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

Leaving the two grandes dames pointing out and swapping comments on various members of the younger set, Honoria moved on, like any good hostess keeping her finger on the pulse of her widely dispersed guests.

Helena’s grandson Sebastian, her husband’s namesake and Honoria’s elder son, better known as the Marquess of St. Earith, was the most senior of the next generation; eighteen years old and bidding fair to becoming even more lethally handsome than his father, he was standing with a group comprised of the other seventeen- and sixteen-year-old males—budding gentlemen all. Michael, Sebastian’s brother, was there, as were Christopher and Gregory, Vane and Patience’s older sons, Marcus, Richard and Catriona’s eldest son, Justin, Gabriel and Alathea’s older son, and Aidan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s eldest son. They were, Honoria suspected, swapping tales she’d rather not hear.

Males, she was well aware, changed little with the generations.

Luckily, someone had persuaded the fifteen-, fourteen-, and thirteen-year-old lads that overseeing the younger boys playing a spirited game of cricket would be much more fun than listening to their elders fill their heads with adolescent dreams. Nicholas, Demon and Flick’s older son, Evan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s middle son, Julius, Gyles and Francesca’s older son, and Gavin and Bryce, Dominic and Angelica’s wards were actively engaged in the rowdy game presently being waged between two teams formed with the assembled nine-, ten-, and eleven-year old males, of which there were eleven.

Flick, the most tomboyish of the matrons—and the one who had a passing understanding of the rules of the boys’ game—had been keeping a watchful eye over the group; she ambled up to stand alongside Honoria.

Registering the names, the faces, the ages, Honoria grinned. “Twenty-six was a good year for males—we added eight to the score that year.”

Flick frowned. “There were no girls, were there?”

“Not that year, but we had five the next, and the year after we added two girls, but no boys at all.”

“Hmm . . . well, if you’re wondering where our young ladies are”—Flick tipped her guinea-gold head toward the walled garden—“I believe they’re swapping secrets in amongst the roses.”

Honoria smiled. “Predictable, I suppose. Did you see who went that way?”

“Only Lucilla, my Prudence, and Antonia. As for the rest, your daughter appears to have taken on your mantle—the last I saw she had the others, at least all the girls beyond the stage of rushing about madly playing tag, sitting in a circle on the grass beyond the oaks.”

Honoria arched her brows. “Knowing Louisa, I suspect I’d better check that they’re all still there and haven’t decided to embark on some adventure or quest.

”

Laughing, Flick nodded and they parted, Flick to continue ambling beneath the trees, pausing to chat with the other ladies while watching over the boys, while Honoria, also pausing to chat here and there, circled the gathering.

She passed close enough to the entrance to the rose garden to glimpse the three young ladies seated on the bench at the far end of the central path. Lucilla’s red hair, highlighted by the sun, burned flame bright. Prudence, Demon and Flick’s fair-haired older daughter, was on Lucilla’s right, while Antonia, Gyles and Francesca’s oldest child, dark-haired and vivid, sat on Lucilla’s left. Lucilla was seventeen, the other two sixteen. The three made a striking picture. Honoria noted it, noted the expressive way they were talking, hands gesticulating; smiling, she left them undisturbed.

By the time she reached the line of oaks bordering the far side of the lawn, more than twenty minutes had passed; she was therefore somewhat relieved to see the bevy of girls still seated on the grass, their dresses a spectrum of pastel hues making them look like so many blooms scattered upon the sward.

Honoria counted, verifying that all twelve girls aged between nine and fourteen years old were there. Although they were sitting in a circle, there was no doubt who was their leader—her own daughter, Louisa, at fourteen already well on her way to becoming her father’s worst nightmare.

Louisa was a female version of Devil in oh-so-many ways. Shrewdly intelligent, quick-witted, and very accomplished in managing people, their daughter’s pale green eyes were eerily similar to Devil’s and Helena’s, but the mind behind was, in Honoria’s estimation, even more willful, more stubborn.

Honoria wasn’t entirely looking forward to managing Devil through the coming years.

But, as usual, watching her daughter made her lips twitch, made maternal pride well and overflow in quite a different way to when she viewed Sebastian or Michael.

Turning away, Honoria quit the shadows under the oaks and moved back into the main body of the crowd assembled on the wide south lawn.

She paused to chat to Francesca and Priscilla, joining them in admiring Jordan, Dillon and Priscilla’s new baby, born mere weeks before and currently lovingly cradled in Priscilla’s arms, then passing on to spend a few minutes with Sarah and Charlie, similarly admiring their young Celia, almost old enough to sit up in her father’s proud arms. The men had started strolling back from the stables to rejoin the gathering, gradually finding their way back to their wives.

The eleven eight- to six-year-olds, boys and girls both, were engaged in a rambunctious game of tag, weaving in and about their elders, all of whom kept a wary eye on the darting figures flashing past like fish in a stream. The activity had become something of a tradition; quite how the participants managed never to come to grief was a mystery that, despite the years, Honoria had not yet solved.

Those younger still, five years old or less, were by general consensus relegated to the firm hands of their nursemaids. The maids had clustered on one corner of the lawn, using perambulators, baskets, and satchels to hem in their charges. There were blocks, rings, and a variety of other toys scattered on the grass while toddlers staggered drunkenly and younger ones crawled and they all yelled and laughed.

Deeming that group safe, Honoria did nothing more than cast a glance over the bright heads. Including those currently in their parents’ arms, there were twenty-five, a number to make any matriarch puffed up.

Smiling, she moved on through the crowd, then noticed two men standing alone, plainly having failed to find their wives among the once again thickening throng. James Glossup and Ryder Cavanaugh looked faintly lost, but then Luc and Martin strolled up, and an instant later, Portia, having left little Persephone in her grandmother’s care, joined the group, and, no doubt, explained.

About the one who wasn’t there. And that Amanda, Amelia, Simon, Henrietta, and Mary unfailingly slipped away from the gathering every year to spend a few quiet minutes at Tolly’s grave.

Just them, the siblings; none of them had been married when Tolly had died.

Honoria paused, remembering—hearing again the echo of the shot that, for her, too, reverberated down the years. That shot had taken Tolly’s life and had brought her and Devil together. All but forced them together. It had been the start . . . in some ways, of it all.

Glancing around, she saw all those gathered, acknowledged the number, the strength, the depths of the connections, and, as she had in years past, she raised a mental toast to Tolly. In part, this—all they had become—was because of him. Because of his sacrifice.