The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,123

on her curls. “We’ll see.”

After due discussion, Mary agreed to remain within the estate grounds over the following days.

The first two were enlivened by a succession of bride-visits from the surrounding gentry; the ladies had held off for the customary seven days, but now that Mary and Ryder had lived at the abbey as man and wife for a full week, the carriages rolled up the drive and the ladies, and some of their husbands, too, called to make her acquaintance.

Caught up in the whirl of navigating the shoals of county allegiances and social rank, less dangerous than those among the haut ton, perhaps, but nevertheless present, Mary almost forgot the incidents that had marred her first week as Ryder’s wife. The visits from their neighbors gave her and Ryder plenty to talk about, to discuss, and in her case to probe and learn; the days, evenings, and nights passed in exactly the sort of pleasant whirl she considered their due.

The following morning saw the last of what Ryder expected in the way of bride-visits, a visitation from Lady Hamberly; the nearest representative of the grande dame set, her ladyship stayed for just over half an hour and appeared to approve of all she saw.

Standing at Ryder’s side on the front porch as they waved her ladyship away, Mary murmured, “What will you wager she spends the entire afternoon writing missives to her peers around the country?”

“That,” Ryder said, casting her a jaundiced look as they turned inside, “is no wager at all—it’s a sure thing.”

Laughing, Mary looped her arm in his and they headed back to the library.

As the possessor of a massive estate and also a significant fortune, Ryder had a near endless stream of correspondence to deal with; Mary sat in the chair and read her book, and in between, when he paused to check on her—to give her at least a little of his time—she grasped the chance to question him about his various smaller estates scattered the length and breadth of the land.

Later in the afternoon, deciding it was time to establish a place of her own, somewhere comfortable where she could retire when he was out or she didn’t feel like sitting in the library, she went on a solo tour of the house, going into the various reception rooms on the ground floor, sitting in this chair and that, but none felt right.

In the end, she tried her sitting room upstairs—and discovered that suited her perfectly. There was something about the way the light flooded in from the windows flanking the writing desk. An armchair sat in the corner to the left of the writing desk and simply beckoned.

Sinking into the chair, she looked back down the room; she hadn’t immediately chosen this room because it was so distant from the rest of the reception rooms, yet it felt so uniquely hers, thanks in large part to Ryder’s decorating. He’d envisaged the place as a sort of temple for her, and it felt like she belonged.

Smiling, she relaxed; turning her head, she admired the views, then wondered if she should go downstairs and retrieve her book.

She was debating doing so when her eye fell on her wicker embroidery box. She hadn’t done any embroidering for some time, but Aggie had left the box alongside the armchair, which, indeed, offered the best light for the purpose. Smiling, deciding that it probably was time she got back to the cushion cover she’d started, she leaned down, flipped open the lid, and reached in—

A scorpion skittered about, turning toward her hand, tail arching high.

On a scream, she pulled back her hand just as the scorpion struck.

Leaping to her feet, with the toe of her shoe she flipped the lid of the box closed.

Her heart in her throat, she stared at the box, unable—unwilling—to shift her gaze in case the scorpion might somehow push the lid up and escape.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor, then the door crashed open and Ryder was there, wrapping her protectively in his arms, one hand cradling her head. “What is it?” He scanned the room as two footmen, followed by Forsythe, all looking alarmed and pugnacious, rushed into the room. “Where?”

Still shaking, Mary pulled out of Ryder’s hold enough to point at her embroidery box. “Scorpion. In there.”

“Scorpion?” Not scorn but puzzlement.

Mary nodded, gulped, then said, “I’m not frightened of rodents, but I hate creepy crawlies, and there’s definitely a scorpion in there, a red one. It was on top of everything