The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,97

but after a moment she nodded. “Yes—you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

Still smiling, Claude reached for the teapot.

Henrietta’s return to the capital, accompanied by a beaming James, signaled the start of the last stage, the final mad rush to the wedding.

Mary found herself swept up in a whirl of last-minute decisions—what her attendants would carry aside from their bouquets, whether she wished a diamond- or pearl-encrusted comb to anchor her veil, whether she would wear her great-grandmother’s pearls. Beribboned silver horseshoes, pearls, and yes were the answers, but nothing, it seemed, could be decided without the canvassing of wider opinion. She would have expected to feel irritated, impatient of the restraint; instead, caught up in the embrace of her family and close friends, in the love that flowed from all, the clear exposition that her happiness was everyone’s concern made bearing with their interference surprisingly easy.

And if she wondered at herself—at how she’d changed, of how over the last days and, indeed, weeks she’d come to more deeply appreciate her family, warts and all—the few stolen moments she shared with Ryder, quiet exchanges about the arrangements for their life to come, only sharpened that appreciation, emphasizing, as those moments did, that after the wedding she would be . . . moving on.

Leaving her family and starting a new life, one it was up to her—with Ryder—to define.

The challenge stood clear and unequivocal before her when, pleasantly exhausted, she fell into her bed to sleep through her last night as an unmarried young lady.

She woke the next morning to the bright sunshine of the day during which she would walk down the aisle as a bride, with her hero waiting before the altar to take her hand . . . she could barely contain her joy.

Tossing back the covers, she bounced to her feet; already beaming, she rang for her maid.

Chapter Eleven

For all of London, the wedding of the Most Noble Ryder Montgomery Sinclair Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, Viscount Sidwell, Baron Axford, Lord Marshal of the Savernake, to Mary Alice Cynster on that bright early summer day in June ’37 was a notable entertainment, with the carriages of the ton overflowing the streets of Mayfair and uncounted nobs and grand ladies in their finery on show for all to see. Those who were early enough to secure the prime vantage spots around St. George’s, Hanover Square, and in the surrounding streets were impressed by the sheer number of the aristocracy attending; the carriages, at times almost stationary on the cobbles, continued to arrive and disgorge their well-heeled owners long after the crowd had imagined the church full.

For the haut ton, the wedding was a must-be-seen-at event, one which would almost certainly rank as the premier social spectacle of the year. While all had noted the recent alliance between the Glossups and the Cynsters, few had anticipated the much more strategically powerful union between the Cynsters and the Cavanaughs. The uniting of two such houses, both with their roots in the distant past and their present wealth and influence beyond question, transfixed the ton in a way little else could; everyone who was anyone wished to be seen to accord the marriage due respect, and, as such an occasion called for invitations to be spread to all associated in even the smallest way with either house—and as that encompassed most of the haut ton—it was no surprise to anyone that the church’s galleries were packed.

For Mary, her wedding day started wonderfully and only improved. The gregariously happy breakfast with her family, including her sisters, sister-in-law, brother, and brothers-in-law, as well as all their children, was followed by the giddy scramble to get everyone dressed and to the church on time. Of course, with her mother and all the other Cynster ladies supervising, not a single thing was permitted to go wrong. As, to exuberant cheering from the dense ranks of onlookers, her father handed her down from the white-ribbon-bedecked carriage, Mary doubted her smile could ever be wider. Doubted that her heart could ever feel so full as she met her father’s eyes, then let him wind her arm in his and lead her up the steps and into the church to where her attendants waited with the page boys and flower girls. Their procession formed up in good order; with stately tread, they approached the big double doors, which were swung open by Martin and Luc, both smiling and encouraging, and then the music swelled and carried them