The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,106

The long room was laid out similarly to the library in the London house, with packed bookshelves lining the walls, a massive stone hearth in the center of the inner wall, three long double windows set in the wall opposite the fireplace, and a heavy desk in prime position at the far end of the room.

Two long sofas and four well-padded armchairs were grouped before the fire, and nearer to hand a large round library table provided a place on which to consult the leather-bound tomes. A library ladder stood in one corner, providing access to the upper gallery that ran around all four sides of the room.

Her gaze drawn upward, she slowly turned, taking in the glory of the paintings in the panels high above.

This library, she realized, was the original the other was drawn from. Both were so similar, but this room was created on a scale several times greater and grander. Also older, and somehow more solid.

And this room was lived in; she could sense it, a subtle scent of longtime human presence that had sunk into fabric and wood. The desk, moreover, showed obvious evidence of frequent use—marks on the blotter, several pens in the tray along with a letter knife and stubs of sealing wax.

“Your father used to use this room, too, didn’t he?” She looked to where Ryder had paused near the sofas. When he nodded, she asked, “When did he die? Some years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Six.”

No lingering effect could be so strong; it was Ryder’s presence she was sensing.

Satisfied she’d discovered his den, she walked past the desk to study the books in the shelves beyond it. Lamps in the room’s corners had been lit; in the soft light, the lettering on the leather spines glinted. “Philosophy,” she murmured, then continued her ambling perusal.

Ryder stood and watched her for several minutes, then picked up a book he’d left by his usual chair, sat, made himself comfortable, and left her to it.

Wondered if he could.

As he’d suspected, the words on the page failed to divert his attention from her. Weren’t strong enough to drag his senses from her, she who had become their cynosure.

When she paused to examine the twin suits of medieval armor standing between the windows, he murmured, “Forsythe again. They’ve become his hobby.”

She glanced at him; even though he hadn’t looked at her he felt the touch of her gaze. “Are there more of them?”

“In the attics. I gather Forsythe occasionally slips up there to oil and polish them. He’s become something of an authority, I believe.”

“Hmm.” With that she wandered on, effortlessly leading his senses on a circuit of the room.

At the end of it, she returned to the southwest corner—books on gardening—selected a tome, then came to sit with a swish of her skirts in the armchair across from his.

Legs curled half under her, she wriggled, then settled, opened the book, and, without a single glance at him, started flicking through it.

Returning his gaze to the book in his hands, Ryder attempted to persuade his errant senses to focus on the words, and not on her.

Locating an appropriate page, Mary fixed her eyes on it but didn’t read. Instead, she reviewed. Herself, her state. And his. Here they were, husband and wife, sitting comfortably in his library reading. She’d surrendered to Fate, and The Lady’s dictates, and this was where they’d landed her.

Which was well enough in its way, yet she was only halfway to her ultimate goal.

She had his ring on her finger and was certain she could rely on having his strength at her back, but she’d yet to secure that one most vital thing—his love declared and acknowledged, at least between them.

That was the minimum she would, could, settle for.

So here they were. How should she move them forward?

Staring unseeing at the neat black print, she revisited all their previous private interactions; she searched and evaluated, seeking to identify the most direct and unrestrained and unrestricted means of communication, the most certain route to claiming his unfettered attention and persuading and convincing him of the value in taking that one last step.

She now knew him well enough to be sure that, with him, persuading and convincing was the only way to go. And regardless of all else, she was going to have to demonstrate the value, the real and true purpose of love.

Which meant she would have to define exactly what that was for him and her and their future together—the shared life they would live