The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  The man he truly was—the real man she was coming to know.

  She looked ahead as they continued strolling, still close with her arm linked with his, their clothes lightly brushing with each stride as they progressed down the street.

  The Lord Kit Cavanaugh she was coming to know was so unlike the man his reputation and her own observations-from-a-distance had led her to think he was—had convinced her he was—that it was almost as if he was a completely different, unrelated man.

  The sort of lord she’d thought he was would never have devoted himself to a project such as Cavanaugh Yachts, would certainly never have bethought himself to aid the school in finding a new venue—and the thought of that imagined lordling bestirring himself over the plight of Johnson and Ned was simply laughable.

  Yet the real Kit Cavanaugh, the man walking by her side, had done all those things, freely and willingly.

  They—his actions—were the true measure of the man he was.

  There was no denying that, to her, the real Kit Cavanaugh was far more attractive than the ton version had ever been. Even though, in that ton version, for more than five years he had been her romantic ideal—her fantasy gentleman—that status had been based purely on his physical attributes; she’d never liked or approved of his character—the character she and the ton had been led to believe was his.

  Although she’d reined in her senses as tightly as she could, she remained excruciatingly aware of him walking close beside her; his strength, the controlled grace investing his powerful frame, and the sheer physicality of his presence impinged on her nerves, made her lungs constrict, and set her heart to beating just a soupçon faster.

  He drew her—lured her—as no other man ever had.

  As she’d discovered at the wedding, when it came to him, no amount of denial—not even imagined deficits of character—made the slightest difference to that intrinsic, instinctive attraction.

  In an effort to stop dwelling on her reaction to him—at least not while he was so close—she searched for distraction... “This other boy—the one you call Jack the Lad. How old is he?”

  “Thirteen, I believe.” He met her eyes. “I gather he’s known up and down the docks by that moniker.” Without her having to further prompt, he told her of Jack’s story and of how he came to be an apprentice at Cavanaugh Yachts.

  Watching his face as he related what she realized were merely the bald facts, Sylvia felt her heart soften even further. He was a good man, although she doubted he thought of himself in such terms. He was focused on marching toward his goal, and, she suspected, he viewed his acts of kindness and generosity as very much incidental—in one way or another supporting his efforts to reach said goal. He could help, so he did, and in his eyes, that simply made his path easier.

  Yet the fact was he saw and cared when things were wrong and acted to set matters right—or as right as he could make them.

  She was aware that some of the ancient noble families still lived by the creed of noblesse oblige. Having met Kit’s older half brother, the marquess, she suspected that the House of Raventhorne was one such family.

  With such desirable characteristics combining with his undeniable physical attractiveness, it was no wonder at all that he, the real Kit Cavanaugh, lured her in so very many ways, engaging her mind as well as her senses.

  They reached Baldwin Street and crossed the cobbles to Back Street. Her lodgings were less than ten minutes away.

  Kit sensed his time with Sylvia drawing to a close; he wanted to prolong it, but aside from the fact he couldn’t imagine how, caution raised its head. Better he used the time to learn more than to do anything that might make her skittish.

  Tipping his head, he caught her eyes. “Other than your work for the school, how do you fill your time?” When she blinked at him, he elaborated, “What entertainments does the city offer that draw you?”

  She smiled a trifle self-consciously. “I expect I lead a very circumscribed life, at least by London standards.”

  He swallowed a grunt. “We’re not in London.”

  “No. So...” She looked ahead. “I enjoy music of all sorts—in summer, there’s often concerts in the parks, and in winter, there’s the theater as well as the occasional recital. And, of course, I sing in the choir at Christ Church”—the glance she slanted him was playfully self-deprecatory—“like any good clergyman’s daughter.”

  He smiled. “Your father’s vicarage is near, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and I visit fairly regularly. Papa has always been interested in the school. He’ll be delighted to hear of your involvement and our new premises.” She paused, her brow lightly furrowing, then looked ahead. “I should visit him soon and see what advice he has to offer about establishing a scheme such as you suggested—one linking school and apprenticeships.”

  “Would he know about that sort of thing?”

  She smiled fondly. “Papa is a font of wisdom on many matters, but in this instance, I’m hoping he’ll have some insights into how best to present the idea to the Dean and the parish council.”

  “Ah.” Kit smiled. “I have to admit that any form of politics, at any level, is not my forte.” Briefly, he met her eyes. “I’m more a ‘do what needs to be done and worry about getting permission later’ sort of person.”

  She laughed, and the sound slid beneath his skin and teased.

  In his opinion, she didn’t laugh enough.

  When she looked ahead, he allowed his gaze to dwell—just for a few seconds—on her profile. Then smoothly, he faced forward. He’d sensed every tiny reaction that his being so close beside her had evoked and had noted every response to his touch that she’d worked so hard to suppress.

  At the wedding, he’d realized he affected her in what, to a gentleman of his experience, was a distinctly telltale manner. He knew what such reactions—those instinctive, impossible-to-prevent leaps of the senses—portended, what they were symptoms of.

  Yet at the wedding, the almost-desperate way she’d scrambled to suppress those revealing reactions had left him unsure.

  Even now, he didn’t know if she recognized the implication of such reactions, much less whether she would welcome exploring them further.

  While he was increasingly sure of what he wanted vis-à-vis her, he had no idea what she wished for when it came to him.

  That wasn’t a quandary he’d ever faced with any other woman.

  They turned into her street. Her lodgings lay at the far end, where the street curved around the leafy park. He guided her along the pavement that ran beside the grass.

  He knew what he wanted to do next, what he wanted to ask of her, but an uncharacteristic hesitancy laid hold of his tongue.

  A whisper of uncertainty threaded through his mind and warned him that before he made his next move—any further move—he needed to be absolutely sure of his direction. And he needed to know more. He should evaluate his options first...

  They reached the corner and crossed the cobbles to Mrs. Macintyre’s house.

  Feeling nearly suffocated by his wretched uncertainty—so unlike the bold self-confidence with which he normally faced the world—he fought to draw in a deeper breath.

  Sylvia halted on the pavement before the gate, and he halted beside her. She gently disengaged and drew her arm from his; he had to battle an urge to snatch her hand back and only just won.

  Smiling, she turned to him. “I haven’t asked where you’re living.” She immediately looked conscious for having voiced such a question.

  Before she could blush, he shoved his hands into his pockets—to ensure he didn’t reach for her—and replied, “I bought a house in Queen’s Parade, facing up Brandon Hill.”

  “Ah.” Her smile returned. “That’s a pretty area.”

  He shrugged lightly. “I wanted a house that was big enough, but not too big.”

  “I saw Ol
lie at school. How’s he settling in with your people?”

  Her assumption that he would have “people” made him smile. Holding her gaze, he said, “There’s only my majordomo, Gordon, my groom, Smiggs, and our cook, Dalgetty, so Ollie is far from overwhelmed. In fact, he might even be underwhelmed by my paucity of servitors, but I’ve heard him chatting freely with the others, and they’re the sort who’ll take a lad under their wings.”

  “I see.” Her smile remained, but her eyes studied his, and as the moment stretched, her smile slowly faded...

  Then she sucked in a tight breath and flashed him another smile—one much less certain—and turned to the gate. “I should go in.”

  Why?

  But he reached over the gate, lifted the latch, swung the gate open, and held it for her to pass through.

  This time, he didn’t follow. That damned uncertainty anchored his boots to the pavement.

  She paused on the path and looked back at him. For a moment, her eyes searched his features, then she met his gaze. Her smile was soft, but real and more assured. “Thank you for escorting me home.”

  He let his lips curve and inclined his head. “As always in your company, the pleasure was mine.”

  Her smile deepened a touch before, with a dip of her head, she turned and walked on.

  He watched her climb the steps, open the door, and go inside. He stared at the door as it closed and the lock clicked into place.

  After a second more of mindless staring, he forced his feet to move.

  Striding back along the park, he kept his eyes peeled for an available hackney; several were trotting along the cobbles, ferrying people home as twilight descended. He found one disgorging its passenger—a businessman with top hat and cane. The instant the hackney was free, Kit climbed aboard and gave the jarvey his address.

  Kit sprawled on the seat. After turning the carriage, the driver whipped up his horse. Kit stared unseeing at the streetscapes flashing past as he headed home—to his all-male household and his lonely bed.

  If he wanted to alter either of those facts, one thing had just become crystal clear.

  Before he next met Sylvia Buckleberry, he needed to devise a plan of campaign.

  A campaign unlike any he’d ever waged.

  Because he’d never felt so wretchedly unsure of himself with any woman before.

  CHAPTER 11

  The following afternoon, Kit tracked Sylvia to the school. He’d spent half the night plotting and planning and had settled on a strategy and a course of action. After spending most of the day at the workshop, mentally rehearsing his approach while working alongside Wayland and the men, he’d set off for Sylvia’s office, girded his loins, and knocked on the door, only to discover she wasn’t there.

  As he climbed the school steps, he heard her voice, and a curious mix of trepidation and anticipation slid through him. He couldn’t recall feeling the like for more than a decade, not since he’d been a wet-behind-the-ears youth who’d just come on the town.

  And even then...

  Then, the outcome hadn’t really mattered.

  Now, it did.

  He stood back to allow two boys to barrel through the door, then ducked inside before the next group clogged the entry.

  To one side, Sylvia and Miss Meggs were discussing something in some book.

  When they looked up, smiles lighting both their faces, he quashed his instinctive impulse to cross to them—to Sylvia—and, instead, raised a hand in a salute and continued down the hall to where Cross and Jellicoe had just dismissed the older lads and now stood comparing notes.

  The teachers saw Kit coming and turned to greet him.

  He had his excuses for calling polished and ready; he halted before the pair and, after exchanging nods, said, “I came to see how Ned was today—whether he’d heard his father’s good news and, if so, how he was taking it.”

  Both Cross’s and Jellicoe’s faces creased with smiles.

  “He’s a different lad,” Cross said. “It’s as if a spark that should have been glowing inside him all this time has ignited again.”

  Jellicoe nodded. “That’s not a bad description. From what I overheard him telling the other lads at lunchtime, his father called at his aunt’s house last night and told Ned of his new job and that you’d offered to stand guarantor for him renting another place to live, and that once that was done, Ned could live with him again.”

  “A transformation is the only way to describe it,” Cross averred. “We’d put Ned down as naturally quiet, but it seems that’s not the case at all.”

  Jellicoe’s lips twitched. “No, indeed, but along with his sudden liveliness has come a renewed determination to succeed with his lessons. Whether his father actually said so or if Ned is reading between the lines, it seems he’s realized that his father might end quite proud of him for his learning.”

  “And your suggestion of Ned going to the workshop after school was inspired,” Cross said. “He used to be one of the dawdlers, but today, he was out of here like a shot the instant we ended the last lesson.”

  Jellicoe chuckled. “The one drawback I foresee to your plan is that you might well find you have a small platoon of boys hovering about your workshop door and goggling at your men.”

  Kit grinned. “I’m sure the men will take that in stride. And if they don’t, I can rely on my secretary, Miss Petty, to sort the boys out.” Kit tipped his head. “Who knows? As the boys grow older, we might end with more school-apprentice arrangements. Speaking of which, how is Ollie faring? He’s also in something of a school-apprenticeship situation, although in his case, he’s training for domestic service. My majordomo reports that Ollie’s bright and quick-witted. Gordon thinks that, depending on how Ollie grows, he might be able to go as a footman or even aspire to becoming a butler.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree with that assessment.” Jellicoe exchanged a look with Cross. “We’ve been putting Ollie through his paces to see what level of schooling he needs.” Jellicoe met Kit’s eyes. “We’ve also noticed his quick thinking, and in light of what you’ve just said, I rather think we’ll work with Ollie to move him along rather faster.”

  Cross returned from fetching his coat and Jellicoe’s. Handing Jellicoe’s over, Cross humphed. “Ollie’s an excellent example of the waste of good intellect that occurs when children are forced into service too young.” Shrugging on his coat, Cross grinned at Kit. “Thankfully, we have our hooks in him now, and with luck, he’ll reach his full potential.”

  His questions about Ned and Ollie had been intended to account for his appearance at the school, but nevertheless, Kit felt gratified. That warm glow opened up inside him again and spread through his chest.

  He sauntered beside Cross and Jellicoe as the pair walked to the door. Miss Meggs had departed, and Sylvia was waiting, a smile for them all on her face.

  Cross and Jellicoe said their farewells and departed, leaving Sylvia smiling at Kit. “I heard you asking about Ned and Ollie. Did Cross and Jellicoe fill you in?”

  He nodded and waved her to precede him through the door. “They did, indeed.” Following her into the weak sunshine, he added, “I’m glad both boys are, it seems, applying themselves with enthusiasm.”

  “Oh, they definitely are.” Sylvia turned to lock the door. “Miss Meggs said Ned was bouncing with happiness, and Ollie seems to have settled in quickly.”

  When, after stuffing the heavy key into her reticule, she swung back to the pavement, Kit offered his arm. She stared at it for a second, then, instead of setting her hand upon it—keeping him at a greater distance—she stepped nearer and tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow.

  His confidence regarding her and his strategy leapt and surged. He guided her down the steps and, strolling like any other couple, they set course for the Frome and the city beyond.

  He’d planned on waiting to take
the next step in his carefully considered campaign until they were closer to her lodgings—so if she declined and things grew awkward, they wouldn’t have far to go in each other’s company—but now, he realized there would be much more noise and a lot of other distractions the farther they went.

  It was more peaceful here, on the west bank of the Frome, and his natural impulsiveness was pushing and prodding him to take advantage of the moment and ask her now.

  Surreptitiously, he cleared his throat, then, in an even tone, ventured, “There’s to be a classical music concert at the Council House hall this Friday evening. I wondered if, enjoying music as you do, you would like to accompany me to the event.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. For several seconds, she simply stared, and he was unable to read anything at all in her face.

  Trepidation welled, and his gut chilled. “I thought,” he offered, having to restrain himself from babbling, “that with the entire outing in public, as it were, it would be entirely above board, and you wouldn’t require a chaperon.” He’d intended explaining that before actually asking her.

  She blinked up at him.

  For the first time in his life, he understood what being on tenterhooks felt like.

  Then her eyes focused on his, and a smile curved her lips. “Thank you.” She dipped her head and faced forward. “I would enjoy that.”

  He felt ridiculously pleased—as if he’d succeeded in securing far more than her agreement to attend a concert.

  Given her previous view of him, perhaps he had.

  He could hope that her acceptance meant she’d laid aside all previous judgments of him and had, at least to some degree, reassessed.

  As he steered her through the crowd on the Butts and on toward the steps to the drawbridge, he told himself it was only a small victory—a public concert, for heaven’s sake!

  He still felt thrilled that she’d agreed to go with him.