The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (30 page)

Eyes narrowed, she studied him and wasn’t entirely convinced either way. Regardless, she obviously had to take him in hand, had to react and refashion this, but, given he was what he was, and more, that he knew what she was, what was the best way to achieve her desired end? It took her a moment to find the right question. “Why?” When he glanced up at her, she again cursed the distance, but she thought she saw fleeting . . . was it
panic
? . . . in his eyes. Emboldened, she reached for her teacup. “I’m sure you have a reason for such a peculiar prohibition.” Taking a sip from her cup, she met his gaze over its rim. “So what has occasioned your . . . request?”

He blinked; his expression appeared studiously blank. Then he said, “Rats.”

“Rats?” She lowered her cup and stared. “In this house?”

He grimaced and looked down. “One was found inside this morning.” He glanced toward the windows. “We brought the cats in and the house has been completely searched and there are no more inside, and we have men checking the terraces and gardens.”

That explained the odd activity she’d sensed in the house and had glimpsed through the windows as she’d made her way downstairs. She’d wondered why so many men were beating the bushes, but really . . . she shrugged and sipped again, then admitted, “I’m not all that frightened of rats.”

“You aren’t?” He looked faintly nonplussed.

She shook her head. “They’re small and they always run away. Not that I would like to think they were inside the house, however, so I am glad the staff reacted so quickly and decisively. But if your edict against me going outdoors was occasioned by imagining I might faint on encountering some poor little rat—”

“They’re not little.” He shook his head. “Big. Big as the cats. And they’re rabid—they won’t run away. They’ll fly at you and might bite you.” He drew in a short breath and looked away. Waved. “Well, you can see why I can’t have you exposing yourself to that.”

Dumbfounded, Mary stared. After a long moment, she confirmed, “Rabid rats—big as cats?”

Raising his coffee mug, avoiding her eyes, Ryder nodded and prayed she’d swallow the tale. “Exactly. We should be clear of them by tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

After what they’d discovered that morning, there was no chance he would permit her out of his sight, or out of the close care of his most trusted staff. The panic that was riding him simply wouldn’t allow it; it was all he could do not to lock her in his arms and snarl and snap at any who came close. He could barely think, let alone formulate any rational response; the idea that, willful and headstrong as she was, she might not accept his decree and stay safely indoors where he and his staff could keep her safe . . . every time the notion wafted through his brain, he panicked all over again.

And that panic shook him to his core, as if he’d been solidly knocked off his foundations.

Never in his life had he panicked like this; he had no idea how to manage it—how to rein in his out-of-control reactions, how to calm himself enough to think . . . the instant he thought of her, let alone saw her, instincts he’d never known he possessed overwhelmed him and took charge. He was so tense that despite his best efforts his jaw felt like it would crack, and he’d already bent one fork out of shape. And right at this moment, his sanity hinged on Mary believing—or at least accepting the tale—that this sleepy little corner of the English countryside was overrun by rabid rats. As big as cats.

She’d been staring at him, studying him; he watched her from beneath his lashes and nearly sighed with relief when she gently nodded. “As you say, I’ll be occupied for the entire morning with Mrs. Pritchard and the staff. I suspect it will be afternoon before I’m free. However”—she waited until he raised his head, then trapped his eyes with hers—“if I could suggest a compromise, perhaps you could then accompany me on a stroll through the rose garden. I would like to see it from ground level, and if you’re with me—and perhaps we can take your head gardener as well—then I’m sure between the two of you, you’ll be able to protect me from any lingering rats.”

Given he felt so much like a drowning man, he recognized the olive branch, grabbed for it and nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

She smiled easily enough, but there was a quality in her expression that suggested her acquiescence was more strategy than surrender.

He didn’t care; if she’d agreed to wait for him before venturing outside, she wouldn’t be inclined to venture forth by herself—and that, at present, was his number one concern.

M
ary spent the day operating, or so it seemed, on two levels. On one, she played the part of Ryder’s new marchioness, accompanying Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard on a comprehensive tour of the great house, which, at Mary’s insistence, had included all the staff quarters as well as the attics and the roof. She’d been somewhat relieved to discover that, despite not having any devoted lady in charge, possibly not for decades, the house had been suitably modernized throughout, the facilities brought up to scratch, and the staff quarters remodeled in line with progressive ideals.

When she’d inquired as to what impetus had driven the changes, Forsythe had informed her, “That’s largely his lordship’s doing, ma’am. He leans toward the progressive side in most things.”

She’d salted the observation away, making a mental note to inquire more closely as to Ryder’s political aspirations.

Over luncheon, taken with Ryder in the family dining room, she’d peppered him with questions designed to draw out his approach to the estate, what he hoped to achieve in the immediate future and what his long-term plans were. After an initial hesitation—that strangely fraught tension she’d detected at breakfast had still been there—he’d consented to answer; as her questions had continued, he’d relaxed and his revelations had flowed freely.

She hadn’t made the mistake of referring to his attitude regarding her venturing out of doors other than, as they quit the dining room, to remind him of his promise to accompany her for a stroll in the rose garden later. He’d nodded and had told her to come and fetch him when she was ready; he would be in the library.

Content enough, she’d spent the next two hours consulting with Mrs. Pritchard in her new sitting room upstairs. While Mary’s organizing of how they would jointly manage the household had gone well, the housekeeper had seemed a touch distracted.

Finally free, Mary had made her way downstairs to the library. Ryder had promptly left his correspondence and they’d gone out to the rose garden. The stroll had been pleasant, entirely unmarred by any rodents, rabid or otherwise; she hadn’t even sighted a cat.

Detecting, once again, that oddly fragile tension, as if it were something Ryder held on a short and not all that strong leash, she’d forborne from teasing him and instead had enjoyed the roses and his company.

She’d been in a pleasantly mollified mood when they’d returned to the house and the library, and she’d curled up with a book to keep him silent company. He’d studied her for a moment, then had gone back to his desk and his letters. She’d half expected some attempt to send her elsewhere, but instead he’d seemed content to have her there; every time his attention had lifted from his letters, she’d felt the fleeting touch of his gaze.

It was only when she was dressing for dinner and Aggie, assuming Mary had known all along, blurted out the facts that Mary finally learned the truth of what had caused the odd change in Ryder’s behavior, what had given rise to his extraordinary decree. What had been behind the staff’s somewhat strained reactions.

The full truth about the rabid rats.

Aggie, sensing her erupting temper, grew nervous; Mary instantly reassured her, although she didn’t explain. Didn’t admit her until-then ignorance.

That was an issue to be discussed with he who had caused it—Ryder.

Her immediate impulse was to leap to her feet, rage down the stairs, and have it out with him then and there, but . . . she drew in a breath, sat still, and allowed Aggie to continue pinning her curls, reminding herself that she was a married lady now, and married ladies needed to be much cleverer than unmarried ladies, especially when it came to dealing with their spouses.

Rather than go against them—which only results in immediately meeting the solid and instinctive wall of their resistance—I have found it pays to find a way to work with them. Once you make it clear you are entirely willing to find a way to solve whatever issue they have—that you are content to work alongside them rather than oppose them—the poor dears are usually so grateful they’ll happily share the reins, and then one can steer the applecart in a more amenable direction.

The instant she’d heard those words, she’d recognized their significance and the likelihood that they would, one day, be relevant to her. She’d committed the advice to memory, the words spoken by Minerva, Duchess of Wolverstone, on the subject of dealing with dictatorially inclined noblemen of the ilk of her husband, Royce.

There was, in Mary’s eyes, no better or more applicable authority with respect to her current situation.

So . . . she sat and let Aggie fuss, and concentrated on dampening her temper and considering ways to learn what she needed to know to reclaim her share of the reins, namely what about the situation had most exercised her new husband.

She didn’t rush down to the drawing room the instant she was ready but took her time, using the moments as she walked to the stairs and slowly descended to reinforce her control over her temper and remind herself of her goal.

Reaching the front hall, she raised her head and glided toward the drawing room. A footman leapt to open the door for her; with a regal inclination of her head, she walked into the room.

Ryder was standing by the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantelpiece; his gaze had locked on her the instant she’d appeared.

He’d been waiting for her.

Drawing in a breath, instinctively raising her head a notch higher, her eyes locking with his, Mary walked toward him.

Even before she drew near, Ryder knew she knew. And accepted that he had no choice but to do what he’d realized he must.

He didn’t wait for her to halt but raised a hand to shoulder height, palm toward her, a suing for peace. “Mea culpa. I’m sorry.”

She halted. Regarded him steadily; he couldn’t read her expression, which made him uneasy.

Then she faintly arched a brow. “For what?”

He held her gaze and didn’t fall for that; she’d heard the details from someone. “I should have told you straightaway—as soon as I heard.”

Her fine brows rose higher. “And?”

And . . . lips thinning, he stated, “I should have discussed it with you, and then decided how to deal with the situation.”

She looked faintly intrigued. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because . . .” He filled his chest and it almost hurt. “I wanted your first day here, as my wife, to be . . . perfect. I wanted you to feel welcome here, and to view this place and its people with all—every last soupçon of—your usual wide-eyed eagerness.”

Her gaze grew cynical, but the line of her lips softened. “I might be wide-eyed, and eager, too, but I’m not blind.”

“No. I know.” Eyes still locked with hers, he drew in a deeper breath; all in all, this had gone better than he’d hoped. “So.” He let the word lie, an invitation for her to accept and use as she chose.

She considered him for a moment longer, then gave a fractional nod. “So what have you learned?”

His instincts bade him seize the question and run, but . . . he couldn’t quite believe he was getting off that easily. “That’s it? You’re not going to rail at me?”

She didn’t look away; a heartbeat passed, then she lightly shrugged. “As you’ve realized your shortcomings on your own, railing would be superfluous and would only waste time. And my temper.” She tipped her head. “So, to repeat, what have you learned?”

He had, apparently, saved himself from the worst, but . . . he grimaced. “Absolutely nothing.”

She frowned, then turned and sat on the nearer end of the chaise. She was wearing a blue-and-black striped evening gown, with a cameo on a blue velvet band about her neck; she looked fresh and vivid, the gown perfect for a quiet country dinner alone with her husband. With him.

Looking up at him, she stated, “All I’ve heard is that there was an adder found in my bed this morning. I’m sure you’ve been trying to learn how it got there.”

He fought not to let his expression grow too grim. “We’re surrounded by woods and forests, and there are adders out there, but we’ve never had one in the gardens, much less the house. When the tweeny went into your bedroom this morning to check the fireplace, she noticed movement under the coverlet and had the sense to summon Forsythe. He and the gardeners caught and removed the snake, but . . . to say that everyone’s mystified as to how it got there, on the first floor and between your sheets, would be an understatement.”

She blinked, for a long moment simply stared up at him, then he saw her breasts rise as she drew in a deep, then deeper, breath. “Someone put it there.” She sounded as disbelieving as he’d felt.

“Yes,
but
.” Pushing away from the mantelpiece, he moved past her. “As far as it’s humanly possible to be certain, I do not believe it was any of the staff.”

Sitting on the sofa alongside her, he met her eyes as she shifted to face him. “Literally everyone who serves in this house, even in the gardens and stables, belongs to one of the estate families. When it comes to loyalty, you know what that means as well as I. According to Forsythe and Mrs. Pritchard, and Filmore, the head stableman, and Dukes, the head gardener, everyone’s been in alt over our marriage, and eager and excited over meeting you. Not a word has been spoken against you—and yes, I asked them to check, and they did. Nothing. Everyone in the household has been shocked by the news.”

He hesitated, then went on, “More to the point, because yesterday was yesterday and everyone was determined to make sure everything was perfect, the maids and footmen were up and down the stairs, constantly in and out of our rooms. Your bed wasn’t made up until about four o’clock, and your maid, Aggie, was in the dressing room next door more or less from the moment she arrived in the early afternoon to when the staff were summoned to line up outside to greet you.”