The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

Ryder sighed and obediently desisted. “If it were a matter of arm wrestling, the kitten would win.”

David grunted. He inspected the bandage, then raised the pad covering the wound itself. “Amazing.”

“Yes, I know.”

That elicited a bark of laughter. “Well, let’s see how amazing.” His gaze rising to Ryder’s face, David gently palpated around the wound. When Ryder sucked in a breath, he asked, “Pain?”

Ryder considered, then replied, “Not lancing. More a solid ache.”

“Better when I take my hands away?”

“Fading rapidly.”

“Mostly bruising, then. Understandable. I had to poke around to make sure nothing vital was nicked.”

“Again, I’m sure I don’t need to know.” Ryder forced himself to lie still and let David cover him up again. “I’m alive—oh, and incidentally, I’m also now engaged to be married.”

Straightening, David looked down at him, then his surprise gave way to a frown. “Not that young lady who was here—Miss Cynster?”

Ryder grinned. “The very one.” He proceeded to tell David what had happened.

At the end of the tale, David studied him, then arched his brows. “So is this good or bad?”

Feeling like a cat with a bowl of cream promised and certain in the offing, Ryder beamed. “It’s excellent.”

Laughing, David shook his head. “I have never encountered anyone with luck to match yours.” He paused, then more soberly said, “You do realize you came within a whisker of dying? That if it hadn’t been for Miss Cynster acting as decisively and effectively as she did, I would have been attending your funeral, and not your sickbed?”

Growing serious himself, Ryder nodded. “So I gathered. But she did, and I didn’t, so tell me—how long before I’m up and about, and can . . . er, enjoy my good fortune.”

David pulled a face at him. “Were it any other man, I’d say a few weeks at least, but knowing you and your powers of recuperation, I’d recommend eating whatever and however much you wish, and in a few days you should be downstairs—going up and down will help rebuild your strength—but as for enjoying your Miss Cynster, for God’s sake, not within a week.”

Ryder grimaced. “I think we can be sure it won’t be that soon.”

“What? Losing your touch?”

“Not this side of hell. But she’s a Cynster, and she’s to be my marchioness, so our relationship will progress very much by the book.”

In pursuit of that aim, the next morning, feeling significantly improved, Ryder sat in the chair beside his bed and wrote several formal notes, which he subsequently dispatched to various houses around Mayfair.

Mary arrived shortly after and bullied him into getting back in bed. As she promised to spoon-feed him the restorative chicken broth Cook had prepared for him, he acquiesced. He couldn’t recall ever having any female other than a nurse fuss over him before; he decided that, in small doses, he rather enjoyed it.

But he drew the line at her feeding him the rest of the five courses Collier ferried up; when she realized he was fully capable of wielding knife and fork, she narrowed her eyes at him, then allowed Pemberly to serve her her meal at a small table he set up beside the bed.

After the meal, he grew drowsy, much like a well-fed cat. She watched his lids droop; when

she thought he was asleep, she approached the bed, stood staring down at him for a long while, then bent and dropped a kiss, light as thistledown, on his forehead and left.

He felt like he’d been branded. Pleasurably so.

He dozed, read, and dozed again through the afternoon, then Mary returned to share an early evening meal with him. She brought news of the first reactions of the ton to the inevitable rumors of their engagement, then he and she discussed the notice he would, eventually, send to the Gazette after he and her father had dealt with the matter of the settlements.

Everything, he was determined, would be done correctly.

She left while he was still awake, so he didn’t receive another tantalizing kiss.

The next day, as David had predicted, Ryder conquered the stairs in time to meet with Lord Arthur and their mutual man-of-business, Heathcote Montague, to negotiate and finalize the settlements. When Lord Arthur departed, Montague remained to discuss various aspects of Ryder’s changing circumstances. After Montague left, Ryder remained downstairs; he was looking forward to sharing luncheon with his betrothed, who had sent word via her father that she would arrive in time for the meal.

Had his household not already known of their pending relationship, Mary’s reaction on finding him downstairs would have made the connection plain; rushing into the dining room and seeing him standing by the head of the table, she strode down the room, skirts swishing, her gaze raking him from head to toe, then returning to his face. “What by all that’s holy—or even unholy—are you doing downstairs?”