The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,68
satisfactory.” Ryder paused, then, lips curving cynically, continued, “For my father, myself, and my half siblings, all rolled on relatively peaceably. We all got along and there were no real tensions—to the others I was their older brother, and to me they were my younger brothers and sister. But for Lavinia it transpired there was one fly in her ointment—namely, me.” Ryder met Mary’s gaze. “She’d been led to believe I would die, but I didn’t.”
He quickly shook his head. “No—it never was that, has never been quite like that. As I explained to your cousins, while Lavinia would be happy to see me dead, she’s never shown any inclination to act to make that happen. It’s more that she’d expected Rand to inherit, for her son to become Viscount Sidwell, as I was, and later step into my father’s shoes as Marquess of Raventhorne, and my continued existence means something she’d assumed would ultimately come her way out of marrying my father isn’t being delivered. In a convoluted way, she views my not dying as something akin to a breach of promise.”
“Ah.” Mary nodded. “I see.” Then she frowned. “What about Randolph? How does he feel about your continued health?”
Ryder smiled. “Rand has absolutely no aspirations to be marquess. Oh, he would step up if he had to, but he has no ambition to take on the responsibility—as you might have noticed from his congratulations yesterday.”
She nodded. “I would have sworn he was sincere—I would have been surprised if you’d told me he had eyes on the title.”
“He doesn’t, and Kit is even less enthralled by the prospect. As for Godfrey, I doubt it’s ever occurred to him to imagine himself the marquess—and he’d be horrified if he did.” Ryder paused, then went on, “But, of course, the four of them are very aware of Lavinia’s . . . shall we say continuing frustration with me, with my being alive. And, naturally enough, as they and I are close, and they’re devoted to me—as you correctly divined yesterday—it leaves them feeling exceedingly awkward when Lavinia and I are forced to interact. When she and I are in the same room, in the others’ presence, for any length of time.”
“I can’t imagine you ever being so gauche as to insult your stepmother. Not even in private.”
“You’re correct—I don’t. Oh, I might think the words, but as a general rule I treat her with the chilliest civility—I’ve learned from long experience that that serves best. And although she is occasionally indiscreet, even, if we’re alone, insulting, Lavinia has a very fine notion of her position as marchioness, and as her standing derives from the title I hold, she’s not going to do anything to diminish the Marquess of Raventhorne in society’s eyes.”
Mary nodded, appreciating the point. “So she’s caught in a cleft stick of sorts and can’t curse you in a ballroom.”
“Or over a dinner table, but in order to spare both our nerves, I try to avoid her. Given our respective circles, that’s usually easy enough.”
“I can’t see why she’s still so frustrated.” Mary studied him; regardless of his injury, he exuded palpable physical strength, and with his color back to normal the last thing he appeared was weak. “It must have become apparent long ago that, whatever ailed you as a child, you’ve grown out of it. No one would imagine you’re likely to readily succumb now.”
Ryder pulled a face. “Well, yes and no. My sickliness had receded by the time I reached ten, enough for me to go to Eton. But my exploits there, and later at Oxford, and even when I first came on the town would have encouraged Lavinia to believe she would hear of my death any day. I’m quite sure she, as well as my father, were told that by various masters and others over those years.”
He glanced at Mary. “I was wild to a fault—a hellion, a hell-raiser. Having been told for so long that I couldn’t expect to live, that I wouldn’t see my majority, I . . . grasped every second of life I could. I wrung from every second all the life I could. From childhood scrapes, the inevitable falls, and consequent injuries, to schoolboy fights and pranks of all the most dangerous kinds, to horse racing, phaeton racing, hunting—in all truth there was every reason for Lavinia to believe that where illness hadn’t done the deed, I, myself, would accomplish it.”