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

She whisked through the door even as, lids rising fully, he called, “No, wait!”

When she didn’t reappear, he swore, mostly at the weakness that prevented him from going after her and stopping her from doing something no lady ever should, namely rushing down the stairs of a single gentleman’s abode without being certain who was about to be admitted through the door.

Feeling drained by even that degree of exertion, falling back against his pillows, he mentally grimaced. “Pemberly will reach the door first. He’ll see her and order her back.” He tried to imagine it but couldn’t see anyone—much less his loyal, devoted, and in the current circumstances no doubt immensely grateful staff—ordering Mary to do anything. At least, not successfully.

But there was nothing he could do. Heaving a sigh of resignation, he sank deeper into his pillows, thinking words he’d never thought he would. “Pray God it is her parents.”

Raventhorne House was every bit as large and impressive as St. Ives House, just a block north in Grosvenor Square. Mary hurried along the corridor that led to the massive gallery about the grand staircase, noting with approval the trappings of luxury she’d been too distracted to notice during the night. Thick Oriental carpets in jewel tones muffled her footsteps; the walls were richly paneled in dark wood and hung with paintings large and small in ornate gilded frames. The well of the front hall was lit by a circular skylight high above. Reaching the gallery, she glanced over the wooden balustrade and saw Pemberly pacing in stately fashion across the black-and-white tiles, heading for the tall front doors.

She would be glad to see her parents, her mother especially; a smile blooming, she grabbed up her skirts and hurried even faster to the head of the stairs.

As she started down, Pemberly opened the door. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Pemberly. We are here to see my stepson.”

Mary froze. Teetering on a tread just below the half-landing, she stared, increasingly aghast as the Marchioness of Raventhorne ignored Pemberly’s valiant attempt to deny her and with an irritated “Do stand aside, man!” pushed past him into the front hall.

Followed by two middle-aged ladies who, heads high, expressions set, reticules determinedly clasped before them, marched inside in the marchioness’s wake.

All three ladies instantly saw Mary. They slowed, then halted.

Their mouths fell open, expressions turning slack with astounded astonishment as they registered who she was . . . and where she was . . .

Breaking free of the shock, Mary swung around and hared back up the stairs.

Heedless of decorum, she raced around the gallery and down the corridor to Ryder’s room.

Flinging open the door, she burst in—startling Collier, at least, who had just finished helping Ryder, now semidecently clad in a nightshirt, sip from a glass of water—then she whirled and shut the door.

She stared at it for a second, then rushed to the bed. “Ryder—”

“I take it that wasn’t your parents.” His expression unflustered, but instead rather cynically resigned, he arched a brow at her.

“It’s your stepmother.” Mary pointed to the door. “She’s coming up here.” As she’d fled, she’d heard an exclamation; as she’d darted into the corridor, she’d heard determined footsteps start up the stairs.

With a put-upon sigh, Ryder looked at the ceiling. “Wonderful.”

“No—it’s even worse.” Mary resisted the urge to grab his arm and shake him. “She’s brought Lady Jerome and Mrs. Framlingham with her!”

Ryder’s gaze snapped to her face. “Ah.” All lazy humor flown, he stared at her for two seconds, then barked, “Collier, help me up.”

Mary would have argued but instead found herself kneeling on the bed, assisting Ryder to shift higher on his pillows. At his orders, Collier helped him raise his left arm, placing his hand behind his head. . . . She frowned. “Why are we doing this?”

“Staging.”

“But why?”

“Because Lavinia is one of those to whom you never show weakness.”

She didn’t understand, but she trusted that he knew what he was doing; he was unquestionably more experienced in this sort of situation than she.

“Help me raise my other arm,” Ryder said to Mary. “Collier—out of sight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ryder had intended, between him and Mary, to set his right arm in a similar position to his left, making it appear he was lounging back with his hands behind his head, but he was still so weak, and Mary struggled to push the nearly dead weight of his arm higher—and then he caught the sounds of many footsteps approaching, Pemberly’s protests overridden by Lavinia’s waspish dismissals, and read

justed. “No—leave my arm where it is along the pillows. Sit and face the door. Now!”