The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,162
nine and fourteen years old were there. Although they were sitting in a circle, there was no doubt who was their leader—her own daughter, Louisa, at fourteen already well on her way to becoming her father’s worst nightmare.
Louisa was a female version of Devil in oh-so-many ways. Shrewdly intelligent, quick-witted, and very accomplished in managing people, their daughter’s pale green eyes were eerily similar to Devil’s and Helena’s, but the mind behind was, in Honoria’s estimation, even more willful, more stubborn.
Honoria wasn’t entirely looking forward to managing Devil through the coming years.
But, as usual, watching her daughter made her lips twitch, made maternal pride well and overflow in quite a different way to when she viewed Sebastian or Michael.
Turning away, Honoria quit the shadows under the oaks and moved back into the main body of the crowd assembled on the wide south lawn.
She paused to chat to Francesca and Priscilla, joining them in admiring Jordan, Dillon and Priscilla’s new baby, born mere weeks before and currently lovingly cradled in Priscilla’s arms, then passing on to spend a few minutes with Sarah and Charlie, similarly admiring their young Celia, almost old enough to sit up in her father’s proud arms. The men had started strolling back from the stables to rejoin the gathering, gradually finding their way back to their wives.
The eleven eight- to six-year-olds, boys and girls both, were engaged in a rambunctious game of tag, weaving in and about their elders, all of whom kept a wary eye on the darting figures flashing past like fish in a stream. The activity had become something of a tradition; quite how the participants managed never to come to grief was a mystery that, despite the years, Honoria had not yet solved.
Those younger still, five years old or less, were by general consensus relegated to the firm hands of their nursemaids. The maids had clustered on one corner of the lawn, using perambulators, baskets, and satchels to hem in their charges. There were blocks, rings, and a variety of other toys scattered on the grass while toddlers staggered drunkenly and younger ones crawled and they all yelled and laughed.
Deeming that group safe, Honoria did nothing more than cast a glance over the bright heads. Including those currently in their parents’ arms, there were twenty-five, a number to make any matriarch puffed up.
Smiling, she moved on through the crowd, then noticed two men standing alone, plainly having failed to find their wives among the once again thickening throng. James Glossup and Ryder Cavanaugh looked faintly lost, but then Luc and Martin strolled up, and an instant later, Portia, having left little Persephone in her grandmother’s care, joined the group, and, no doubt, explained.
About the one who wasn’t there. And that Amanda, Amelia, Simon, Henrietta, and Mary unfailingly slipped away from the gathering every year to spend a few quiet minutes at Tolly’s grave.
Just them, the siblings; none of them had been married when Tolly had died.
Honoria paused, remembering—hearing again the echo of the shot that, for her, too, reverberated down the years. That shot had taken Tolly’s life and had brought her and Devil together. All but forced them together. It had been the start . . . in some ways, of it all.
Glancing around, she saw all those gathered, acknowledged the number, the strength, the depths of the connections, and, as she had in years past, she raised a mental toast to Tolly. In part, this—all they had become—was because of him. Because of his sacrifice.
Family in all its aspects—the heartache and the pain, as well as the joy, the warmth, and the wonder.
After a moment of quiet reflection, Honoria rediscovered her smile and walked on.
Ten minutes later, Mary materialized at Ryder’s side. When he arched a brow at her, she twined her arm with his, lightly squeezed. “I’ll tell you later.”
He smiled gently. “No need.” He tipped his head to where Portia stood, Simon having just joined her, while next to Mary, Henrietta had returned to James’s side. “Portia explained.”
Mary smiled a touch mistily, then drew in a breath and turned to the others.
As if by agreement, they slid back into their previous occupation, chatting about family and family happenings. Henrietta and James’s bridal trip, from which they had only just returned, provided an easy start.
“Italy was simply marvelous!” Henrietta assured them.
“Lots of old ruins, all of which she perforce had to see.” James grinned. “Mind you, some of the statues were arresting.”
The others laughed, then a shrieking wail cut through