The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,53

would have chosen as her husband.

Yet over the past days, her emotions—normally so quiescent and amenable, forever subservient to her will—had been . . . growing. Swelling, rising, in a burgeoning tide of nascent turmoil.

From irritation, through being charmed, through the sensual magic, the allure of waltzing in a way she never had before, to her acute reaction to Ryder’s possessiveness, entirely understandable yet never provoked to such a degree by anyone else, all capped by her response—so complex and unexpected—when he’d declared his intentions, further complicated by his unnervingly astute offer of accommodation, all immediately trumped by the indescribable horror of finding him dying.

Yet nothing to that point had prepared her for the avalanche of feelings that had all but buried her at the thought of losing him. Of no longer having him in her life.

Ever since Ryder had pushed his way into her life, she’d felt so much.

And her certainty—the certainty that until now had formed the bedrock of her life—had shattered.

She’d thought she’d understood herself, that she’d known what she wanted, known wither she was heading, and even why—and she’d been wrong.

Adrift. No, worse. She was being drawn inexorably down a path she hadn’t intended taking, and she had no real idea of where it led.

Oh, Mama—what am I to do? If she’d been a weaker sort of young lady, she might have uttered the words.

After holding her gaze for several heartbeats, Louise patted her hand and answered as if she had. “In that case, my dear, you will simply have to go forward and learn the answer. And knowing you, I have every confidence you’ll meet the challenge.”

Arthur looked from one to the other, then shook his head. “I won’t pretend I understood any of that, but it sounds as if it’s time Ryder and I had a chat.”

As if summoned by the words, Pemberly knocked and entered. “If you would, my lord, my lady, the marquess requests a few minutes of your time. As he is presently unable to come to you, his lordship asks your indulgence in stepping upstairs to his room.”

“Excellent!” Arthur rose. “Perfect timing.”

Dismissing Pemberly, Mary led the way up the stairs and down the corridor to Ryder’s room. The staff had already accorded her the status of lady of the house, and if, as it seemed, she was to take up the position permanently, she saw no reason to take a backward step. Had Ryder been in her shoes, she was sure he wouldn’t have.

Reaching his door, she tapped. Hearing his “Come,” she opened the door and led her parents inside.

Washed, shaved, his hair brushed until it gleamed, Ryder, although still deathly pale, was now garbed in a shirt, cravat, and a burgundy velvet smoking jacket; despite having to sit propped up by pillows, now freshly plumped, with the coverlet of golden silk straightened over his long legs, he still managed to project the aura of a king holding court.

His gaze swept her, then moved on to her parents. He inclined his head. “My apologies for not greeting you appropriately Lord Arthur, Lady Cynster, but I assume Mary has explained my recent injury.” With a small wave, Ryder indicated her mother should take the chair beside the bed.

Louise moved to do so. “Thank you. And yes, Mary has explained the situation.” She glanced at Mary as she sat. “Quite thoroughly, I believe.”

At a signal from Ryder, Collier slipped from the room.

As the door clicked shut, Ryder looked at Lord Arthur, who had strolled to take station behind his wife’s chair. “I regret, my lord, that the circumstances of this meeting are not as I would have wished. However, I confess it was my intention that such a meeting would take place, albeit in a more conventional way and at a somewhat later date. Be that as it may, the matter we must discuss is straightforward, and I believe you already comprehend the reasons why I must speak now. Consequently, I wish to apply for leave to address your daughter, Mary, to ask if she will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

From under his bushy eyebrows, Arthur studied him for several seconds, then humphed. “Very prettily said.” He glanced down at his wife. “What say you, my dear?”

Louise, too, had been assessing Ryder. At her husband’s question, she glanced at Mary, who had shifted to stand on the other side of the bed the better to follow the exchange. After several moments of studying her daughter, Louise looked at Ryder,