The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,111

who came close. He could barely think, let alone formulate any rational response; the idea that, willful and headstrong as she was, she might not accept his decree and stay safely indoors where he and his staff could keep her safe . . . every time the notion wafted through his brain, he panicked all over again.

And that panic shook him to his core, as if he’d been solidly knocked off his foundations.

Never in his life had he panicked like this; he had no idea how to manage it—how to rein in his out-of-control reactions, how to calm himself enough to think . . . the instant he thought of her, let alone saw her, instincts he’d never known he possessed overwhelmed him and took charge. He was so tense that despite his best efforts his jaw felt like it would crack, and he’d already bent one fork out of shape. And right at this moment, his sanity hinged on Mary believing—or at least accepting the tale—that this sleepy little corner of the English countryside was overrun by rabid rats. As big as cats.

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