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.
She studied his eyes, then the tip of her tongue appeared and swept over her lips, leaving the lower glistening, ripe and luscious.
He inwardly groaned and tried not to too obviously react.
She must have felt something, because the gleam in her eyes grew just a touch brighter, the curve of her lips a touch deeper. “I thought,” she murmured, her gaze falling to his lips, “that given we have this very long and otherwise quite boring drive to live through, we might try enlivening the moments with an adventure.”
He arched his brows higher. “An adventure.”
“Hmm. One where we explore just what, for us, is possible within the confines of a traveling carriage.” Her gaze returned to his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve experienced this sort of adventure before, but I haven’t.” She leaned closer. “So I think you should show me.”
Trapped in her pansy-blue eyes, caught—so effortlessly—in the net of her attraction, he heard himself admit, “Actually, I’ve never . . . indulged in a carriage.”
Those fabulous eyes flared wide. “Never? Not ever?”
He shook his head. “The opportunity never arose.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but her expression brightened further, eagerness and delight infusing her features. “Even better. We can explore together, learn and discover all . . . there is to uncover.” Her gaze fell to his lips, then lower, to his cravat. “Speaking of which.” She reached for the folds.
He caught her hands, flattened them against his chest. “No—that’s one thing I do know about such adventures. Clothes stay on.”
Her eyes widened. “They do?”