The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,126

dressed; she smiled at the confirmation of her mental image of him as a lion of the ton. He’d been riding about the estate over the past days, and strands in his hair had lightened, brightened, the tawny contrast more pronounced; the sight still made her palms itch even though she now knew very well what his mane felt like. Heaven knew she’d clutched it often enough.

He’d smiled at the sight of her; still smiling, he straightened as she neared.

There was a light in his eyes, a softening in the sharp hazel as they met hers that touched her in ways that had nothing to do with the sensual, and everything to do with the connection they now shared. The villain behind the attacks had hurried them down the path, but they’d been willing and, to her mind, were almost there.

Reaching for her hand, Ryder carried it to his lips and brushed a light kiss to the backs of her fingers. Smiling into her eyes, he retained her hand, his fingers idly stroking hers. “Did Mrs. Hubert bore you with talk of the church bazaar?”

“Yes, and no. She’s very opinionated, but then so am I.” Mary smiled back, a touch more intently. “But as she’s accustomed to being in charge, I decided that I would simply be the figurehead, which is really all she wanted. I have enough on my plate with the household here, and I do want to push ahead with my idea for an estate picnic.”

Standing hand in hand, they discussed that prospect for the few minutes before Forsythe appeared to summon them to dine.

As she allowed Ryder to lead her into the family dining room and seat her, Mary registered that all the staff, too, seemed to be smiling more these days.

The meal passed in their customary vein—an exchange of the wider issues they’d encountered through the day. Today it was gypsies, and the locals’ distrust of the travelers who had set up on Axford common, then they embarked on a political discussion sparked by a controversy each had noted in that day’s news sheets. As always, the back-and-forth exchanges were entertaining, stimulating. Without the slightest effort, they filled the time and took the last subject with them to the library.

Walking alongside Mary and listening to her opinion on the latest development in gas lighting, Ryder was once again amazed—by himself, by her; never had he imagined interacting with his wife in such a way. Prior to deciding on Mary, he hadn’t had any clear view of that female, but if he’d stopped to think . . . he’d never have dreamt of a lady with whom he discussed such matters, let alone one whose opinions he’d learned to seriously consider, and to which he now gave weight. More weight than those of anyone else he knew.

They entered the library on the conclusion of her argument.

“I agree.” He followed her to her chair, paused while she sat, then when she looked up at him, brows rising, he nodded. “We should bear it in mind when next the question arises—most likely with the London house.”

She smiled and reached for her book. He trailed his fingertips lightly across her shoulder and continued to his desk.

He still had several letters to deal with, but they were mundane matters requiring little thought.

While he wrote, his mind, largely disengaged, drifted to more appealing vistas. Such as Mary and him, and the connection—the true partnership—evolving between them.

He didn’t know how it had happened—hadn’t even known that it could—but somehow, through the events that had brought them together, through the dramas and demands of the last weeks, they’d reached for and found a togetherness, a direct, deeply personal link that connected them each to the other. A connection that could manifest in a look, a private smile, a kiss brushed over her fingers, or the pressure of his hand about hers. In the trailing of his fingertips over her shoulder.

The other side of that link showed in her openness, in the eagerness for his company she allowed to shine so clearly, in the softer light in her cornflower-blue eyes whenever she looked at him.

He hadn’t expected any of it. He hadn’t anticipated any emotional connection because he hadn’t known he possessed the potential for such feelings. Now he knew—now she’d proved it beyond doubt—he . . . wanted it.

More, his instincts urged him to seize it, to secure it and the promise it held. In that connection, through it, lay the surest, most