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

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 all on down the aisle—to where the man she now recognized as her true hero waited.

For Ryder . . . in the moment when, standing before the altar of St. George’s, his half brothers to his right, alerted by the organist he turned and saw Mary on her father’s arm, walking slowly, steadily, deliberately to him, a smile of unalloyed delight on her lips, he finally and fully appreciated how cataclysmically his life was about to change.

His heart stopped, then, as his eyes met hers, started beating again, but he would swear to a different cadence.

Beneath the filmy veil, her eyes looked huge, intensely blue, bright, alive, eager, and enthused.

Her gown shifted and swayed as she walked, a delicate, exquisite, fragilely beautiful thing . . . just like her.

Covetousness flared, but his possessiveness was tinged with an unnerving sense of gratitude.

As she slowed and came alongside, he offered his hand and Lord Arthur formally placed her hand in his. His eyes locking with hers, he closed his fingers about her slender digits, and it felt like a new beginning.

They both drew breath, and together turned to the altar.

He barely heard the minister’s words, let alone the hymns. Through the hour-long service, his focus and every vestige of his awareness remained locked on Mary; all else seemed superfluous, irrelevant. Only their vows stood out in his mind; he spoke his firmly, meaning every word, feeling each resonate within him, and heard her give hers in reply, a clear, feminine echo of his own commitment, and felt his world shift, realigning, and, despite his lingering wariness, willingly let go, allowing Fate to turn the key and lock them together as husband and wife.

As the minister pronounced it done and gave them permission for their first kiss as a married couple, as he turned to Mary and she turned to him, their gazes met and held—and he saw himself in the vivid blue, saw the man she saw before her, the man she stretched up to share a sweet, delicate—for them, ridiculously chaste—kiss.

The man she’d accepted as the “true hero” for whom she’d been searching.

He surprised himself by finding a smile to match hers, that it came so easily, then he an

chored her hand on his arm and they turned and faced the congregation—faced their world.

Confidence and more was theirs to claim, strength and purpose and certainty; as with all the self-assurance they both possessed, they walked up the aisle to thunderous applause, he made a conscious decision that, from that day forward, he would be the man reflected in her eyes.

Their journey in an open barouche over the short distance into Brook Street and thence to St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square was marked by cheering, catcalls, and, courtesy of his half siblings, a hail of rice and flowers from the crowds thronging the route.

The same unrestrained gaiety and a species of giddy joy infused the great crowd gathered for the wedding breakfast. The speeches and congratulations flowed like fine wine, bubbled and effervesced like champagne. The wedding waltz, when it finally came, felt like a benediction, a moment when the irrevocable power they’d both that day bowed their knee to shone through the heady whirl and touched them. For those moments, claimed them.

And then, surrounded by a crowd of their relatives, they were being ushered out of the house and down the wide steps to the carriage waiting to take them into the country, to Raventhorne Abbey, to commence their shared life.

Mary’s transparent delight at the prospect mirrored his. She’d changed into a new carriage gown of violet-blue and, with her eyes shining with happiness, her rosy lips curved in unfettered joy, looked even more stunningly striking than usual.

He finally managed to hand her into the carriage, then follow and shut the door on all those cheering and calling out suggestions. Settling on the seat and looking out of the window, beaming and waving to the last, Mary said, “Everyone’s so happy! More than anything else, that’s made this such a wonderful day—I didn’t see one less-than-joyful expression.”

At last the carriage pulled away, trailing the inevitable old boots and—inventively—a spade. Hearing the racket following along the cobbles, feeling flown on the combined good cheer, Ryder smiled, met her eyes, nodded, and let the comment—generally speaking correct—pass unchallenged. He saw no reason to dim their mood by mentioning his stepmother; Lavinia had, of course, been present, but his half siblings and her friend, Potherby, had endeavored to keep her suitably restrained.

But as 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.”