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

Raising her brows, she invited him to proceed.

“I rather expected you to be hissing and spitting at me by now—at least ranting and raving a trifle.” Another weak wave. “Perhaps pacing back and forth.” He caught her gaze. “You know, the expected reaction.”

Her lips faintly curved, but she sobered immediately. “I can’t see that ranting and raving will get either of us anywhere.”

He regarded her, wariness growing. “How terribly rational of you.”

That elicited another fleeting grin. “As much as I might be tempted to berate you, I can’t find it in me to be so irrational as to blame you for what just occurred. You had no choice—it wasn’t as if you’d invited your stepmother and her cronies in.”

He managed the tiniest inclination of his head. “Thank you. I assure you that little performance was certainly not what I meant when I stated I intended to work to change your mind.”

She humphed but said nothing.

When she continued to consider him in silence to the point he was growing increasingly concerned about just what plan she was hatching, in an endeavor to tease it from her he sighed feelingly, then said, “I suppose, if I were other than I am, I would make some chivalrous declaration over finding some way of releasing you from the contract in which we’ve just become unintentionally snared.”

Her blue eyes narrowed on his face. “But you won’t, will you?”

Holding her gaze, he shook his head. “No. I had no idea I would be stabbed last night, had no idea you would come along and aid me, had no idea you would remain by my side all night, and I had no hand in bringing Lavinia and her bosom-bows down on our joint heads. And I haven’t reached where I am today without learning to take advantage of every blessing Fate sends my way.” He paused, then more softly said, “So no, I won’t be searching for any way to undo what Fate has seen done.” When she still didn’t react, he went on, “So if you want to find some way out of this, you’re going to have to search for it yourself.”

Eyes fixed on his, all she said was, “Hmm.”

If he could have flung his hands in the air, he would have. Letting his head fall completely back onto the pillows, he looked at the ceiling and baldly asked, “What the devil are you thinking?”

A half minute ticked past, then she replied, “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure.”

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bsp; He frowned, then returned his gaze to her face. “You’re always sure. Of everything.”

“Yes.” Her lips firming in clear disapproval of her unaccustomed state, she shook her head. “But not about this.”

Distantly, the front doorbell pealed.

“And that,” she said, “will be my parents.” Slipping off the bed, she shook out her skirts, then glanced sharply at him. “I’ll go down and explain, and seek their counsel. Then I’ll come back and we can discuss where we stand. Meanwhile, you should rest. Doctor Sanderson should arrive shortly.”

Ryder watched her neaten her hair and generally compose herself, then, head held high, she glided to the door and let herself out.

Once the door shut, he sank back into the pillows and swore some more. Being helpless grated beyond bearing.

By the time Mary reached the gallery, Pemberly had admitted her parents into the front hall. Hurrying down the stairs, she couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see them. “Mama! Papa!”

Louise and Arthur turned toward her. Louise smiled. “There you are, dear.”

Although both her parents took in her appearance—not something they could miss—they welcomed her with encouraging smiles and open arms. She returned their hugs with feeling.

“My dear.” Louise drew away, her expression sobering. “How is Ryder?”

“Recovering, thank goodness. But I fear we’ve had a complication of a different sort.”

“Oh? How so?” Arthur’s expression had turned serious.

Mary glanced at Pemberly. “Pemberly, is there somewhere . . . ?”

Pemberly immediately indicated a door and strode to open it. “The drawing room, miss.”

“Thank you.” Mary led the way in. The room was large, long, and fashionably furnished, but more with an eye to masculine comfort and style. The chairs were well padded, upholstered in green leather, and the sofas matched. After an instant’s pause to get her bearings, she led her parents to the sofa facing the massive fireplace; it was flanked by two large wing chairs, and a low table sat in the center of the arrangement.

“Should I bring in a tea tray, miss?” Pemberly inquired.