at the opposite end, Mary made several comments, to which Ryder appropriately replied, establishing their considered view of the matter of the adder, with the unvoiced understanding that Forsythe and the two footmen would convey their words to the rest of the staff.

  Once that was done, neither she nor Ryder referred to the matter again, although she was perfectly certain it remained in the forefront of their thoughts. Nevertheless, they strove to entertain each other with talk of myriad other subjects and succeeded well enough.

  After dinner, they repaired to the library; Ryder didn’t ask her preference, but she decided she approved of him guiding her into his den apparently without conscious thought. Settling into the armchair she’d selected as hers, she picked up her book and tried to escape into the history of gardening.

  Ryder tidied his desk, then went to join her. Sinking into the armchair opposite hers, he emulated her, at least as far as opening a book and attempting to read. He suspected she succeeded better than he; he was still coming to grips with his day. With the events, and the emotions they’d provoked.

  This morning . . . had certainly been eye-opening. He’d had no idea he could feel such panic, to the extent that he’d been unable to think and so had acted in ways his more rational side—once it had been able to break through—had immediately recognized as unwise.

  Most especially if he wished to conceal just how deeply he felt about his wife.

  He hadn’t known he could care to the point of panicking to that degree. Now he knew, and that was almost more frightening.

  As for her suggestion that the adder might have been intended for him . . . he couldn’t make up his mind if he should be relieved that she might not have been the intended victim, or horrified that, as Barnaby had foreseen, she had nearly become an incidental casualty of some madman’s attempt to kill him.

  At the thought, his emotions threatened to geyser again; determinedly he pushed it away. No sense torturing himself with what-ifs and maybes. More pertinently, he had her reaction on learning the news to assimilate. To wonder at. He knew he hadn’t gauged her tempe
r wrongly; she should have come at him like a brigantine with all guns brought to bear. Instead, she’d behaved . . . much more reasonably than he had.

  Either she was far more placid and mild-tempered than he’d thought, or . . . she’d understood why he’d behaved as he had.

  Given he wasn’t sure he fully understood that, the thought left him feeling more exposed, and more uncertain, than he’d ever felt in his life.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, then she stifled a yawn, closed her book, and laid it aside. “I’m for bed.” She rose.

  He came to his feet as if pulled by strings. “I’ll come up, too.”

  She arched a brow, a slow, sirenlike smile curving her lips. “I’d hoped you would. If you don’t mind, in the circumstances I’d rather share your bed than slide into mine.”

  Quelling a shiver, he waved her to the door. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Side by side they walked up the stairs and around to their rooms; he let her lead the way into the sitting room, then straight on into his room.

  Following her in, he closed the door, then reached out, caught her hand, and drew her to him, into his arms as he stepped deeper into the room.

  A quick glance confirmed that two lamps had been lit, the curtains drawn against the deepening night. The bed had been turned down, and even though he hadn’t ordered it, he felt confident the room and the bed itself had been thoroughly searched. His staff had been deeply shocked and, indeed, affronted; they wouldn’t allow a repetition of what, in their hearts, they saw as an attack on him and them, on the House of Cavanaugh that they served, and Mary was now, in their eyes as well as his, a vital and valued part of the family.

  Fastening his hands about her waist, he looked down at her face, studied the mystery of her violet-blue eyes. He took a moment to savor the lithe strength of her, the supple steel beneath his hands, before saying, “Thank you for understanding and forgiving my atrocious behavior today.” He faintly arched a brow. “You do forgive me, don’t you?”