“Should I bring in a tea tray, miss?” Pemberly inquired.
“Oh—yes, thank you.” Mary sent him a grateful look. “That would be welcome.” Knowing her parents, they’d read her letter immediately they’d reached home and had come on to Mount Street directly. And she could certainly do with a cup of tea; she’d slept through breakfast.
Pemberly bowed. “At once, miss.”
Noting the exchange, Louise briefly met Arthur’s eyes, then at Mary’s wave, they both sat on the sofa and gave her their undivided attention.
Sinking into one of the wing chairs, Mary faced them. “First, I should tell you that Ryder has been . . . well, pursuing me, if you know what I mean, since he and I crossed paths at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball.”
“Pursuing you?” Arthur bristled.
“Hush, dear.” Louise patted his thigh. “You know very well what she means.”
“Exactly.” Mary gave thanks for her mother’s insight—as she so often did. “In just that way—perfectly acceptable, with not so much as a toe over any line. He’s been at all the balls I’ve attended recently, and two nights ago, he appeared at Lady Hopetoun’s musicale and stayed by my side throughout.”
Louise sucked in a breath. “Good heavens! So he’s in earnest, and not backward in declaring his interest.”
Mary bit back words to the effect that Ryder wouldn’t know how to be “backward” about anything, and nodded. “Indeed. But until then I’d thought he was just . . . well, amusing himself because he was bored—or later, because he realized I was interested in his half brother Randolph, and Ryder didn’t approve. Well, he didn’t approve, but he wasn’t just pursuing me to distract me from Randolph, as I’d supposed.”
Arthur nodded. “Had his eye on you himself. Never thought Ryder was slow.”
“Yes, well, when, in the wake of the musicale and his subsequent behavior, I suspected that and taxed him with it, he . . .” She paused, recalling the exchange on Lady Bracewell’s terrace. “He was entirely forthright in declaring that he wanted me as his marchioness.”
Louise smiled. “My dear, that’s delightful news—yet why do I fear I’m about to hear a ‘but’?”
Arthur looked puzzled. “No buts about it—what answer did you give him?”
Mary met Arthur’s eyes, a shade lighter than her own. “I pointed out that he was an unmanageable despot, and that as I prefer to be in charge of my own life, in my opinion he and I would not suit.”
She glanced at her mother, only to see a delighted grin break across Louise’s face.
Louise tried to rein it in but failed. “Oh, darling—if you truly wished to discourage the likes of Ryder, that was definitely not the right answer.”
“Well,” Arthur opined, “I don’t see why she would want to discourage Ryder anyway, but that’s a fair enough observation—so what did he say, heh?”
Looking into Arthur’s eager eyes, then glancing at Louise and seeing her mother’s rather deeper understanding, Mary drew breath and said, “Aside from vowing to succeed in changing my mind, he insisted we would suit—and he suggested he was willing to find ways to accommodate my . . . requirements.”
Even Louise looked taken aback at that, but in a wholly approving way. “So . . . what did you say?”
Mary grimaced. “I didn’t know what to say, and then we had to go inside—we’d been on the terrace.”
“So you left it at that?” Arthur said.
She nodded. “That was how we parted at Lady Bracewell’s ball last night. And then, on my way home in the carriage . . .”
Crisply and concisely, she related the events of the previous night.
Pemberly appeared with a well-stocked tea tray; he set it on the low table, then withdrew. Mary paused to pour and hand around the cups; she sipped, then continued her recitation.
Both Arthur and Louise were thoroughly shocked by Ryder’s so-close brush with death, and entirely supportive of her actions.
“I should certainly hope you did everything you could—rest assured, my dear, no one will censure you for that,” Louise said. “Especially as there’s no one living here but Ryder himself. In the circumstances, even waiting for the doctor was the right thing to do.”
“Yes, well, that’s not quite all.” Mary wondered how to explain and decided she would simply have to take the bull by the horns. “Even after that, as you’ve realized, I stayed. I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave him—not when we didn’t know if he would live or die.”
“Entirely understandable,” Arthur gruffly said.
“Indeed.” Louise nodded. “Besides, quite aside from any finer feelings on your part, if you’d left and he’d died . . . well, you know the sort of questions a man of his station dying alone can raise.”
“And anyway, you knew we would be home this morning and would come and cover for you. That’s why you sent us that note.” Arthur set down his empty cup and eyed Mary shrewdly. “So what’s got you in a flap, heh?”
She’d hoped she hadn’t been that transparent, but . . . “Collier, Ryder’s gentleman’s gentleman, remained with me in Ryder’s room throughout the night. But both Collier and I eventually fell asleep, and we didn’t wake up until”—she glanced at the clock gracing the massive mantelpiece—“about an hour ago. That was when we realized Ryder had woken, and although he’s extremely weak, he’s as well as he could be given the circumstances.” She paused, drained her cup, and set it on its saucer. “That’s when the doorbell rang, and I thought it was you and came rushing down . . .” She met her mother’s gaze. “Only it wasn’t you but Ryder’s stepmother, and she’d brought Lady Jerome and Mrs. Framlingham with her.”
Louise frowned. “How very odd to be sure. Why on earth would Lavinia have brought those two with her to call on Ryder?”
Mary blinked. Until then, that question hadn’t occurred to her, but Louise was right; it was odd. After a moment, she shrugged. “For whatever reason, she did—and all three ladies saw me on the stairs.” Setting her cup and saucer on the table, she waved at her ball gown. “Dressed like this. Hurrying down Ryder’s stairs at eleven in the morning.”
Her gaze on Mary’s face, Louise sat back. “Oh, dear.”
Arthur frowned. “Don’t see what the problem is—the boy was at death’s door, and his man was there, too, and the doctor will explain—”
“No, dear.” Holding up a staying hand, Louise shook her head. “You forget. This is Ryder Cavanaugh we’re talking about. No amount of physical impairment will serve as excuse.” She met Arthur’s eyes. “Trust me, he would have to be dead—pronounced dead—for the ton to accept such a tale. And even then there would be gossip.”
Arthur bristled. “But the doctor—”
“Is a close friend of Ryder’s from his Eton days.” Mary shook her head. “Mama’s right—no amount of explaining would have sufficed, and to give the devil his due, Ryder instantly understood that.”
Louise tipped her head, regarding Mary quizzically. “So what happened?”
Mary dragged in a breath. “I raced back to Ryder to warn him, and even though he could barely move he insisted we set our stage, concealing his injury as revealing it would do no good, and instead making it appear that we’d been . . . well, doing exactly what those three ladies would think anyway—then when they burst into his room—”
“They didn’t!” Louise looked scandalized.
Mary nodded grimly. “They most certainly did—or at least his stepmother did. The other two hovered in the corridor.”
“And then?” Arthur growled.
Giddiness threatened; Mary hauled in another breath. “Then Ryder declared that he’d offered for my hand the previous night, and that I’d accepted, and that therefore my presence in his house, in his room, sitting beside him on his bed, should be of no particular interest to anyone.”
“Well!??
? Louise stared at her.
Frowning, Arthur stared at her, too, but more in the sense of puzzling something out.
A short silence ensued, then Mary shrugged. “I had to go along with it, of course.”
Louise blinked.
Arthur stirred. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Last evening, Ryder informed you he wants you as his marchioness. You discussed the matter but left it unresolved. And then because of a succession of events, during which neither of you behaved other than you ought, this morning you and he wind up engaged.”
Mary considered, then nodded. “That sums it up nicely.”
Shaking his head admiringly, Arthur muttered, “I’d heard the boy has the devil’s own luck.”
Mary bit her tongue. Her father was a Cynster male; she really couldn’t have expected anything else.
Several seconds ticked by, then her mother, who had been studying her, leaned forward and laid a hand over hers, currently tightly clasped in her lap. Looking into her eyes, Louise asked, “How do you feel about this?”
Meeting her mother’s gaze, Mary searched for the right words among her whirling thoughts . . . in the end, the truth was all she had. “I don’t know.” She glanced at Arthur, then looked back at Louise. “When I stepped onto Lady Bracewell’s terrace before we spoke, I thought I did, but now?” Slowly, she shook her head. “Now, I simply don’t know.”
And she didn’t understand how that had come to be—didn’t comprehend how or why her emotions had risen up as they had, with sufficient strength and unruliness to derail her will and divert her from her rational, logical, self-determined path.
She’d known where she’d wanted to go—and yet she’d ended up here, for all intents and purposes engaged to Ryder Cavanaugh.
The very last man she would have chosen as her husband.
Yet over the past days, her emotions—normally so quiescent and amenable, forever subservient to her will—had been . . . growing. Swelling, rising, in a burgeoning tide of nascent turmoil.
From irritation, through being charmed, through the sensual magic, the allure of waltzing in a way she never had before, to her acute reaction to Ryder’s possessiveness, entirely understandable yet never provoked to such a degree by anyone else, all capped by her response—so complex and unexpected—when he’d declared his intentions, further complicated by his unnervingly astute offer of accommodation, all immediately trumped by the indescribable horror of finding him dying.
Yet nothing to that point had prepared her for the avalanche of feelings that had all but buried her at the thought of losing him. Of no longer having him in her life.
Ever since Ryder had pushed his way into her life, she’d felt so much.
And her certainty—the certainty that until now had formed the bedrock of her life—had shattered.
She’d thought she’d understood herself, that she’d known what she wanted, known wither she was heading, and even why—and she’d been wrong.
Adrift. No, worse. She was being drawn inexorably down a path she hadn’t intended taking, and she had no real idea of where it led.
Oh, Mama—what am I to do? If she’d been a weaker sort of young lady, she might have uttered the words.
After holding her gaze for several heartbeats, Louise patted her hand and answered as if she had. “In that case, my dear, you will simply have to go forward and learn the answer. And knowing you, I have every confidence you’ll meet the challenge.”
Arthur looked from one to the other, then shook his head. “I won’t pretend I understood any of that, but it sounds as if it’s time Ryder and I had a chat.”
As if summoned by the words, Pemberly knocked and entered. “If you would, my lord, my lady, the marquess requests a few minutes of your time. As he is presently unable to come to you, his lordship asks your indulgence in stepping upstairs to his room.”
“Excellent!” Arthur rose. “Perfect timing.”
Dismissing Pemberly, Mary led the way up the stairs and down the corridor to Ryder’s room. The staff had already accorded her the status of lady of the house, and if, as it seemed, she was to take up the position permanently, she saw no reason to take a backward step. Had Ryder been in her shoes, she was sure he wouldn’t have.
Reaching his door, she tapped. Hearing his “Come,” she opened the door and led her parents inside.
Washed, shaved, his hair brushed until it gleamed, Ryder, although still deathly pale, was now garbed in a shirt, cravat, and a burgundy velvet smoking jacket; despite having to sit propped up by pillows, now freshly plumped, with the coverlet of golden silk straightened over his long legs, he still managed to project the aura of a king holding court.
His gaze swept her, then moved on to her parents. He inclined his head. “My apologies for not greeting you appropriately Lord Arthur, Lady Cynster, but I assume Mary has explained my recent injury.” With a small wave, Ryder indicated her mother should take the chair beside the bed.
Louise moved to do so. “Thank you. And yes, Mary has explained the situation.” She glanced at Mary as she sat. “Quite thoroughly, I believe.”
At a signal from Ryder, Collier slipped from the room.
As the door clicked shut, Ryder looked at Lord Arthur, who had strolled to take station behind his wife’s chair. “I regret, my lord, that the circumstances of this meeting are not as I would have wished. However, I confess it was my intention that such a meeting would take place, albeit in a more conventional way and at a somewhat later date. Be that as it may, the matter we must discuss is straightforward, and I believe you already comprehend the reasons why I must speak now. Consequently, I wish to apply for leave to address your daughter, Mary, to ask if she will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
From under his bushy eyebrows, Arthur studied him for several seconds, then humphed. “Very prettily said.” He glanced down at his wife. “What say you, my dear?”
Louise, too, had been assessing Ryder. At her husband’s question, she glanced at Mary, who had shifted to stand on the other side of the bed the better to follow the exchange. After several moments of studying her daughter, Louise looked at Ryder, met his eyes, then nodded. “Yes. I believe granting such leave will be in everyone’s best interests.”
Her faint emphasis on “everyone’s” gave Ryder an instant’s pause. He knew the Cynster ladies by repute and, as far as possible, had steered clear of them. But from those of his peers who circled within their orbit, he’d learned enough to view them with healthy respect.
He inclined his head to both Mary’s parents. “Thank you.”
Turning his head to meet Mary’s gaze, he held out his hand, making every endeavor to mask the effort that cost him.
She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then walked forward and laid her hand in his—and gently bore his hand down until his arm rested on the covers and he no longer had to expend strength to support it.
Closing his fingers around hers, looking into her lovely eyes, he fought to screen the sudden surge of primitive possessiveness that flashed through him, but he was fairly certain he failed.
Yet she held his gaze steadily; despite what, standing so close with her gaze trapped in his, he suspected she could see, he sensed not the slightest tremor in the fingers trapped in his.
The traditional, conventional words were there, on his tongue; he’d rehearsed them while dressing. Yet he left them unsaid. Between her and him . . . he wanted more. “Clearly this is not as I would have had it, but, as you know, it is what I wanted, what I intended at some point to ask of you. But Fate has intervened and brought us to this moment without allowing us the customary time to get to know each another. To understand each other. So in what is, after all, one of the most important decisions in life, you and I have to, are being forced to, take each other on trust. And so we must. In return for the trust I hope you will accord me, I vow that I will place my trust in you?
??that I will work with you to make our future life, the one we will share, all that it might be.” He paused, then, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the cornflower blue of her eyes, drew breath, and said, “So what say you, Mary—will you take my hand and go forward by my side, as my marchioness, as my wife, and make our life, create from our shared life, all we wish?”
Mary was trapped in his eyes, but not lost, not overwhelmed; she could see his intent, clear and unshielded, could discern the powerful drive behind it, even if she couldn’t as yet guess from whence it sprang. He wanted her as his wife; he had from the first. She knew beyond question that he meant every word, those of today, and of the days past—all he’d ever offered her on this subject. “Yes.” She heard herself say the word, recognized and acknowledged that it came from somewhere deeper than her rational mind. Accepting that, she nodded, more to herself than him, and affirmed, “Yes, I will be your marchioness. Yes, I will be your wife.”
His lips, those wicked, sinful, compelling lips, slowly curved. Even though his muscles shook, he tried to raise her hand; smoothly, she lifted it, allowing him, helping him, to carry it to his lips.
His eyes, sharply intelligent, glinting with subtly screened desire, held hers as he set the seal on their pact and pressed a kiss to her fingers.
Possession was stamped on his features.
She read the confirmation that shone in his eyes.
Mine. You’re mine.
“This is an unmitigated disaster!” Lavinia, Marchioness of Raventhorne, raged before the fireplace in her boudoir.
The only other occupant, Claude Potherby, sat at his fashionable ease in the wing chair angled to the hearth and watched Lavinia pace. He was too wise in her ways to say anything just yet. Inured by long acquaintance to her histrionics, he left her to rail unimpeded. In days past, he would have been styled her cicisbeo, a longtime confidant, although in his case never a lover. Once, it was true, he had aspired to the more intimate connection, but that had been long ago—before Lavinia had turned from him to so eagerly throw herself into an arranged marriage and the marchioness’s shoes she still wore.