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

Her eyes flicked to his, her lips curving in acknowledgment that he’d read her thoughts correctly; after their adventuring, he’d relaced her gown and helped her tidy her hair, but, of course, she’d wondered.

Gripping his fingers, Mary drew in a breath and allowed Ryder to help her out. She was finally there, at a point she’d always dreamt about—she was about to walk into her own home, to be welcomed by the staff who would henceforth be hers to command.

Flicking out her skirts with her free hand, she raised her head and fixed her gaze on the stately butler waiting at the head of the line.

Ryder led her forward. “My dear, permit me to present Forsythe. He’s been butler here since I was in short-coats.”

Despite Forsythe’s efforts to rein in his smile, it broke through the instant before he bowed. “Welcome to Raventhorne Abbey, my lady.” Straightening, he went on, “On behalf of the staff I bid you welcome to your new home, and tender our sincere hopes that your reign here will be a long and happy one.”

Returning Forsythe’s smile was easy. “Thank you, Forsythe.” Mary raised her voice as she looked down the length of the line. “I’m delighted to be here, to have been chosen by your master to fill the shoes of his marchioness. I’m looking forward to working with you all.” Glancing at Forsythe, she waved him forward. “If you would?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” With a little nod, Forsythe moved ahead of her, pausing before each member of the household to introduce them, and in a few words outlining their position or duties within the house.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Pritchard, was a thin woman of indeterminate years, with a poker-straight back and an incipient twinkle in her gray eyes; after being greeted by her and exchanging a few words, Mary felt reasonably hopeful that their relationship—arguably the most vital to the success of her tenure as Ryder’s marchioness—would prosper. If she was reading Mrs. Pritchard aright, the housekeeper was disposed to approve of any lady Ryder had chosen as his.

Very likely the housekeeper was a longtime victim of her husband’s insidious charm; if so, Mary wasn’t about to complain.

Collier was next in line; Mary greeted him with open pleasure. Her own maid, Aggie, stood next to Collier, beaming fit to burst; Aggie had left Upper Brook Street immediately after the wedding, driven to the Abbey in another of Ryder’s coaches along with Collier and all their luggage. Although Aggie put nothing into words, from her sparkling eyes Mary could tell her maid was beyond delighted with her new post, her new household.

Following Forsythe down the line, with Ryder strolling nonchalantly behind, Mary quickly realized that she, rather than Ryder, was the absolute focus of every member of the staff’s attention. Ryder, apparently, they knew well—well enough not to exhibit any nervousness of him; curious, she gauged the quality of their ease and concluded his staff had long ago learned that while the lion might roar, he wouldn’t bite.

Which, given that that relaxed ease extended to even the young grooms and pot-boys, told her quite a lot about Ryder. The Ryder who lived there, away from the ton and the more rigid social demands of his position.

She looked, too, for any adverse reactions to her advent into the staff’s lives. She’d assumed there would be at least one or two less than happy with her arrival—having a mistress as well as a master was a very different situation—yet all she detected was a universal curiosity and interest, the mirror of the interest she felt toward them.

Reaching the scullery maid at the end of the line, after smiling encouragingly at the young girl, Mary stepped onto the porch at the top of the steps. Turning, she said, “Thank you, Forsythe.” She nodded at the housekeeper, who had followed behind Ryder. “Mrs. Pritchard.” Raising her head and her voice, she smoothly continued, “And thank you all for your welcome. I hope we’ll have many years of working together in this house, making sure the House of Cavanaugh prospers into the future.”

An enthusiastic chorus of “Yes, my lady! Indeed, my

lady! Thank you, my lady!” rolled up the steps as the assembled staff bowed and bobbed.

Mrs. Pritchard beamed. “Thank you, ma’am. Now, pending your approval, we’ve held dinner back until nine o’clock, thinking you might want to see your new rooms and settle in, but if you’d rather dine earlier . . . ?”

“No, no.” Mary looked at Ryder, recalled the hints Stacie had let fall, and Aggie’s bubbling eagerness. “I believe I would like to see my rooms first.” Glancing back at Mrs. Pritchard, she nodded. “My compliments to Cook—nine o’clock will be perfect.”

Ryder smiled his slow smile. “In that case, my dear, allow me to show you upstairs.”

Taking his arm, she smiled and did.

Ryder hadn’t expected to feel . . . whatever it was he felt. A complex mix of pride, subtle excitement, an insidious eagerness he couldn’t remember experiencing since he’d been a young boy, and, beyond all else, simple happiness. He’d got what he’d wanted; Mary was his wife, and now she was here, in the house he considered his home.

Triumph had never felt so . . . fulfilling.

So filled with promise.

He led her up the wide staircase with its twin suits of armor on the landing. “Incidentally, don’t think of getting rid of these—they’re Forsythe’s pride and joy.”

She glanced at him, then halted to study the armor; after a moment, she turned and went with him up the next flight. “I think they’re rather fitting. Appropriate. I take it they belonged to some ancestors?”

“So we’ve been told.” Ryder glanced back at the armor. “Mind you, I’ve never been convinced. They’re rather short for Cavanaughs.”

She laughed. Smiling, he caught her hand and towed her around the gallery, then on down the wide north corridor. “This is the family wing. Our apartments lie across the end and on either side of the corridor, but the primary access is through the door at the end.”

Reaching that door, he grasped the knob; watching her face, he set the door swinging wide. “Which leads to the marchioness’s sitting room.”

She looked in, and her eyes grew round. Pleasure bloomed in her face as her lips formed a soundless O of delight, then she rushed in.

Grinning, as delighted as she, he followed.