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, met his eyes, then nodded. “Yes. I believe granting such leave will be in everyone’s best interests.”
Her faint emphasis on “everyone’s” gave Ryder an instant’s pause. He knew the Cynster ladies by repute and, as far as possible, had steered clear of them. But from those of his peers who circled within their orbit, he’d learned enough to view them with healthy respect.
He inclined his head to both Mary’s parents. “Thank you.”
Turning his head to meet Mary’s gaze, he held out his hand, making every endeavor to mask the effort that cost him.
She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then walked forward and laid her hand in his—and gently bore his hand down until his arm rested on the covers and he no longer had to expend strength to support it.
Closing his fingers around hers, looking into her lovely eyes, he fought to screen the sudden surge of primitive possessiveness that flashed through him, but he was fairly certain he failed.
Yet she held his gaze steadily; despite what, standing so close with her gaze trapped in his, he suspected she could see, he sensed not the slightest tremor in the fingers trapped in his.
The traditional, conventional words were there, on his tongue; he’d rehearsed them while dressing. Yet he left them unsaid. Between her and him . . . he wanted more. “Clearly this is not as I would have had it, but, as you know, it is what I wanted, what I intended at some point to ask of you. But Fate has intervened and brought us to this moment without allowing us the customary time to get to know each another. To understand each other. So in what is, after all, one of the most important decisions in life, you and I have to, are being forced to, take each other on trust. And so we must. In return for the trust I hope you will accord me, I vow that I will place my trust in you?
??that I will work with you to make our future life, the one we will share, all that it might be.” He paused, then, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the cornflower blue of her eyes, drew breath, and said, “So what say you, Mary—will you take my hand and go forward by my side, as my marchioness, as my wife, and make our life, create from our shared life, all we wish?”
Mary was trapped in his eyes, but not lost, not overwhelmed; she could see his intent, clear and unshielded, could discern the powerful drive behind it, even if she couldn’t as yet guess from whence it sprang. He wanted her as his wife; he had from the first. She knew beyond question that he meant every word, those of today, and of the days past—all he’d ever offered her on this subject. “Yes.” She heard herself say the word, recognized and acknowledged that it came from somewhere deeper than her rational mind. Accepting that, she nodded, more to herself than him, and affirmed, “Yes, I will be your marchioness. Yes, I will be your wife.”
His lips, those wicked, sinful, compelling lips, slowly curved. Even though his muscles shook, he tried to raise her hand; smoothly, she lifted it, allowing him, helping him, to carry it to his lips.
His eyes, sharply intelligent, glinting with subtly screened desire, held hers as he set the seal on their pact and pressed a kiss to her fingers.