The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,140
inherited in my own right, without any guardianship.” He met her eyes, curtly nodded. “That’s it. Rand’s age is what’s brought this on.”
“Exactly. You inheriting from your father showed Lavinia how the process worked, and what the earliest age at which Randolph could cleanly inherit from you was—so she waited until the time was right. Am I correct in thinking that if you died now, by the time matters were sorted out, Randolph would be twenty-five?”
“Yes.” Ryder’s jaw clenched. “So she’s been waiting all this time, and then, when Rand was the right age, she arranged to have me killed—and damned near succeeded.”
“Oh, great heavens!” With her free hand, Mary gripped his arm. “That’s why she called at your house that morning. It was after eleven and she still hadn’t received word of your death, so she came to your house to see what was going on—”
“Bringing the ton’s two greatest gossipmongers with her to help spread the word—she must have thought my people were suppressing news of my death.” Ryder paused, then added, “I wish I’d known at the time so I could have better appreciated her reaction when she saw me so very much alive.”
Mary shivered. “You weren’t so alive—you were pale and weak and propped up with pillows!” Then she gave a short laugh, the sound cynically ironic. “It’s just occurred to me.” She looked at him. “The last thing Lavinia would have wanted at that point was for you to marry and father an heir. But if she hadn’t sent those men to kill you, would we have married, do you think?”
“Yes, we would have, although perhaps not so quickly.” When she arched a brow, he smiled gently and tightened his hold on her hand. “I’d already made up my mind it was you I wanted as my marchioness, and I wouldn’t have given up.”
She tipped her head, studied his eyes. “Why? I always wondered why you were so sure, so focused—because you were, virtually from the moment we ran into each other at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball.”
His smile deepened. “I wasn’t certain when we met there—I was afterward.”
“Good God—what did I say?”
“It wasn’t what you said so much as what you did.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I remember. The challenge. I didn’t swoon at your feet.”
He grunted. “You’ve never swooned in your life.”
“True, but confess—it was that, wasn’t it?”
“No. It wasn’t.” He hesitated but felt compelled to admit, “That was part of it, I suppose, but it was more that I couldn’t control you, that you were unpredictable, and that fascinated me.” Death was coming; there was no reason not to tell her the rest. He drew breath and went on, “But that wasn’t the reason I thought to look your way in the first place—why I deliberately sought you out at the ball.”
Her gaze turned arrested, intrigued. “Why, then?”
“In a word, family.” He focused on their linked hands. “The Cavanaughs . . . I told you my half siblings and I are close, that we share a difficult to describe bond. That bond grew out of our common lack of anything like normal mothering. My mother died when I was three, and even though the others had Lavinia, I’ve described how she views them, how she’s always treated them. They’re little more than animated dolls to her. Our bond grew out of not having a normal family, not having the hub, the lynchpin a mother normally provides. Not having a mother to care for us was one thing all five of us shared. And as I was the oldest by six and more years, the others looked to me. We held together and cared for each other as best we could. My father did what he could, but with Lavinia constantly in his way, he didn’t get far. After he died, I helped Rand, and later Kit, get out from under Lavinia’s paw, but Stacie and Godfrey are still trapped, and I won’t . . .” He tipped his head. “Wouldn’t have been able to free them until they turned twenty-five.”
He paused, then, his gaze on their twined fingers, went on, “But the pertinent point is that since my grandparents’ generation, the Cavanaughs haven’t functioned as a family. I wanted to . . . make that better, to put it right, but I don’t, myself, know the ways. I haven’t experienced them. I saw other families in the ton—like the Cynsters, and some others—that are so . . . strong. That’s the only word I