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

He started to nod, then paused. “Well, mine do. Yours”—he lowered his gaze to her breasts—“more or less.”

She considered him for a moment, then she laughed—in that register he’d realized she reserved just for him, sultry and sirenlike. To his well-honed instincts, the woman so revealed was the real her, the Mary Cynster who lived inside the bossy, pragmatic, shrewd, and domineering social shell.

The woman of immeasurable warmth and sensuality.

The female his inner lion craved.

Her eyes locked on his and he read the challenge writ in the blue.

“Very well, my lord. You take the lead and I’ll follow. So.” Leaning closer, she brought her luscious lips to within a whisker of his and breathed, “Lead on, and show me how.”

He couldn’t have resisted the lure had his life depended on it. Moving slowly, deliberately, he slid one palm up her spine, letting her feel the weight, the strength in his hand as he traced between her shoulder blades and swept higher, skimming the sensitive skin exposed at her nape, then he cupped the back of her head.

Holding her not just steady but immobile, he closed the last inch, covered her lips with his, and without so much as a by-your-leave took complete and absolute possession of her mouth.

And did as she’d asked, and went adventuring with her.

Several hours later, with Mary thoroughly sated and, by all the signs, still blissfully satisfied, lying dozing, secure and safe in his arms, Ryder realized he was smiling inanely, at nothing and for no particular reason.

Resting his jaw more definitely against her dark curls, he felt his smile turn wry.

Adventuring, she’d called it, and it most certainly had been that; she was every bit as inventive as he, and significantly more prepared, nay eager, to experiment than he’d expected any young lady of the ton to be.

She constantly gave him all he wanted, all he expe

cted, and just a little bit more.

He certainly hadn’t expected the laughter, the sheer rollicking fun that had delighted and teased and spurred them both on, nor yet the sudden spike of passion laced with yearning and sharp, unadulterated desire that had gripped them as they’d ultimately come together, when, straddling him, she’d finally sunk fully down and taken him in—and simultaneously, in the same heartbeat, they’d realized that that moment was the first of such moments for them as husband and wife.

Even less had he foreseen the incredible closeness that had followed, when she’d laid her hand against his cheek, kissed him, and together they’d stepped beyond all the boundaries, beyond all restraint, and let that sharply vibrant passion unfurl, then dictate.

He couldn’t have foreseen it because he’d never felt with any other woman what he felt with her.

So much more potent, powerful, so much more complex. More layered; he couldn’t come close to adequately describing all she made him feel.

He wasn’t sure where that left him, much less what it meant, yet this was one road that, once having started down it, had no turns, no branches.

As hints of rosemary and lemon rose from her hair, combining with the lingering scents of their passion to wreath through his brain, soothing and placating, he accepted that going forward with her, hand in hand, was his only option.

To go forward with her, see what eventuated, and trust in them both to meet the challenges.

They arrived at Raventhorne Abbey just before the sun slipped below the western horizon. Located just north of the Savernake Forest, large tracts of the estate remained heavily wooded; the sprawling three-storied mansion only came into clear sight when the carriage left the shelter of the massive oaks lining the drive to that point. Thereafter, the view was unimpeded, the drive following the edge of the great south lawn to the graveled forecourt before the steps leading up to the impressive front door.

Ryder had experienced that first view many times, knew just how the westering sun would be gilding the pale stone, how it would glint and gleam in the leaded glass of the many windows. Regardless, normally he would have looked—would have let his gaze skate over the massive structure, the crenellated roofline, the dome of the skylight above the front hall rising behind—and felt the satisfaction of ownership, of looking upon that which most clearly defined him; today, however, another sight compelled his complete and unwavering attention.

He watched Mary’s face as she set eyes on her future home—on the house that would be their principal residence, their true home—for the first time. To his disquiet, sudden panic of a sort threaded through his thoughts: What if she didn’t like it?

Before he had time even to register concern over being subject to such a needy feeling, it was rendered irrelevant by the sheer delight that swept over his new wife’s face.

Her expression one of avid, eager, indeed covetous interest, she leaned closer to the window the better to drink in all there was to see. Relaxing against the seat, he assured himself that all was, and would be, well.

As the carriage slowed to swing into the forecourt, he seized the moment to look out himself, an emotional as well as practical reassurance. Although parts of the great house were ancient, the façade had been renovated in the Palladian style so beloved by his grandfather’s generation. The result had been worth the blunt; not even he, who saw it so often, failed to appreciate that first glimpse.

As per his orders, the entire household were turned out in their best, ranked in a long line that stretched from the middle of the forecourt all the way up the steps to the front porch, ready and waiting to welcome his marchioness.

When the coach rocked to a halt, he waited for the groom to drop down and ceremonially open the door, then he stepped out, turned, and offered his hand to Mary. Reaching out, she laid her hand in his; looking past him, she hesitated.

Understanding, he murmured, “Everything’s in place. You look perfect.”