The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,103
he grasped the knob; watching her face, he set the door swinging wide. “Which leads to the marchioness’s sitting room.”
She looked in, and her eyes grew round. Pleasure bloomed in her face as her lips formed a soundless O of delight, then she rushed in.
Grinning, as delighted as she, he followed.
“Oh, my lord!” Pirouetting in the center of the room, Mary meant the words literally. “The colors . . . they’re perfect!” A silvery blue contrasted with her signature cornflower-blue, highlighted with a stripe of dark violet; the three colors in various strengths combined in the silks covering the walls, in the fabrics of the upholstery on the twin chaises and various chairs, in turn echoed by a similar but darker version of the same leaf-pattern in the long curtains, presently looped back to allow light to stream in through the two long windows.
Between the windows sat a delicate lady’s writing desk, the lamp upon it a fanciful design echoing the leaf motif. A set of crystal inkwells and fine ivory pens lay ready to be used beside a blotter framed in blue leather.
All the wooden furniture—the chests against the walls, the low table between the chaises, the frames of the chaises themselves—was of golden oak, with a patina that just begged to be touched, stroked. As she flitted about the room, trailing her fingers over this surface and that, appreciating the tactile and visual delights and the small, subtle touches like the lamp and the clock on the mantelpiece—a simple gold dial framed in delicate gold leaves—Mary registered the implication. Slowing, she turned to Ryder.
He’d closed the door but had halted before it, watching her.
“You had all this done.” Statement, not a question; he had to have for the color to match so perfectly. “In just . . .” She paused to calculate. “Fifteen, sixteen days at most.” She looked around, marveling. “You managed all this.” Clearly he had, but she knew what that must have entailed. Not just the cost, but the organization.
He shrugged lightly and came forward. “You being you made choosing the colors easy, and as for the rest . . .” He glanced around, then looked down at her. “Your rooms at Raventhorne House are still being finished, but”—he waved to the door to his left—“all your rooms here, your bedroom and more, are ready to receive you.”
She didn’t need a second invitation but went straight to the door he’d indicated. There was another door in the mirror position in the opposite wall; she assumed it led to his bedroom. Opening the door to which he’d directed her, she walked through, knowing he followed, that he was watching, gauging her reaction, her response, that his satisfaction sprang from pleasing her. From knowing his gift had.
It wasn’t hard to openly show her pleasure and give him that satisfaction; the bed was a large oak four-poster, solidly framed but delicately carved, the same leaf motif dominating. The fabrics and patterns from the sitting room were redeployed, but in more luxurious, sumptuous weights. The silver-blue sheets were fine satin, the coverlet a heavier, richer satin rendition of the upholstery pattern, with the embroidery on some of the mound of pillows picked out in the deeper hues.
And then there were the windows. One pair, long and narrow, looked north, but the pair flanking the bed, although equally tall, were wider. Sweeping up to one, she looked out.
“The rose garden.” Ryder came to stand behind her.
It was June; the large, well-tended bushes were in full leaf, and buds were starting to unfurl, the rich pink, apricot, white, and deep red blooms splashes of color amid the dark green. Stone paths framed the beds, and an old stone fountain stood in the center of the square garden. Mary knew about roses. “Someone did an excellent job designing it.” She glanced over her shoulder at Ryder. “Your stepmother?”
He shook his head. “As far as I know, Lavinia never had much interest in the gardens. According to the old head gardener—who is older than Methuselah—it was my mother and he together who made it.” He hesitated, then added, “Even though she died when I was young, I still remember it was her favorite place outside. If she was in the gardens, I’d always be taken to her there. She’d be sitting on that bench at the end of the walk.”
Mary noted the bench, could guess the view it would give of the house. “There’s a rose garden a bit like this one at