The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,99
they’d left, Lavinia had been standing amid the crowd on the steps, and her expression had very definitely not been happy.
A fact that bothered him not at all. Shifting to sit on the seat beside Mary, he caught her hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it, then said, “Now we can relax, at least for the next several hours until we reach the Abbey.”
Mary made a humming sound and, her fingers curling to grip his, settled beside him.
The hard line of her lips belying her otherwise neutral expression, with her hand on Claude Potherby’s arm, Lavinia was swept up in the wave of guests returning to the St. Ives House ballroom when, from a little way ahead, she heard that old battle-axe, Lady Osbaldestone, opine, “I daresay there will soon be countless wagers entered in those ridiculous books the gentlemen’s clubs keep as to the birthday of Ryder’s heir.”
“Without a doubt.” It was Lady Horatia Cynster who replied. “And equally undoubtedly the favored date will be nine months from now.”
Several other ladies laughed.
Lavinia’s lips tightened. She narrowed her eyes, but then Claude squeezed her hand. Reminded of where they were, suppressing her emotions, she smoothed her expression and let him lead her on.
Mary waited until the carriage had left the outskirts of London before acting on the thought that had grown minute by minute more tempting ever since she’d first learned of this five and more hours’ carriage journey to her new home.
Raventhorne Abbey lay beyond Hungerford; they’d arranged to leave the wedding breakfast in good time to ensure that it would still be light for her first sight of the great house. That meant they had hours of bowling along in Ryder’s well-sprung traveling carriage down relatively well-made roads to endure—and she was familiar with the road as far as Reading, so felt no need to study the scenery.
The coachman had drawn up once they were out of sight of St. Ives House and removed the numerous articles attached to the carriage’s rear; subsequently, they’d rolled along in comfortable peace. She and Ryder had exchanged comments and observations on their day, on the guests, on minor social matters either or both had noted; that degree of social acuity, of awareness of issues affecting others in their orbit, was a trait they shared. Information was power; they both understood that.
Eventually, however, their observations had come to an end, and they’d lapsed into companionable silence.
She hadn’t traveled in this carriage before, but she was impressed by the modern design and the extra little touches of luxury, such as the brass window locks, the concealed window screens, and the superbly sumptuous dark blue leather seats.
Appreciation of the amenities, however, did not divert her for long, and by the time they passed through Hounslow and the coachman whipped up the horses to speed on over the fabled heath, she decided the moment to broach her tempting thought had arrived.
Ryder was sitting beside her, shoulders relaxed against the seat back, long legs bent at the knees, thighs splayed, at ease, one elbow propped on the windowsill. A swift glance showed he was idly watching the trees dotting the heath flash past.
The coach was now traveling at significant speed, rocking slightly on its excellent springs. Without warning she rose and used the sway of the coach to assist her in tumbling onto Ryder’s lap.
He caught her, of course. He hesitated for an instant, then as she wriggled to face him, his hands gripped and he lifted her and settled her as she wished—so they were face-to-face and she could smile and lean her arms on his chest, the better to discuss her tempting thought.
Ryder looked into her brilliant eyes, took note of the luscious curve of her lips, and faintly patronizingly arched a deliberately languid brow. He’d known something like this was coming, but no matter that one part of him—the baser part—was eager to fall in with whatever she had in mind, he hadn’t been about to initiate the event.
He’d yet to figure out exactly where the road she’d lured him down was leading them, and encounters of the sort she clearly had in mind only pulled him further down said road. Unresisting, because resistance was futile. No, worse, impossible.
That didn’t alleviate his growing wariness one iota.
At some point in the last hours it had finally become clear to him that she was his fate.
She was his now, and in order to keep her he had to pay her price.