The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  The instant Kit lowered his arms, Sylvia twined her arm with one of his. “If I might make a suggestion?”

  His gaze, somewhat hunted, had returned to the shifting throng.

  She leaned closer. “You can’t hide, but there’s no reason we can’t go on the offensive, as it were, and choose with whom to engage—namely, those who might have relevance to the school or your business.” When he blinked at her, she gently tugged and got him moving. “Just follow my lead, and rather than getting caught in conversations to no purpose, let’s see if we can’t put our time to better use.”

  He met her eyes, then acquiesced with a nod and faced forward. “All right. Wither away?”

  She spied Councilor Peabody and his wife. “Why not start with Peabody? It won’t hurt to connect with him again.”

  As he’d agreed, Kit followed her lead. Given he’d met Peabody before, their interaction with the councilor and his wife passed off reasonably easily, especially as Mrs. Peabody proved to be a gentle, motherly sort.

  They departed the Peabodys’ orbit and fetched up beside the mayor—a Mr. Forsythe—and his wife. Although Mrs. Forsythe’s eyes lit, Forsythe himself was only too pleased to monopolize Kit’s time, and Sylvia’s, too, eulogizing over the establishment of Cavanaugh Yachts and all the great things Forsythe hoped would flow from that and also effusively commending the relocation of the school. Kit ended amused by Forsythe’s earnestness and mentally labeled the mayor as a gentleman he could call on if Cavanaugh Yachts encountered any problem with the city council.

  Sylvia accepted the mayor’s accolades with what Kit sensed was a large dose of cynicism, yet she remained gracious throughout.

  On quitting the Forsythes’ circle—much to Mrs. Forsythe’s ill-concealed dismay—they fetched up beside Mr. Hemmings, the chairman of the Dock Company, and a lady who proved to be his sister. Kit was glad of the chance to pick Hemmings’s brain regarding the workings of the docks and the Floating Harbor, which Hemmings seemed only too happy to discuss. Miss Hemmings and Sylvia spoke of social matters, such as the school and several charities on the boards of which Miss Hemmings served.

  Then two other couples arrived to join their circle. Kit thought the conversation would slide out of Sylvia’s control, but after she deflected three probing comments directed at him with an artless ease he could only envy, in each instance firmly steering the conversation back to a discussion of some aspect of business, she tightened her hold on his arm, smiled at everyone, and made their excuses, then nudged him into walking on.

  He was only too ready to do so.

  While they continued to amble and stop here and there to chat with people she considered he should know, he realized that she’d been right. As long as they were moving with apparent purpose, no one was game enough to attempt to intercept them.

  Increasingly, he relaxed and focused more definitely on using the opportunities Sylvia steered his way to further his knowledge of those who held power in Bristol’s business world.

  When, eventually, the bells rang and they returned to their box, he sighed and dropped into the chair beside Sylvia. Through the gathering dimness as the lamps were turned down, he met her eyes. “That was an entirely unlooked-for bonus to my evening.” He dipped his head to her. “Thank you. I couldn’t have managed that without you.”

  Sylvia’s cheeks heated; she was glad of the deepening gloom. She glanced at the stage, but although the orchestra was in place, the conductor had yet to reappear. She hesitated, then ventured, “From your questions to various gentlemen, I gather you’re taking a long-term view regarding Bristol and your company.”

  Kit was now very much more relaxed, sitting in an elegant sprawl and looking at the stage. Lightly, he shrugged. “I intend Cavanaugh Yachts to continue in business for many long years. And I expect to remain at its helm, actively involved, for as long as I’m able.” He turned his head and met her eyes, and his lips lightly curved. “You have a passion for teaching dockyard boys, while mine is building ocean-going yachts.”

  Even in the low light, she could see that truth in his face; he was committed to his business and to Bristol for life. He wasn’t going to flit away; he was putting down roots there.

  Her lips lightly curved, she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his comment, then the conductor walked out, and they both looked at the stage. Seconds later, the music swelled and, entirely at ease in each other’s company, they lost themselves to Haydn’s brilliance again.

  * * *

  At the end of the performance, Kit decided he’d done enough socializing for the evening. He called on skills honed in London to steer Sylvia down the stairs, reclaim her cloak, then guide her out onto the Council House steps ahead of the rush and before any others could bail them up.

  Smiggs had the carriage waiting, as arranged to the right of the steps. Kit ushered Sylvia to the door that Ollie, bright and cheerful despite the hour, was holding open.

  “Thank you, Ollie.” Sylvia bestowed a warm smile on the erstwhile bootboy and allowed Kit to hand her into the carriage.

  After a smiling nod to Ollie, Kit followed her inside. As he sat, Ollie closed the door, then the carriage dipped slightly as the lad scrambled up, and then they were away. Smiggs deftly steered the carriage into the still-reasonably-clear street and set off at a good clip, heading for Mrs. Macintyre’s house.

  The carriage rolled smoothly on, and the brighter lights of the city’s center and the bustle around the Council House fell behind. A companionable silence descended.

  Kit glanced at Sylvia and, by the light of a passing streetlamp, saw the smile playing over her face. She looked as if she might be humming the final rousing passages of the symphony in her head.

  He elected not to break the spell and, resting his head against the squabs, held his tongue.

  In no time at all, Smiggs drew the carriage to a halt just past Mrs. Macintyre’s gate.

  Ollie was there all but instantly to swing open the door. Kit descended, then gave Sylvia his hand and steadied her down the carriage steps.

  He looped her arm in his, drawing her closer, and they strolled the few paces back to the gate. To his mind, they’d grown significantly closer over the course of the evening and not just physically.

  They reached the gate, and he held it for her, then stepped back to her side as they walked up the short path.

  Their footsteps slowed—hers as much as his—as they approached the porch.

  Kit sensed her nerves tightening—evidenced by the quick glance she threw him—then she looked down, raised her hems, and climbed the steps.

  He followed and halted beside her—and realized that he, too, was experiencing that telltale tightening of nerves, the anticipatory tension he’d thought he’d left behind in his early twenties.

  Apparently not.

  When it came to Sylvia Buckleberry, it seemed he wasn’t that far removed from a green youth fresh on the town.

  She drew her arm from his and faced him.

  Mrs. Macintyre’s porch was inset beneath the upper floor of the house, and the small area was draped in shadows. Nevertheless, he could make out Sylvia’s wide eyes as she held out her hand and, decidedly breathlessly, said, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord.”

  He closed his hand about her fingers and arched a quizzical brow. “Am I really still ‘my lord’ to you?”

  Although her eyes remained wide, she battled to suppress a spontaneous smile and, eventually, conceded with a tip of her head. “Kit, then.” Her eyes had locked with his. “And I truly enjoyed the evening immensely.”

  Were he dealing with some London lady, he would have grinned and, using her hand, drawn her into his arms for a long, slow kiss.

  But this was Sylvia Buckleberry, clergyman’s daughter.

  He shackled his impulses and gently squeezed her fingers. “Thank you for your company and your help
in navigating the shoals of Bristol society. I definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed the evening had you not been beside me.”

  She had to know that was the unvarnished truth.

  Silence descended.

  He didn’t want to let go of her fingers—not until she drew them away.

  She didn’t. Instead, she looked up at him as if trying to read his eyes...

  Impulse—instinct—slipped its leash. Slowly, Kit raised his free hand and gently—so gently—cupped her face. Then, slow and smooth, he tipped her face upward as—slowly, slowly—he bent his head.

  He fully expected her to retreat—to pull away at the last second.

  He held his breath and slowed even more. His gaze had fallen to her luscious lips; he flicked it up to her eyes.

  And saw that she’d lowered her gaze to his lips. In reaction, they throbbed and hungered for hers.

  Lowering his gaze to her lips again, he was just in time to see the tip of her tongue pass swiftly over her plump lower lip.

  On a muted groan, he abandoned restraint and pressed his lips to hers.

  Instantly, he sensed her uncertainty, like a bird fluttering anxiously, unsure what it wanted—to escape the net or not.

  He kept the contact gentle, light, and made no move to draw her to him even though his entire body ached for the contact. Instead, he devoted himself and his considerable talents to worshipping her lips.

  Reverently.

  Until he sensed her following his lead, albeit tentatively. Not as if she was totally inexperienced; more as if she was stepping into the unknown, and she was wary.

  Wise woman. There was a great deal more he wanted to do, so much more he wanted to explore, but tonight, he reined back his rakish impulses with an iron grip and settled to the challenge of luring her to him simply with the brush of his lips, the subtle sweep of his tongue over her lips, the pressure as he supped and discovered his first taste of her.

  Innocence and boldness—a fascinating combination.

  Yet he kept the caress simple, very much within bounds.

  His reward came when her fingers lightly touched, then traced his cheek, then she kissed him back—no longer tentatively but firmly.

  And he got his first sensual glimpse of that passionate, fiery female he knew dwelled inside her.

  She was there, close, yet still so contained.

  But now it was she who was exploring his lips, moving hers against them, taking her time experimenting...

  He mentally gritted his teeth, fisted his hands, and held back from reacting.

  As he would have with any other woman.

  But not her. She was special, in a class of her own. A lady to be treated with the care lavished on the very finest crystal.

  The kiss spun on, and he realized that, despite the fact they were barely touching, he was drowning in her.

  In her elusive scent, in the lure of her lips, in the sensual warmth he sensed inside her.

  It was he who had to draw back—it was that or go forward, and he was as certain as he could be that she wasn’t yet ready for more.

  Moving slowly, he drew his lips from hers, then raised his head. He hauled in a much-needed breath and looked down into her face as she slowly raised her lids and revealed eyes that were deep violet pools of wonder.

  They’d eased closer during the exchange; there was barely an inch between his coat and her bodice.

  Her cloak had fallen open, and above her neckline, her breasts rose and fell dramatically, the mounds pearlescent in the faint light. He couldn’t help but notice, which didn’t make it any easier to do what he knew he must.

  He tensed to step back, but then, instead, asked, “Might I call on you on Sunday afternoon? We could go for a stroll if the weather remains fine.”

  Sylvia heard the gruff, gravelly words. Her head was spinning, her wits whirling. It took effort to find her voice and whisper, “Yes.” Given what they’d just shared, that seemed insufficient, and she added, “I would enjoy that.” At the last second, she managed to swallow the word “too.”

  If there was one fact of which she was sure, Kit Cavanaugh didn’t need any encouragement in this sphere.

  But oh, my, he most definitely knew how to kiss a wary woman.

  Regardless of her wish to deny him any overt encouragement, judging by the rakish grin he flashed her as he—transparently reluctantly—stepped back, he’d caught the gist of her unvoiced revelation.

  Experienced as he was, he definitely hadn’t needed to hear the words said.

  To her surprise, not even that mental reminder of his status as a rake of the ton—regardless of her past view of his character being inaccurate, that aspect of his reputation had never been in question—caused her appreciation of the past moments to dim. Not in the least. And he’d asked for the chance to create more such moments.

  She couldn’t resist returning his grin with a sincerely anticipatory smile. “Until Sunday, then.”

  He nodded as he stepped down to the path. “Sunday.” He walked backward, his eyes on her. He tipped his head to the door. “Go in.”

  She laughed softly and turned to the door. She unlocked and opened it. As she stepped over the threshold, she heard him softly call, “Goodnight.”

  She paused and looked back and saw him waiting beyond the gate, his gaze still locked on her. Smiling softly, she called, “Goodnight,” then slowly shut the door.

  A second later, she heard his footsteps on the pavement as he strode to the carriage.

  She turned and leaned back against the door, in her mind reliving that kiss as the sounds of the carriage and horses faded into the night.

  Unbidden, memories of the evening scrolled through her mind.

  Eventually, she recalled Mrs. Macintyre’s questions and assumptions, right at the beginning of the magical time—assumptions she’d refuted.

  So what is this, then?

  She still didn’t know, still couldn’t be sure, but given that kiss—which incontestably bore little resemblance to the way he would have kissed countless ladies in the past—and given the way her heart was tripping, it was pointless to deny that she was starting to hope.

  Just the thought made her mentally shy away; in all honesty, she could barely believe where she thought—hoped—she now stood.

  Teetering on the cusp of falling into the arms of the riveting and until-recently believed to be utterly unsuitable lord of her dreams.

  That said unsuitable lord had proved to be the man she’d come to know in much greater depth over the past weeks, with whom she’d just shared a truly pleasant evening even in the full glare of local society, was, to her mind, skating perilously close to a miracle.

  She pushed away from the door and headed for the stairs. “Who knows?” she whispered into the darkness. “Perhaps even the most wayward dreams can rescript themselves into a reality that might—just might—come true.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At five o’clock on Saturday evening, Kit and Wayland locked the workshop and trudged around the corner to the tavern in Princes Street that Mulligan and the men had recommended.

  Kit pushed through the tavern’s heavy door. He halted and, with Wayland beside him, scanned the dimly lit, somewhat smoky space with its old and worn yet comfortable chairs, benches, and tables.

  Kit continued to the bar-counter and leaned on it. Wayland did the same. After catching the barkeeper’s eyes, ordering two pints of ale, and chatting for several minutes with the man, Kit mentioned their need of a spot to discuss business in which they wouldn’t risk being overheard, and the barkeeper suggested they use the snug, located behind the bar.

  After ordering their dinners, Kit picked up his pint and, with Wayland at his heels, ducked through the low door to the snug. Kit swiftly surveyed the small space, then slid onto the bench seat that ran along one side wall.

 
; There were only two narrow tables in the snug, each running parallel to the side walls, but he and Wayland were currently the only occupants.

  “This is cozy.” Wayland settled on the bench opposite Kit and set his mug on the table. “I hope the food is as good as the men claim—I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

  Kit grunted. “You’re always hungry enough to eat a horse.”

  Wayland saluted him with his mug and drank.

  Kit stared into his ale. He and Wayland had kept watch in the warehouse throughout the previous night. Doing so had required a degree of preparation. As the only way into the warehouse had been via the doors—secured with chain and padlock—they’d had to quickly construct another entrance; if their would-be saboteur called again in the middle of the night and found the doors unsecured, he wouldn’t venture inside to be caught.

  In the end, after consulting with the men, they’d decided that having only one exit wasn’t wise in any case and had opted to construct a proper escape hatch—a panel in the rear wall large enough for Mulligan to get through easily. Shaw and the carpenters had cunningly constructed the frame on the inside, and with the hinges and bolts securing the hatch also on the inside, nothing showed on the outside of the wall to draw attention to the existence of the hatch.

  Last night, after the concert, Kit had gone home, changed into older clothes, then carrying a hammock rolled up in a blanket, he’d found a hackney to deliver him back to the Grove. Once the hackney had rattled off into the night, he’d slunk under the trees and made his way to the rear of the workshop. As arranged, Wayland had left the hatch unlocked; Kit had used a stick to pry it open. He’d ducked into the dark workshop, carefully closed the hatch, and slid the bolts into place. Then he’d paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.