Thinking back to that conversation, Ryder had to agree with Potherby’s direction; it was, indeed, a day for counting blessings, and then moving on.
Apropos of which, looking over the sea of heads crowding the abbey’s drawing room, he felt as if he was, at last, setting out unencumbered on the path he’d promised his father he would take. For the Cavanaughs, his time would be one of rebuilding. And, glancing around, he no longer lacked for guidance in how best to accomplish all he wished.
Devil and Honoria, as well as Lord Arthur and Lady Louise, had come from London to represent the Cynsters. Mary had blinked at him when he’d asked if the rest of her immediate family would attend—as if the answer was so obvious the question hadn’t needed to be asked.
As, apparently, it hadn’t; all her closest family were there—from Simon and Portia, and Henrietta and James, to Amanda and Martin, and Amelia and Luc.
Somewhat to Ryder’s surprise, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, the elder matriarch of the Cynster clan, and her bosom-bow, Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, had arrived with Devil and Honoria. Lady Osbaldestone had shrewdly looked him up and down, then told him being Mary’s husband suited him, and that he would do. Bad enough, but mere minutes later, Helena had patted his cheek, told him he was a good boy, and that all would be well—he would see.
His instincts had all but jibbered.
Later, when he’d mentioned the exchange to Mary, clearly seeking reassurance, she’d told him Helena was widely regarded as perspicacious in the highest degree, and that he should be grateful she hadn’t been more explicit.
Apparently, his instincts had been right.
Yet in terms of family, appreciating the strength and innate power the Cynsters possessed—what the result of successive generations who had stood together had generated—and knowing that the main line of the Cavanaughs had been reduced to him and his half siblings, the route to the future, the future he wanted to create, was clear.
The clocks throughout the house had just chimed three times when Mary swanned up, twined her arm with his, and turned him toward the door. “It’s time to go out to the porch and wave people off.”
Closing his hand over hers on his sleeve, he was only too happy to obey.
Naturally everyone followed their lead.
Despite the somber reason for the gathering, people departed with smiles and waves. Within half an hour, the bulk of the guests had left, and Ryder allowed Mary to lead him back inside to the library, where those staying overnight had retreated.
Mary paused in the front hall to confer with Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard, who’d been waiting for her instructions. Footmen and maids were already in the drawing room, setting the big room to rights. After commending the staff on their performance, she confirmed the arrangements for dinner. “As I suspected, we’ll be fourteen at table.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Forsythe said. “In the formal dining room, then.”
Mary hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes—it will be an excellent opportunity to open up that room.”
With a nod of dismissal, she turned back to Ryder, waiting patiently by her side. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she said, “It went well, don’t you think?”
Resuming their progress toward the library, he closed his hand, warm and strong, over hers. “Exceedingly well. An end on the one hand, a beginning on the other.”
“Exactly.” She wasn’t surprised he’d seen it as she had.
“So who is staying—you said fourteen?”
“Yes. Devil and Honoria took Helena and Lady Osbaldestone back to town, so it’s only my parents and brother and sisters and their spouses, and your half siblings.”
“Good.” When she glanced up and met his eyes, a question in hers, he explained, “We need to discuss arrangements for Stacie and Godfrey in particular, and I would value your parents’—and your siblings’—thoughts.”
Drawing her hand from his arm as he opened the library door, she grinned. “Don’t worry. You won’t even need to ask—they’ll offer their opinions regardless.”
From Ryder’s point of view, that would be another blessing for which to be grateful.
They joined the others on the sofas and chairs, and after a brief review of the day, Mary turned the conversation to the question of where Stacie and Godfrey would now reside. “You’re all welcome here at any time, of course, but what do you wish to do in London?”
Rand had his lodgings. “But sadly I have no extra rooms.”
Neither did Kit. “Moreover, I need to find a new place.”
Ryder looked at him and Godfrey. “You can return to live at Raventhorne House if you wish—it’s more than big enough, and Mary and I will only be there during the Season and for a few weeks in autumn.”
Kit and Godfrey exchanged glances, then Kit looked back at Ryder. “Perhaps we can try that, at least to begin with, then see how we fare?” He smiled at Mary. “Mary might find us too bothersome, or wish us out of your hair come spring and the Season, but for now . . . the two of us moving back to Raventhorne House might serve.”
Tapping one finger on the chair arm, Ryder said, “Next point—the Chapel Street house. It’s owned by the estate. Do you wish it retained, or should it be sold?”
Despite Lavinia’s children all promptly declaring they wanted nothing to do with that house, the discussion was lengthy, weighing up the various options such as hiring the place, balancing the long-term costs of staffing and upkeep against the value to the estate, but, ultimately, selling the property was the unanimous verdict. Ryder was grateful for the knowledgeable inputs from Lord Arthur, Louise, and the twins and their husbands. He inclined his head. “That’s settled then. I’ll send word to Montague.”
“Excellent.” Mary turned to Stacie. “That leaves us with Stacie to organize.” She smiled encouragingly at Ryder’s half sister. “As I mentioned, you will always be welcome here, but as Ryder said, at least until the Season next year, aside from the weeks of the autumn session, he and I will most likely remain in the country. However, I imagine you would prefer to be in town for more weeks than that.”
Stacie grimaced. “Well, to begin with, I need to go back and pack, especially if the Chapel Street house is to be sold. And although that might take only a week or so, I do have several weddings of friends to attend, and other invitations I had already accepted . . .” She paused, then in a smaller voice said, “I could cry off—”
“If I might make a suggestion?” Smiling, Louise waited for Ryder as well as Mary to incline their heads, then she looked at Stacie. “If you would like it, you’re welcome to stay with us in Upper Brook Street. Now Mary and Henrietta are both gone, as well as the others”—Louise waved at Amanda, Amelia, and Simon—“there’s just Arthur and me, so we’ve more than enough room, and in general I would be attending all the events you’ve been invited to—I would be happy to act as your chaperon, at least until the autumn session when Mary returns to town.” Louise looked at her youngest daughter, and a slow, anticipatory smile curved her lips. “And then, perhaps, we might all go about together until Mary learns the ropes of how to be a chaperon—not a role she’s previously been called on to perform.”
The rest of Mary’s family laughed; a slew of comments, observations, and stories ensued, many pointed, all amusing, and all thoroughly good-natured in a family-teasing kind of way.
Ryder listened to the happy ribbing, saw Mary’s eyes sparkle as she capped one of Luc’s comments with a quip of her own—saw his half siblings watching, noting, taking it in, with a longing that mirrored his own, a wish to understand, experience, and be a part of just such an interaction.
This was the other side of family—the warmth, the support, the detailed understanding and unconditional acceptance of who and what each member was, what they could contribute, their traits and foibles, their strengths and passions, and the abiding affection and inclusiven
ess that embraced each individual and forged them into such a powerful whole.
Family—strength, warmth, support—power.
After being reassured several times by multiple people that she would not in the least be in anyone’s way, Stacie accepted Louise’s proposal. Older head and younger bent together to plan.
As a group, they spent the rest of the day and the early evening together, chatting amiably, discovering common interests and pursuing them, eventually devolving into two groups, the ladies settling in the library chairs to swap tales of fashion and scandal, while the gentlemen took themselves off to the billiard room, there to engage in an impromptu tournament, Cavanaughs versus Cynsters and connections.
Neither side won.
Dinner, even held in the grand and gracious setting of the formal dining room, wasn’t, in that company, allowed to be anything but a relaxed affair, a fitting end to the last hours of unwinding. After passing the port and brandy, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room; by the time everyone trooped up the stairs an hour and a half later, the dark strain of the earlier part of the day had been wiped away, and every last one of them, Ryder would have sworn, was focused ahead.
Looking forward to the next day, and the next, and to all that their lives would bring.
Mary paused in the gallery at the head of the main stairs to bid her family—both sides of it—a good night, and to ensure they all remembered where their rooms were. After seeing everyone off down the right corridors, she smiled, turned, and found Ryder waiting.
As she’d known he would be.
Slipping her hand into his, she strolled by his side down the corridor to their apartments. Her heart felt buoyant; she felt like swinging their linked hands and skipping along, but now she was a marchioness that, sadly, would not accord with her dignity.
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.
Soar
ing 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
The 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.”
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 40