The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  One day, he was going to have to ask her why she’d so taken against him at the wedding; having come to know her so much better, he couldn’t believe it had been solely due to his reputation. But now, pride and warmth in her voice, she went on, “I suspect that will deter any future naysayers.”

  He stirred. “And if it doesn’t, I will.”

  That declaration prompted a meandering conversation that touched on many political and social issues, drawing Kit and Sylvia both into airing their opinions, which, to Kit’s relief, seemed perfectly aligned.

  Reverend Buckleberry was no more of a fool than his daughter. Once they’d covered a broad scope of subjects, proving just how alike their thinking and how compatible their life-visions, Sylvia’s father fell silent, and when they did as well, he looked from Sylvia to Kit and back again and arched his brows.

  Kit shared a quick glance with Sylvia, then reached across and took her hand.

  He looked at her father and simply said, “With your permission, sir, I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Reverend Buckleberry studied him for one more second, then smiled delightedly. Then he hesitated, looked at Sylvia, then returned his gaze to Kit. “To be frank, my lord, my daughter has been so remarkably reluctant to view any gentleman in a matrimonial light that I had quite despaired of hearing those words.” His smile grew teasing as he switched his gaze to Sylvia. “That said, my dear, the decision remains yours. Do you wish to take Lord Kit Cavanaugh for your husband?”

  The gaze Sylvia turned on Kit held a radiance he’d never before seen. “Yes, I do.” For a second, she held his gaze, letting him see to her soul, then she looked at her father. “But it’s important to me—and to Kit—that we have your blessing.”

  Her father studied her face for a second, then beamed upon them both. “You have my blessing and my very best wishes. I am delighted and, indeed, expect to be eternally grateful that you have chosen to marry such an eminently worthy man.”

  Kit felt his heart swell, not with pride but with gratitude. With a warmth and a burgeoning joy he couldn’t—and didn’t wish to—deny.

  Love—it had to be love.

  Sylvia looked at him. He captured her gaze, raised her hand to his lips, and gently pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you,” he said and meant every syllable. He might have had the capacity to be the worthy man her father now saw, but only through the challenge of wooing her had he looked for what lay inside him—those qualities he knew she would admire—and brought them to the fore. In many ways, the man he now was—the man he would henceforth be—was the product of his pursuit of her, of his love for her and hers for him.

  His voice lower, he said, “I vow to you now, here, tonight, that I will make it my life’s overriding mission to ensure that you never regret that decision, as long as we both shall live.”

  Sylvia gripped his hand and fell into the love filling his caramel eyes.

  * * *

  Later that night, before they retired to their separate bedrooms, Sylvia walked with Kit in the cool of the vicarage garden.

  “I smell roses,” Kit murmured.

  “My mother’s rose garden.” Sylvia led him to the entrance. “There’s a bench at the end of the path.”

  They stepped down to the flagstone path that bisected the garden and walked between mature bushes to the stone bench that stood in a shell-like alcove. They turned and sat, settling comfortably side by side. The last flush of roses bobbed in the moonlight, wreathing them in delicate scent.

  Kit retained his hold on her hand. “When did your mother die?”

  “When I was seventeen.” She paused, then lightly squeezed his hand. “The household here was long established. Papa had the Henleys, Egbert, and our cook, and Deacon Harris, and all the parishioners—let alone the bishop and Papa’s other friends in the church. Once our sorrow had passed, Papa didn’t need me to keep house for him or entertain him—he still had his life.” She tipped her head, as if viewing something only she could see. “Eventually, I realized that I needed to make a life of my own, and that led me to start on the journey that, ultimately, led to me founding the school.”

  Kit suspected there had been more to her life than that, but learning of her past could wait; he was more concerned with her future. He raised her hand and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. “How soon can we wed?”

  She glanced at him sidelong, a smile curving her lips. “Impatient?”

  “Very.” Now he’d got past the proposal and her father’s agreement, he wanted nothing more than to formally claim her as his and install her in his home.

  “Banns, I fear, are a necessity in this case.”

  He’d expected that. He nodded. “So three weeks clear, then the wedding?”

  “And today’s the first of October and a Sunday, too,” she said, “so late this month or early the next.” She arched a brow at him. “Will that suit, my lord?”

  With his free hand, he sketched a flourishing bow. “It will.” It would have to; he could only hope the time flew. But the weeks between would give her time to prepare, to arrange a wedding gown and her attendants and all the other things females so delighted in when it came to weddings. Felicia, Stacie, and Mary would, undoubtedly, throw themselves into assisting, and Kit realized he wanted that period of building anticipation and joy for Sylvia.

  He liked to plan ahead, and so did she. “Once we’re wed, I take it you won’t be averse to living in the city?”

  She turned her head to study him. “You have a house, don’t you? I assumed we’d live there.”

  He inclined his head. “That would be my preference, but if you wished to reside somewhere outside the city itself...”

  “No.” She tilted her head, her gaze on his face. “Is your house big enough? You mentioned it’s in Queen’s Parade—that’s a very acceptable neighborhood.”

  “It’s definitely big enough. I have the beginnings of a staff—a majordomo, an excellent cook, Smiggs, and, of course, a footman-in-training. I daresay you’ll wish to—indeed, will need to—add to them.”

  She smiled. “I imagine hiring a housekeeper and maids would be wise.”

  “I’ll leave that to you and Gordon—my majordomo. He’s young and learning the ropes, so he’ll be grateful for your guidance. He was a footman at Raventhorne Abbey—I stole him away from Mary, but as they have a surfeit of footmen, she didn’t really mind.”

  “I’m glad you warned me.” Consternation seeped into her expression, then she gripped his hand a little tighter. “I just realized I’ve agreed to marry into the nobility. I’ll have to entertain lords and ladies and, possibly, even duchesses.” Her tone had turned faintly aghast.

  Smiling, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Behind the titles, we’re all just people. Wealthier, perhaps, but you can’t take even that for granted. And you’ve met Mary and Stacie and several others of the family already, at Rand’s wedding. And if Felicia, of all ladies, can cope with the challenge of us without turning a hair, then I’m more than confident that you will, too.”

  She tipped her head consideringly. “There is that. Felicia is more...unworldly than I am.”

  “Buried at Throgmorton Hall as she was, she unquestionably had much less experience of the wider world than you. You’ve been dealing with the directors of the Dock Company, the Dean, and the luminaries of Bristol society for years. Handling a few members of the haut ton won’t even count as a challenge.”

  He shifted on the bench, half facing her and drawing her hand to where he could enclose it between both of his. “But enough of others. What of us?”

  Turning slightly, she met his gaze. “What about us?” Before he could reply, she went on, “I assume you’ll spend your days working on building your yachts, while I continue to manage the school...” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t think I would give up my position with the school?�
�

  “No.” Disgruntled that she’d even thought of it, he frowned. “Of course not. I assumed you would continue to manage all—perhaps that I would see you to your office every morning before going on to mine, then meet you at the school in the afternoon, before we head home.” Together in all things was his vision.

  “Then...what?” She looked at him encouragingly.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “I was trying to be delicate. So—children?”

  She blinked. “Oh.” Faint color touched her cheeks. “I assumed...well, that if they came, they did.” Her gaze grew dreamy. “But...”

  He watched her face, her eyes, as, clearly, she examined the prospect. “But...? Would you like children? My children? To have children—perhaps even a whole tribe—with me?”

  Her lips curving, Sylvia refocused on Kit’s eyes. “Can I just say yes and leave it at that?” She couldn’t describe the feelings that had surged to life inside her simply at the thought of holding a tiny Kit in her arms. And later, overseeing a brood of adventurous children—one challenge she would embrace with her whole heart.

  He held her gaze for a long instant, as if reading her emotions in her eyes, then, his voice lowering, said, “Yes is acceptable. Entirely acceptable.” His gaze fell to her lips, and the rhythm of her breathing fractured.

  Slowly, he leaned closer—as if he, too, was as mesmerized as she.

  She lifted her face, her lids lowering.

  His lips brushed hers. Warm, inviting. Then they settled, and she gave herself up to the moment—to his kiss.

  To a caress that consumed her and sparked passion in her soul.

  She’d known many passions—enthusiasms, desires—but nothing to compare to the surge of feeling he and his kiss evoked.

  Emotions she’d only recently come to know stirred and rose, and compulsions she’d yet to come to grips with flared.

  Physical desire was new to her, but she could taste it now—a need on her tongue and in her veins.

  He shifted closer, and she leaned into him. His arms slid around her, gathering her into a possessive embrace, as under the skillful pressure of his lips and the artful stroking of his tongue along her lips, she parted them and welcomed him in.

  His tongue stroked, then languidly probed, and she relished the sensation, so much so she felt compelled to return the pleasure. Soon, they were engaged in a duel of sorts, of tangling tongues and hungry lips and a quest to lavish as much pleasure on the other as they could.

  So this is what passion is all about.

  On the thought, she lifted her hands and framed his face the better to kiss him more deeply.

  In response, he hauled her even closer, crushing her breasts against the hard planes of his chest—making her aware of how much her breasts ached.

  His kiss had turned dominant, subtly aggressive—possessive—but she discovered she could meet him and match him even there, provoking and inciting and even daring to challenge him.

  In this, in their wanting, they were evenly matched. Despite her lack of experience, in this arena their desires clashed and merged, neither overpowering the other, yet overwhelming in their combined force.

  The kiss had turned desperately hungry and needy—transforming into a ravenous exchange she previously would have labeled wanton.

  But now, she understood. Now, she felt the rabid hunger, the driving need, and the clawing desperation that rose and claimed her.

  She didn’t know what came next but was certain he did. Through the melding of their mouths, she urged him on.

  Then he shifted, his head angling over hers as his tongue stroked hers in heated temptation. Between them, his hand rose, and he cupped her breast, then closed his strong fingers about the aching mound.

  Her senses leapt, then his fingers kneaded, and a soft, yearning sound purled in her throat.

  Heat welled and washed through her while lightning danced down her nerves, flashing and sparking.

  Never had her body felt like this—as if her senses had risen and claimed it as their territory. Never had her nerves felt so alive, awake to every nuance of the shifting caresses he pressed on her. Her breasts seemed to have swollen and now felt too constrained behind her light stays. She wanted...

  She wanted...

  Tightening her grip on his face, holding him in place, she poured all that wild, undirected wanting into their kiss.

  For a split second, she sensed she’d surprised him, then his response roared through her—in the fire of his scorching kiss, in the possessive pressure of his hand at her breast, and in the steely clamp of his arm about her waist.

  But then, just as suddenly as his heated desire had risen to her siren call and swamped her, he reined it in. Pulled it and himself back.

  On a gasp, Kit broke the kiss. With a mental wrench, he forced his lips from hers and hauled desperately hard on his—on their—reins. He hadn’t expected her to filch them.

  Breathing far too rapidly, he rested his forehead against hers and tried to remind himself of what was right. Of what, in this instance, had to be.

  Her hands about his face gentled. One fell away, while she trailed the fingers of her other hand lightly down his cheek.

  He raised his heavy lids as she shifted her head back, just enough to look at and study his face. He barely needed the moonlight to read the question in her eyes—one that compelled him to find his voice, gravelly and gruff as it was, and declare, “I want you—never doubt that for even an instant—but if we don’t stop now...”

  Hoping she wouldn’t ask for further clarification, he shifted awkwardly on the bench, fleetingly wincing as restraint cut where he would much rather it didn’t.

  Sylvia blinked, then the reason for his shift and wince and what else he’d said and implied impinged.

  Heat claimed her cheeks, but perversely, an inner confidence—her sensual confidence—welled. No—she couldn’t doubt that he wanted her.

  Trying to suppress or at least mute a rather smug smile, she turned to sit more properly on the bench.

  He shifted again, rearranging his long limbs, then settled beside her.

  She seized the moment to ask, “I know I should thank you for your restraint—and I do—but can I ask why?”

  He softly grunted. “You’re a clergyman’s daughter.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts, then offered, “Being that is an intrinsic part of you. I expect you have beliefs about indulging before our wedding, and in the same way that I respect you, I feel I should respect and honor any deep beliefs you hold.”

  Without looking at him, she reached for his hand and lightly squeezed. “Thank you. And yes, I do hold those beliefs and sincerely thank you for calling a halt.”

  If he hadn’t, she was perfectly certain she wouldn’t have, although she might well have regretted that later.

  She felt him lightly shrug.

  “We can wait until after the ceremony to go any further.”

  She noted that declaration didn’t preclude them continuing to indulge at least as far as they had. Was it possible to go further without quite tipping over that forbidden edge? It was, she suspected, a point to ponder—and, possibly, explore.

  Somewhat to his surprise, Kit didn’t feel as grumpy over the situation as he’d expected. Sylvia’s confirmation that she adhered to a more strait-laced code than ladies of his class generally favored made him feel vindicated in taking what was, for a gentleman of his ilk, a definitely unusual stance.

  The knowledge that, in four weeks’ time, she would be his, declared before God and man as such, was all the assurance his inner self needed to be patient. And while he’d said his decision had been taken to honor her beliefs—and it had—and, indeed, having met her father, Kit felt compelled to honor the reverend’s expectations as well, his principal motivation had been even simpler. He would always do whatever it took to make her ha
ppy.

  That had already become his touchstone—his guiding principle with respect to her.

  Weighed in that scale, waiting until the wedding to have her in his bed was a minor price to pay.

  His heart was still thudding a little too heavily, but it was calming and soothing sitting in the softly scented moonlight beside his soon-to-be wife.

  He freed his hand from hers, raised that arm, draped it over her shoulders, and urged her closer.

  She accepted the unvoiced invitation and snuggled nearer, then leaned her head on his chest.

  “I never did tell you why I behaved as I did to you at Felicia and Rand’s wedding.”

  Cautiously, not wanting to sound demanding, he admitted, “No, you didn’t.”

  Sylvia sighed. “You’re not allowed to laugh.” But as a reward for honoring her wishes and exercising restraint for them both, he deserved to know her old secret.

  “I promise I won’t.”

  She drew breath and said, “You never knew, but during the Season I spent in London, going about with Felicia among the ton, supposedly to find suitable husbands, I saw you—as they say, across a crowded ballroom. Not once, but many times at various events. Yet from my very first sighting of you, you captured my attention. You became a lodestone of sorts—if you were in the same ballroom, no matter how much of a crush the event was, my eyes would find you, even when I was trying my damnedest not to encourage my obsession.”

  “Your obsession?”

  Clearly, she’d piqued his interest.

  Lips firming, she nodded. “Yes, my obsession with you. That’s really the only word for it. You became my fantasy gentleman—the gentleman who inhabited my dreams. Or more correctly, who I constructed dreams around.” A quick upward glance showed him looking faintly stunned. “You can imagine what sort of dreams those were. But it wasn’t hard to learn of your reputation.”

  That jolted him to focused attention. “I feel compelled to point out that, although supported by a scant framework of truth, my reputation within the ton at that time was a carefully fabricated façade designed to render me persona non grata with every matchmaking mama in town.”