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

“Oh, my lord!” Pirouetting in the center of the room, Mary meant the words literally. “The colors . . . they’re perfect!” A silvery blue contrasted with her signature cornflower-blue, highlighted with a stripe of dark violet; the three colors in various strengths combined in the silks covering the walls, in the fabrics of the upholstery on the twin chaises and various chairs, in turn echoed by a similar but darker version of the same leaf-pattern in the long curtains, presently looped back to allow light to stream in through the two long windows.

Between the windows sat a delicate lady’s writing desk, the lamp upon it a fanciful design echoing the leaf motif. A set of crystal inkwells and fine ivory pens lay ready to be used beside a blotter framed in blue leather.

All the wooden furniture—the chests against the walls, the low table between the chaises, the frames of the chaises themselves—was of golden oak, with a patina that just begged to be touched, stroked. As she flitted about the room, trailing her fingers over this surface and that, appreciating the tactile and visual delights and the small, subtle touches like the lamp and the clock on the mantelpiece—a simple gold dial framed in delicate gold leaves—Mary registered the implication. Slowing, she turned to Ryder.

He’d closed the door but had halted before it, watching her.

“You had all this done.” Statement, not a question; he had to have for the color to match so perfectly. “In just . . .” She paused to calculate. “Fifteen, sixteen days at most.” She looked around, marveling. “You managed all this.” Clearly he had, but she knew what that must have entailed. Not just the cost, but the organization.

He shrugged lightly and came forward. “You being you made choosing the colors easy, and as for the rest . . .” He glanced around, then looked down at her. “Your rooms at Raventhorne House are still being finished, but”—he waved to the door to his left—“all your rooms here, your bedroom and more, are ready to receive you.”

She didn’t need a second invitation but went straight to the door he’d indicated. There was another door in the mirror position in the opposite wall; she assumed it led to his bedroom. Opening the door to which he’d directed her, she walked through, knowing he followed, that he was watching, gauging her reaction, her response, that his satisfaction sprang from pleasing her. From knowing his gift had.

It wasn’t hard to openly show her pleasure and give him that satisfaction; the bed was a large oak four-poster, solidly framed but delicately carved, the same leaf motif dominating. The fabrics and patterns from the sitting room were redeployed, but in more luxurious, sumptuous weights. The silver-blue sheets were fine satin, the coverlet a heavier, richer satin rendition of the upholstery pattern, with the embroidery on some of the mound of pillows picked out in the deeper hues.

And then there were the windows. One pair, long and narrow, looked north, but the pair flanking the bed, although equally tall, were wider. Sweeping up to one, she looked out.

“The rose garden.” Ryder came to stand behind her.

It was June; the large, well-tended bushes were in full leaf, and buds were starting to unfurl, the rich pink, apricot, white, and deep red blooms splashes of color amid the dark green. Stone paths framed the beds, and an old stone fountain stood in the center of the square garden. Mary knew about roses. “Someone did an excellent job designing it.” She glanced over her shoulder at Ryder. “Your stepmother?”

He shook his head. “As far as I know, Lavinia never had much interest in the gardens. According to the old head gardener—who is older than Methuselah—it was my mother and he together who made it.” He hesitated, then added, “Even though she died when I was young, I still remember it was her favorite place outside. If she was in the gardens, I’d always be taken to her there. She’d be sitting on that bench at the end of the walk.”

Mary noted the bench, could guess the view it would give of the house. “There’s a rose garden a bit like this one at Somersham Place—with a similar bench.” She glanced up at Ryder and grinned. “Perhaps it’s one of those things the principal residences of all the major families are supposed to have.”

He softly snorted, then met her eyes. “More like something all the relevant ladies decided needed to be—their civilizing influence made manifest.”

She chuckled and turned to the door leading to the next room; as she’d supposed, it proved to be her dressing room.

A fabulous dressing room, large and airy, with a wide dressing table set between a smaller pair of windows, and numerous chests of drawers and two armoires. Her gowns were already hanging in one, her petticoats and shawls in the other. “This,” she said, slowly twirling to take in the entirety, “is more like a boudoir.”

Ryder shrugged as he joined her. “Lavinia used it as such—she used to meet with her children here, rather than in the sitting room.”

Detecting something more behind the comment, Mary arched a brow.

His lips twisted wryly. “So she ran no risk of my father coming in or overhearing anything she said. By tacit agreement this room was hers, and he wouldn’t have intruded without an invitation.”

She held his gaze. “Does it bother you that these rooms were once Lavinia’s? That she replaced your mother here”—she gestured—“in the marchioness’s suite?”

He didn’t try to duck the question. After a moment of consideration—while staring into her eyes so she saw him look inward and actually consult his feelings—his lips slowly curved. Refocusing on her, he shook his head. “No. In fact . . . I suspect that’s one reason I so enjoyed doing this—finally and completely supplanting Lavinia with you—and why I so enjoy seeing you . . . happy here.”

Holding his gaze, she smiled back, equally sincere. “And I am very happy.” Even more that he’d answered without reserve. Stretching up, placing a hand on his cheek to steady herself, she lightly kissed his lips.

When he didn’t respond, she drew back and, openly puzzled, cocked her head in question.

His lips quirked. “Before we get distracted, there’s something I want to give you.”

She opened her eyes wide. “More?”

In reply he crossed to the dressing table. Her brushes and combs, her box of hair ornaments, and her jewelry box were neatly arrayed on the surface, reflected in the triple-paned mirror. Opening the narrow drawer below the center of the table, he reached in and drew out a velvet-covered box. Turning to her, he offered it. “These are for you.”

Eyes locked on the box, eagerness, delight, and expectation flaring, she reached for it. Took it, opened it—and gasped. “Oh!” That was all she could manage; mere words couldn’t do justice to what lay within. “It’s . . . they are . . .” Fabulous, unbelievable, amazing. “Exquisite.”

She continued to stare at the matching necklace, bracelet, and earrings in utterly speechless delight.

Ryder drank in the sight and felt his own delight well. Reaching into the box, he eased the necklace from its bed on the white velvet. “I’ll remember, next time I want to see you stunned, to offer you jewelry.”

“Oh,” she breathed, “but this isn’t just jewelry. This is a fantasy rendered in jewels.” Swinging around, presenting him with her back, she all but jigged. “Put it on. I have to see.”