The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  She continued to cling to Godfrey’s arm and the relative privacy that bought her. Ignoring the dry judgments he passed on each painting, she set her mind to the task of devising some position for herself—some absorbing career to which she could devote herself.

  One that wouldn’t harm anyone else but, instead, would help others.

  Eyes narrowing in concentration, she told herself that there had to be something she could do.

  She was still trying to imagine what that something might be when a stir ran through the guests and calls went up for all the unmarried young ladies present to gather in the center of the hall.

  Stifling a sigh, Stacie drew her arm from Godfrey’s, pulled a hideous face that only he could see, then left him chuckling and dutifully joined the small group of ladies smiling and jockeying for position before the chair onto which Kit had lifted Sylvia to stand. From long experience, Stacie knew that arguing that she was beyond marriageable age—that, indeed, she was old enough that in earlier times, she would have been termed an ape-leader—would get her nowhere, especially not with those around her being mostly family, connections, or Kit’s friends.

  Smiling wryly to herself, she joined the very back of the small pack.

  She was shorter than most of those in front of her—no real risk of Sylvia’s bouquet reaching her.

  She’d reckoned without Sylvia, who turned to face away from the group. On a count of three, to cheers and whoops, Stacie’s new sister-in-law slung her neat bouquet in an energetic fashion sideways around her shoulder.

  Instead of flying high and landing among the shifting ladies, the bouquet whizzed toward them just above head height, causing some to instinctively shriek and duck, while others belatedly raised their hands toward the prize—bobbling the small bouquet and sending it tumbling and skipping across their reaching fingers.

  Until it was flying toward Stacie.

  Instinct took over. It was catch the thing or have it smash into her face.

  She caught it, then, horrified, realized what she’d done.

  She promptly told herself she didn’t believe in such silly superstitions.

  Others gathered around her, congratulations and arch speculations on their lips.

  Stacie barely heard them.

  As she stared at the delicate bouquet resting in her hands, her only thought was that Fate, in her infinite wisdom, had made a truly stupid mistake.

  * * *

  It was evening when Kit and Sylvia slipped away from the continuing family celebration, which had moved to Ryder and Mary’s suite in the city’s best hotel.

  When Kit led Sylvia up the steps of the house they would make their home, she felt as if she stood on the cusp of entering a new world—and indeed, she did.

  Kit unlocked the door and ushered her into the front hall—a light, airy space that, during the day, was lit by a circular skylight high above. Sylvia glanced up and saw stars twinkling, diamonds in the black velvet of the sky.

  After closing the door on the night, Kit came to lift her cloak from her shoulders. She’d changed out of her wedding gown and left it and the glorious veil in Mary’s keeping; the gown Sylvia now wore was a simpler style in blue satin the same color as her eyes.

  She’d kept her new diamond-and-pearl band anchored across her hair; just looking at it still thrilled her, purely because it had come from Kit with a simple message penned in his masculine scrawl: For now and forever.

  She registered the quietness that pervaded the house—and the absence of Gordon and, indeed, all the staff.

  Kit noticed her glancing at the door at the rear of the hall. When she looked at him questioningly, he smiled. “They’re being discreet.”

  “Ah.” Her own lips curving, she nodded. “I see.” She ignored the butterflies that had started to dance in her stomach. In search of distraction, she directed her mind toward those who, henceforth, would be her staff.

  She’d met his people often over recent weeks when, at Kit’s invitation, she’d used the period of their engagement to take up the reins of the household. Together with Gordon, she’d hired a housekeeper, a Mrs. Sutchley, who had already proved to be a godsend. The good lady had coped with the influx of Kit’s family, including the three boisterous imps who were Ryder and Mary’s children, without batting an eye.

  In addition, she and Gordon had settled on a footman, a parlor maid, a kitchen maid, a scullery maid, and a lady’s maid. Never having had a personal maid in her life, Sylvia had been doubtful about the need for one, but Gordon had assured her that she would find the assistance invaluable, and so it had proved. Now that she was Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s wife, she’d rocketed to the top of every Bristol hostess’s guest list; there was a small pile of invitations already on the mantel in the drawing room, and that was for just the next few weeks. Her wardrobe had needed to expand dramatically to support her sudden prominence, and for that alone, Polly was already indispensable. The girl also had a deft touch with arranging hair in the latest fashion.

  Kit closed his warm hand around one of hers, and side by side, they started up the stairs.

  The gallery at the top lay wreathed in silent shadows.

  The master bedroom was situated in one rear corner of the house, overlooking a walled garden that Sylvia hoped to fill with roses. It was a large, south-facing room; when Kit opened the door and ushered her inside, her gaze went to the wide bank of windows to find them screened by the heavy velvet curtains in forest green, several shades darker than the walls. During the day, with the skirting boards, paneling, and cornices picked out in ivory, the room’s atmosphere was that of a soothing wooded glade, while at night, with the lamps casting pools of warm golden light, the space felt like a roomy, luxurious cave.

  One with a very large, richly appointed bed.

  A bathing room was attached, and doors in one wall led to separate dressing rooms. Sylvia had already explored everywhere—and knowing Polly’s delight over having her mistress finally residing under this roof, Sylvia’s gowns would already be hanging in the lady’s dressing room, and her brushes would be laid out neatly on the dressing table in there.

  Several interesting paintings graced the walls, and two armchairs stood angled before the window.

  But it was the huge tester bed with its plump ivory pillows, silk sheets, and forest-green-and-gold coverlet that dominated the room, at least in Sylvia’s eyes.

  She halted beside it and turned as she heard the door click shut.

  Kit stood with his hand still on the knob and his eyes locked on her. His gaze was weighty, intense, and seemed to grow more acute with every passing second.

  Then he released the doorknob and prowled toward her.

  Her breathing suspended as he halted before her. The look in his melted caramel eyes was hot enough to scorch.

  Slowly, he raised both hands and cupped them about her face, gently tipping it up to his.

  Instinctively, she raised her hands and wrapped her fingers about his wrists, lightly gripping as she studied his eyes. The potent mix of hunger, desire, and raw passion she saw—that he let her see—swirling in the depths left her utterly breathless.

  Very nearly witless.

  She—her mind—couldn’t think beyond this moment; she had no experience upon which to draw. Here, tonight, she had to place herself wholly in his hands and trust him—put her trust in him—in this most intimate arena.

  Luckily, she had complete and unshakeable faith in him—in his honor and in his need to protect and care for her. On that, she would stake her life.

  And while he wanted her, she wanted him...

  She sensed his hesitation, but to her mind, they’d waited long enough.

  She pushed up on her toes and kissed him. They’d shared many kisses in recent weeks, and caresses, too, but into this kiss—their first private kiss as a married couple—she poured everything she’d he
ld bottled up inside her.

  She opened her heart, found the fire within, and set it free.

  It was past time for caution, past time for restraint.

  With her lips and tongue, she painted a picture of her need, her wanting—and made it as vibrant, as compelling, as she could.

  His hands slid from her face, and she raised hers to clasp his head and hold him—hold them steady to the kiss as her hunger stoked his, as her passion swirled, flamed, and ignited his.

  A low growl sounded in his throat, then his arms came up and locked about her.

  Kit felt giddy, spun around by passion in a way he’d never felt before. Desire was a thunder in his blood, but it was her fire, her passion, that had swept him from his moorings.

  All he could think about was having her beneath him. His only driving need was to claim her.

  Her mouth was open to him, surrendered, a gift beyond price. He’d instinctively reacted and staked his claim, and her response only ratcheted the tension that drove him higher.

  Only made him harder, the thud in his blood more insistent.

  He angled his head and plunged deeper. Found her tongue with his, stroked, then plundered.

  And she followed his lead, enticing, inciting, every single step of the way.

  He’d needed her—to have her and hold her—for weeks, and tonight, his dreams would transform into reality, and the gnawing hunger in his soul would finally be sated.

  With that aim in mind, he backed her toward the bed.

  Sylvia felt her legs hit the side of the bed, but before she could rejoice that they were finally moving on, she sensed Kit hesitating. Almost dithering.

  She was already too heated, with a slowly building urgency coursing through her veins, to countenance any unnecessary delay.

  Closing her fists in his lapels, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him with all the passionate hunger in her soul—and tipped backward.

  She landed on the silk coverlet and, to her delight, succeeded in toppling him with her.

  But he broke the kiss and twisted to land on his shoulder by her side, rather than atop her as she’d hoped.

  No matter. Using her grip on his lapels, she used his weight as an anchor, swung to her side, and pressed her body flush against his.

  For just one second, he froze. She seized the moment, clasped his face, and pressed a fevered kiss to his lips.

  Then she sent her hands wandering—a desire of hers that, until now, he’d severely curtailed.

  Tonight, the bonds of marriage had set her free, and she was determined to make the most of it.

  To experience and savor her first foray into conjugal bliss to the hilt.

  She felt sure it would be bliss. With a husband like him, it simply wouldn’t be anything else—he would never allow it.

  But she wanted—needed—to get to the blissful point sooner rather than later.

  Dispensing with his cravat took several minutes—minutes during which she strove to keep him engaged through the increasingly ravenous kiss so that he didn’t focus on her busy hands.

  The instant she’d unraveled the silk folds, she left the cravat lying about his neck and fell upon the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt.

  Over the past weeks, in preparation for tonight, she’d assiduously practiced kissing him. She’d learned the art of give and take, of aggressor and appeaser, of conqueror and conquered. It took all of her accumulated skill to keep him engrossed in the kiss...

  Until finally, the last button slipped free, and she slid her greedy palms across the hot skin stretched over the heavy muscles banding his chest.

  So firm and hard; on a soft gasp, she broke from the kiss and opened her eyes. Taut skin sheathing hard muscle met her wondering gaze. Delight swelled inside her, and she swept her hands wide, pushing him onto his back and parting the shirt so she could savor the width, the solidity, the sheer overwhelming masculinity of the lightly tanned expanse laced with crinkly brown hair that curled about her slender fingers.

  His muscles tensed and shifted beneath her questing hands. Delighted anew, she stroked, then sank her fingertips into the resilient, steely strength.

  Hers. All hers.

  She sent her fingers tripping down, over the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the muscles twitch under the light caress. A trail of crisp brown hair bisected his torso, circling his navel before extending farther down...

  As her eyes and her trailing fingers followed the line, he sucked in a short breath. Then he caught her hands, one in each of his, and hauled her hands above his shoulders so that she fell full length atop him. Releasing her hands, he locked one arm about her—pressing her aching breasts flush against that glorious chest—while his other hand cupped her head, and he hauled her into a ravaging kiss.

  One that temporarily distracted her.

  But as the heat from his body sank through her skin, she was suddenly certain she had on far too many clothes.

  Luckily, her hands and arms were free. Too caught by the fire in the kiss to draw back, she wriggled and squirmed while she released the tiny buttons and the hooks and eyes that ran down her side.

  Then she planted her palms on his chest and, reluctantly pulling her lips from his, panting, flushed, and very ready to get on, she pushed back and sat up, straddling his hips, and tugged and pulled and hauled her gown and petticoats off over her head.

  She flung the yards of fabric away, hearing them fall with a sibilant swoosh to the floor.

  But her gaze had fixed on Kit’s face. On all she could see washing behind his wide eyes, coloring his faintly stunned expression. Hunger, need, and yearning. She could see those and more in his caramel eyes.

  Holding his gaze, she set her quick fingers to the front closure of her light corset. Within seconds, his gaze had fallen to her digits. With precise movements, she slid the hooks free. The corset gaped, then released; she caught it and flung it after her gown as every muscle in the large body beneath her locked tight.

  She was still sheathed in her fine silk chemise, the translucent fabric a subtle screen against which her breasts proudly jutted, nipples peaked and rosy. His hot, hungry gaze raced over her, yet his jaw clenched tightly, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his hands, which had fallen to his sides, fist.

  Playing to the molten passion she could sense rising in him, barely held back by his will, reaching for the passionate tide she wanted nothing more than to call forth and bathe in, she raised the fingers of one hand to the ribbon closing the neckline of her chemise. His eyes locked on her fingers; she played with the ends of the ribbon for an instant, then gripped and tugged—and the bow unraveled.

  He swallowed, his throat working.

  She smiled, grasped the chemise’s gathered neck in both hands, with a swift jerk, widened the neckline, then drew the whisper-soft garment off over her head.

  He uttered another growly sound as she sent the chemise to join her corset.

  Abruptly, he sat up, simultaneously gripping her hips between his large hands and shifting her back so she ended straddling his hard thighs.

  Then his head swooped, and his lips crushed hers, and his hands were on her.

  Hard, hot palms stroking and caressing.

  Long artful fingers tracing, then possessing.

  She lost her breath to him, to the kiss, to the fire he laced over her skin.

  Her world spun, and she tipped her head back on a gasp as, with his clever fingers and his even cleverer lips and tongue, he paid homage to her breasts—until they ached almost painfully and molten heat pooled low in her belly.

  Suddenly, she needed to feel him against her; nothing else would assuage the maddening ache that seemed to rise from her bones.

  She caught his coat and tugged. When he didn’t immediately respond, she found his lips with hers again, then nipped the lower. When he pull
ed back, blinking, their eyes mere inches apart, she panted, “Coat, waistcoat, shirt—get them off!”

  He blinked again, but she was already wrestling with his coat. As if dazed, he complied, shrugging the garment off and tossing it to the floor. By then, she’d dispensed with his cravat and was pushing his waistcoat and bundled-up shirt off his shoulders.

  He made a frustrated sound and complied, dragging his arms from the sleeves, then having to pause and open the cuffs before flinging both shirt and waistcoat away.

  Then he spread his arms wide. “There. Satisfied?”

  She smiled delightedly, flung herself against him, certain he would catch her, and hauled his lips to hers as she exulted, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  His arms wrapping around her, he fell back beneath her onslaught.

  Hostage to impulses and a driving need she’d never before known, she plundered his mouth, then turned her attention to the long, strong column of his throat, nipping and tasting as she worked her way down, sensing from the way his hands stroked over the skin of her naked back that he rather liked her attentions.

  She smiled against his skin and took her kisses lower. To the wide muscles banding his chest, to the discs of his nipples that hid beneath the crisply curling hair.

  His hands were busy, stroking over her back, learning the planes and contours. She had to pause, shuddering, when his thumbs cruised the sensitive sides of her breasts, and he chuckled deep and low.

  The sound skittered over her nerves; anticipation lit and smoldered, even as she lowered her lips once more to his skin.

  They fed each other a banquet of caresses, lavish and enticing, yet ultimately unsatisfying. The activity only tightened their nerves more and drove them harder.

  She could sense the coiling tension in him, in the contraction of his muscles, in the increasing pressure of his hands.

  Emboldened, she reached for the waistband of his trousers and deftly flicked the buttons there free. Then she slid her hand beneath the opened flap and closed her fingers about his hard length.

  He uttered a choked protest, but she doubted she was causing him any true pain as she stroked the steely rod encased in fine velvety skin.