The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,101

of rosemary and lemon rose from her hair, combining with the lingering scents of their passion to wreath through his brain, soothing and placating, he accepted that going forward with her, hand in hand, was his only option.

To go forward with her, see what eventuated, and trust in them both to meet the challenges.

They arrived at Raventhorne Abbey just before the sun slipped below the western horizon. Located just north of the Savernake Forest, large tracts of the estate remained heavily wooded; the sprawling three-storied mansion only came into clear sight when the carriage left the shelter of the massive oaks lining the drive to that point. Thereafter, the view was unimpeded, the drive following the edge of the great south lawn to the graveled forecourt before the steps leading up to the impressive front door.

Ryder had experienced that first view many times, knew just how the westering sun would be gilding the pale stone, how it would glint and gleam in the leaded glass of the many windows. Regardless, normally he would have looked—would have let his gaze skate over the massive structure, the crenellated roofline, the dome of the skylight above the front hall rising behind—and felt the satisfaction of ownership, of looking upon that which most clearly defined him; today, however, another sight compelled his complete and unwavering attention.

He watched Mary’s face as she set eyes on her future home—on the house that would be their principal residence, their true home—for the first time. To his disquiet, sudden panic of a sort threaded through his thoughts: What if she didn’t like it?

Before he had time even to register concern over being subject to such a needy feeling, it was rendered irrelevant by the sheer delight that swept over his new wife’s face.

Her expression one of avid, eager, indeed covetous interest, she leaned closer to the window the better to drink in all there was to see. Relaxing against the seat, he assured himself that all was, and would be, well.

As the carriage slowed to swing into the forecourt, he seized the moment to look out himself, an emotional as well as practical reassurance. Although parts of the great house were ancient, the façade had been renovated in the Palladian style so beloved by his grandfather’s generation. The result had been worth the blunt; not even he, who saw it so often, failed to appreciate that first glimpse.

As per his orders, the entire household were turned out in their best, ranked in a long line that stretched from the middle of the forecourt all the way up the steps to the front porch, ready and waiting to welcome his marchioness.

When the coach rocked to a halt, he waited for the groom to drop down and ceremonially open the door, then he stepped out, turned, and offered his hand to Mary. Reaching out, she laid her hand in his; looking past him, she hesitated.

Understanding, he murmured, “Everything’s in place. You look perfect.”

Her eyes flicked to his, her lips curving in acknowledgment that he’d read her thoughts correctly; after their adventuring, he’d relaced her gown and helped her tidy her hair, but, of course, she’d wondered.

Gripping his fingers, Mary drew in a breath and allowed Ryder to help her out. She was finally there, at a point she’d always dreamt about—she was about to walk into her own home, to be welcomed by the staff who would henceforth be hers to command.

Flicking out her skirts with her free hand, she raised her head and fixed her gaze on the stately butler waiting at the head of the line.

Ryder led her forward. “My dear, permit me to present Forsythe. He’s been butler here since I was in short-coats.”

Despite Forsythe’s efforts to rein in his smile, it broke through the instant before he bowed. “Welcome to Raventhorne Abbey, my lady.” Straightening, he went on, “On behalf of the staff I bid you welcome to your new home, and tender our sincere hopes that your reign here will be a long and happy one.”

Returning Forsythe’s smile was easy. “Thank you, Forsythe.” Mary raised her voice as she looked down the length of the line. “I’m delighted to be here, to have been chosen by your master to fill the shoes of his marchioness. I’m looking forward to working with you all.” Glancing at Forsythe, she waved him forward. “If you would?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” With a little nod, Forsythe moved ahead of her, pausing before each member of the household to introduce them, and