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

She smiled easily enough, but there was a quality in her expression that suggested her acquiescence was more strategy than surrender.

He didn’t care; if she’d agreed to wait for him before venturing outside, she wouldn’t be inclined to venture forth by herself—and that, at present, was his number one concern.

Mary spent the day operating, or so it seemed, on two levels. On one, she played the part of Ryder’s new marchioness, accompanying Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard on a comprehensive tour of the great house, which, at Mary’s insistence, had included all the staff quarters as well as the attics and the roof. She’d been somewhat relieved to discover that, despite not having any devoted lady in charge, possibly not for decades, the house had been suitably modernized throughout, the facilities brought up to scratch, and the staff quarters remodeled in line with progressive ideals.

When she’d inquired as to what impetus had driven the changes, Forsythe had informed her, “That’s largely his lordship’s doing, ma’am. He leans toward the progressive side in most things.”

She’d salted the observation away, making a mental note to inquire more closely as to Ryder’s political aspirations.

Over luncheon, taken with Ryder in the family dining room, she’d peppered him with questions designed to draw out his approach to the estate, what he hoped to achieve in the immediate future and what his long-term plans were. After an initial hesitation—that strangely fraught tension she’d detected at breakfast had still been there—he’d consented to answer; as her questions had continued, he’d relaxed and his revelations had flowed freely.

She hadn’t made the mistake of referring to his attitude regarding her venturing out of doors other than, as they quit the dining room, to remind him of his promise to accompany her for a stroll in the rose garden later. He’d nodded and had told her to come and fetch him when she was ready; he would be in the library.

Content enough, she’d spent the next two hours consulting with Mrs. Pritchard in her new sitting room upstairs. While Mary’s organizing of how they would jointly manage the household had gone well, the housekeeper had seemed a touch distracted.

Finally free, Mary had made her way downstairs to the library. Ryder had promptly left his correspondence and they’d gone out to the rose garden. The stroll had been pleasant, entirely unmarred by any rodents, rabid or otherwise; she hadn’t even sighted a cat.

Detecting, once again, that oddly fragile tension, as if it were something Ryder held on a short and not all that strong leash, she’d forborne from teasing him and instead had enjoyed the roses and his company.

She’d been in a pleasantly mollified mood when they’d returned to the house and the library, and she’d curled up with a book to keep him silent company. He’d studied her for a moment, then had gone back to his desk and his letters. She’d half expected some attempt to send her elsewhere, but instead he’d seemed content to have her there; every time his attention had lifted from his letters, she’d felt the fleeting touch of his gaze.

It was only when she was dressing for dinner and Aggie, assuming Mary had known all along, blurted out the facts that Mary finally learned the truth of what had caused the odd change in Ryder’s behavior, what had given rise to his extraordinary decree. What had been behind the staff’s somewhat strained reactions.

The full truth about the rabid rats.

Aggie, sensing her erupting temper, grew nervous; Mary instantly reassured her, although she didn’t explain. Didn’t admit her until-then ignorance.

That was an issue to be discussed with he who had caused it—Ryder.

Her immediate impulse was to leap to her feet, rage down the stairs, and have it out with him then and there, but . . . she drew in a breath, sat still, and allowed Aggie to continue pinning her curls, reminding herself that she was a married lady now, and married ladies needed to be much cleverer than unmarried ladies, especially when it came to dealing with their spouses.

Rather than go against them—which only results in immediately meeting the solid and instinctive wall of their resistance—I have found it pays to find a way to work with them. Once you make it clear you are entirely willing to find a way to solve whatever issue they have—that you are content to work alongside them rather than oppose them—the poor dears are usually so grateful they’ll happily share the reins, and then one can steer the applecart in a more amenable direction.

The instant she’d heard those words, she’d recognized their significance and the likelihood that they would, one day, be relevant to her. She’d committed the advice to memory, the words spoken by Minerva, Duchess of Wolverstone, on the subject of dealing with dictatorially inclined noblemen of the ilk of her husband, Royce.

There was, in Mary’s eyes, no better or more applicable authority with respect to her current situation.

So . . . she sat and let Aggie fuss, and concentrated on dampening her temper and considering ways to learn what she needed to know to reclaim her share of the reins, namely what about the situation had most exercised her new husband.

She didn’t rush down to the drawing room the instant she was ready but took her time, using the moments as she walked to the stairs and slowly descended to reinforce her control over her temper and remind herself of her goal.

Reaching the front hall, she raised her head and glided toward the drawing room. A footman leapt to open the door for her; with a regal inclination of her head, she walked into the room.

Ryder was standing by the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantelpiece; his gaze had locked on her the instant she’d appeared.

He’d been waiting for her.

Drawing in a breath, instinctively raising her head a notch higher, her eyes locking with his, Mary walked toward him.

Even before she drew near, Ryder knew she knew. And accepted that he had no choice but to do what he’d realized he must.

He didn’t wait for her to halt but raised a hand to shoulder height, palm toward her, a suing for peace. “Mea culpa. I’m sorry.”

She halted. Regarded him steadily; he couldn’t read her expression, which made him uneasy.

Then she faintly arched a brow. “For what?”

He held her gaze and didn’t fall for that; she’d heard the details from someone. “I should have told you straightaway—as soon as I heard.”