The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Eyes widening, she looked at Kit. “How...?”

  His rakish grin flashed. “Livery is still good for something.”

  She glanced at the groom holding her door—and was stunned again. “Ollie?”

  Manfully restraining his usual big smile, Ollie executed a neat bow. “Miss.”

  He looked utterly different in perfect livery; now she’d looked, she recognized the Raventhorne colors. She glanced briefly at the coachman on the box—also resplendent in livery—then felt Kit take her arm. All she could think to say to Ollie was “Don’t get cold.”

  At that, his grin broke through. “I won’t, miss. We’ve blankets and a flask of cocoa and seed cake.”

  Everything a boy would need. Surrendering to Kit’s gentle insistence, she allowed him to lead her up the steps. On reaching the top, she glanced back and saw the carriage rumble off into the night—no doubt to draw up and wait on one of the less-crowded side streets.

  “Don’t worry.” Kit’s breath brushed the curls floating about her ear, sending a delicious shiver slithering down her spine. “Smiggs will keep a close eye on Ollie. He’s made quite a hit with my staff.”

  Turning to the doors, she murmured, “I thought Ollie was training to be a footman.”

  “He is. Tonight is part of that training.”

  “Oh.” Of course. Not a groom, a footman.

  Kit steered Sylvia through the main doors and into the wide foyer. As they halted under the glare of the chandeliers high above, he felt her stiffen beside him.

  Then an attendant was bowing before them. “Might I take madam’s cloak?”

  Kit stepped behind Sylvia and lifted the heavy silk-lined velvet from her. He sensed her hesitation—almost as if she wanted to clutch the cloak to her, whirl, and flee—but her head rose, and she waited, outwardly serenely patient, as he handed the cloak to the attendant and received a ticket in return.

  This, Kit thought, might be more difficult than he’d foreseen. Sylvia’s guardedness reached him—but what she was guarding against, he didn’t know. She’d weathered a London Season, so it couldn’t be the event or the crowd that was unnerving her. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t regretting agreeing to this evening with him—agreeing to be seen in public by his side.

  Sylvia waited to see what Kit would do—what tack he would take. Whether he intended to request her assistance in navigating the cream of Bristol society’s upper crust that was steadily streaming into the foyer. The crowd rapidly filled the space with a fabulous palette of colorful gowns that contrasted with the gentlemen’s evening black. Conversations swirled, and the cacophony built, voices rising to the ornate ceiling high above along with a miasma of heady perfumes.

  However, other than taking her gloved hand and tucking it firmly in the crook of his elbow, Kit merely waited, his large frame protecting her from the buffeting flow of other patrons. After a moment, he dipped his head and asked, “Do you know how long before the doors open, and we can escape to our box?”

  Escape?

  She searched his eyes, confirming he was serious. “Usually, the doors don’t open until the hour stipulated.”

  “Oh.” He looked genuinely disconcerted. “I assumed that was when the performance commenced.”

  She smiled and patted his arm. “In London, yes, but here”—with a small wave, she indicated the crowd—“people value the opportunity to meet as much as the music.”

  His expression grew faintly aggravated.

  Then she realized what he’d said. “You secured a box? At such short notice?” Given this was the Council House hall, there were only a handful of boxes available.

  He met her eyes and arched his brows. “Another of those things about being a nobleman—everyone wants to cultivate your patronage.”

  She couldn’t miss the cynicism in his voice. “I suppose that’s true,” she murmured. “And here, there are far fewer nobles on the ground.”

  He grunted softly, then a stout gentleman and an overdressed lady sporting feathers in her hair and diamonds by the pound pushed out of the crowd before Kit and Sylvia.

  “I say, Miss Buckleberry”—she recognized the gentleman as one of the city’s aldermen—“pray do the honors and make m’wife and I known to your companion.”

  Sylvia had relaxed; now, she felt Kit stiffen beside her. But there was no help for it. “My lord, allow me to present Alderman Henshaw and Mrs. Henshaw.” To the Henshaws, she said, “Lord Cavanaugh.”

  The alderman bowed low, and Mrs. Henshaw sank into a flamboyant curtsy.

  A quick glance at Kit’s face showed he’d adopted a carefully neutral expression. He bowed slightly—just enough not to give offence. “Alderman. Mrs. Henshaw.”

  Henshaw straightened and beamed. “I hope you enjoy your visit to our fair city, my lord.”

  Mrs. Henshaw hung on her husband’s arm and all but gushed, “I’m one of the patronesses of the music society—it’s an honor to have our gathering graced by your presence, my lord.” Mrs. Henshaw’s eyes brightened. “Do you plan to be in town for long?”

  “As to that,” Kit coolly replied, “I can’t say.”

  The alderman made some comment about a recent council decision regarding the docks, one Sylvia as well as Kit took note of, but Kit responded to that and all other attempts to lure him into conversation with distinct coolness and an aloof, somewhat haughty mien.

  His behavior in this company stood in stark contrast to the ease with others that Sylvia had seen him constantly display over the past weeks.

  She wasn’t surprised when, where the Henshaws had led, others quickly followed. She found herself called on to perform a stream of introductions for the luminaries of Bristol society. Only in a few cases did Kit unbend enough to freely engage with those wishful of making his acquaintance, and notably, those instances involved officials who connected in some way with his new business or, on two occasions, with the school.

  For all the rest, Sylvia got the distinct impression that Kit bore with said luminaries on sufferance. To her, he appeared uncomfortable, almost defensive, which, given his background, seemed decidedly strange.

  Then old Lady Creswick, resplendent in puce with the feathers from half an ostrich pinned about her person, stumped to a halt before them. She addressed Kit directly, claiming to have met him years before. “In London, although I daresay you won’t remember. You were a dashing young scoundrel, turning ladies’ heads right and left.” Gripping his fingers in her claw-like hand, Lady Creswick grinned toothily into his face. “I knew your mother quite well.”

  Although Kit didn’t move, with her hand still tucked against his side, Sylvia sensed him all but recoil. The smile he bestowed on her ladyship, while outwardly amenable, was distinctly brittle. “Indeed?” His tone couldn’t have been more distant.

  “Heard about her death,” Lady Creswick continued. She cocked a brow at Kit. “Accident, was it?”

  If he could have physically retreated, Sylvia sensed he would have. This time, his “Indeed” was cloaked in ice.

  Lady Creswick noticed, but merely shrugged. “Happens to us all, one way or another.”

  A stir among the crowd had Kit looking over the heads. He’d expected to draw some attention, to meet a few people and chat, but he’d found the degree of interest well-nigh suffocating. How Ryder bore with it, he didn’t know. Luckily, the doors to the hall proper were being opened, and the ropes cordoning off the stairs to the boxes had already been removed; he could see couples trailing up the red-carpeted stairs.

  Closing his hand over Sylvia’s where it lay on his sleeve, he smiled vaguely at Lady Creswick. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am, we should find our box.”

  Without waiting for any acknowledgment, he nodded to the old lady, and the instant Sylvia rose from her curtsy, he steered her toward the nearest staircase.

  As they ascended and the noise a
nd press of bodies decreased, he felt relief flow over him. When they found their box—the best in the house—and he followed her inside, that relief rose in a wave and swamped him, and the pressure about his lungs and chest fell away.

  He seated Sylvia in one of the chairs at the front of the box, then sank into the chair alongside. He glanced out and down into the body of the hall, in which the serried rows of seats were slowly filling. Most of the orchestra were already on the stage, tuning their instruments.

  After a moment staring at the sight, he drew in what felt like his first real breath since Alderman Henshaw had accosted them, then exhaling, he turned his head and looked at Sylvia.

  With her hands lightly clasped in her lap, she was surveying the hall, her expression relaxed, her gaze interested. He could detect no remnant of the stiffness that had assailed her when they’d entered the foyer; that had faded away while they’d talked to all and sundry. Perhaps she’d simply been nervous.

  “My apologies,” he murmured. “I didn’t anticipate...being quite such a cynosure of attention.” As she turned to him, he met her eyes. “I hadn’t realized the city’s dignitaries would press you into service as they did—that certainly wasn’t my intention in asking you to accompany me tonight.”

  Sylvia searched his face, his eyes, and found nothing but sincerity. Well, that answers my question as to what moved him to invite me.

  And that meant he’d invited her...purely for the pleasure of her company.

  She thrust the distracting thought aside; now was not the time to dwell on that. Smiling, she reached out, laid her hand on his arm, and lightly squeezed. “No matter.” She paused, then added, “I was happy to help—because if you are to make a go of Cavanaugh Yachts and be sponsor of the school as well, then some of those who approached are people it will be useful to know.”

  He heaved a put-upon sigh. “I know.” He gazed out at the murmuring crowd.

  If he’d been a smaller man, she might have said he squirmed.

  After a moment, grudgingly, he said, “I admit I don’t like swimming in social waters. In some strange way, moments such as those in the foyer make my skin itch.”

  More specifically, they made him feel grubby, and Kit knew why. Whenever possible, his mother had ensured he attended her friends’ social events—the ton crushes at which she’d delighted in showing him and his siblings off. She’d insisted on parading them before her peers with the expressed intention of trading their hands for the largest gain offered to her. Essentially, she’d intended to sell them to the highest bidder.

  Unsurprisingly, Lavinia had concentrated her efforts on Rand, her eldest son and then-heir to the marquessate. Kit had done his best to avoid her notice and slide around her directives to attend this soirée, that ball, but he hadn’t been able to avoid them all.

  But that, thank God, was all in the past, and Sylvia was correct—he needed to gird his loins and seize the advantage his birth afforded him to further his business interests and those of the school, too.

  The attendants were dimming the lamps in the hall below and an expectant hush washed over the audience.

  Then the lead violinist swept onto the stage. After bowing to polite applause, with a flick of his coat tails, he took his seat, and the conductor appeared. After bowing deeply to the audience, the conductor strode to the lectern. He tapped the wooden frame with his baton, bringing the orchestra to attention, then with a majestic sweep of his arm, he led the assembled musicians into a pastoral air.

  The music washed out and over the audience. Kit felt the knots of his earlier tension unravel. He enjoyed listening to such music—fanciful and imaginative and undemanding. He’d learned that it soothed in a way he couldn’t describe.

  At the conclusion of the introductory air, he shifted in the chair, angling his shoulders so he could glance at Sylvia’s face without turning his head. Her expression was utterly serene, her eyes trained on the musicians; she was following the musicians’ movements with the eye of one who truly appreciated their efforts.

  His last remaining knot of concern dissolved. She was enjoying the performance, possibly even more than he. Quietly satisfied, he returned his attention fully to the music.

  When the first sonata came to an end and the musicians paused to rearrange their music sheets and catch their collective breath, Sylvia turned to Kit. When he regarded her, a faint lift to his brows, she searched his face and found no hint of boredom. From the glimpses she’d stolen during the performance thus far, it seemed he genuinely enjoyed attending classical music concerts. “I confess I hadn’t taken you to be an aficionado of classical music.”

  He tipped his head. “I wouldn’t say I was any sort of aficionado, but...” His gaze drifted to the stage, and he shifted slightly in the chair. “Stacie—” His gaze swung back to Sylvia. “Eustacia, my sister. You met her at the wedding.” When she nodded, he went on, “She loves classical music—adores it, more like. But our mother didn’t approve of Stacie attending classical music concerts. To paraphrase Mama, she saw no benefit in Stacie attending such stuffy events. Much better that she spend every waking minute at balls and soirées and routs.” He looked at the stage. “So whenever there was a concert Stacie especially wished to attend, she would claim to be ill, and Mama would leave her at home while she went gadding as she always did. Then Stacie would slip out of the house, and I would meet her in the garden and take her to the concert.”

  Smiling, Sylvia patted his arm. When he looked at her quizzically, she said, “What a very good big brother you were.”

  He chuckled and nodded. “I was. After those outings, my halo positively shone. But in the end, I benefited as much as Stacie. By having to sit through those concerts, I learned to love listening to such music, too.”

  The musicians were ready again. The conductor tapped his lectern, then led the orchestra into a piece by Haydn that was slated as one of the highlights of the concert.

  Together with Kit, Sylvia gave her attention to the stage, but while the strains of the music wreathed through her brain, she found her thoughts dwelling on what he had revealed.

  Stacie was a few years older than Sylvia and Felicia and, surprisingly for a highly attractive lady of her station, as yet unwed. Sylvia had spent only a day in Stacie’s company and had liked as much of Stacie as she’d seen, but had found her a touch reserved.

  Sylvia had gathered, more from what was not said than from any specific comment, that their mama—Rand, Kit, Stacie, and their younger brother, Godfrey’s—had not been a model of maternal affection and support. Kit’s tale of Stacie’s concerts illustrated as much. Sylvia found such maternal deficiency difficult to imagine; in her case, although her mother had died when she was seventeen, her parents’ love and support had been the foundation stones of her life.

  No more than Lady Creswick did Sylvia know the tale of the late marchioness’s demise, but like her ladyship, she suspected some story, possibly a grim one, was there.

  What would it feel like to be the son of a lady who refused to allow her daughter to attend musical concerts purely because she saw no social gain in the exercise?

  Sylvia pondered that as Haydn’s music wrapped around her.

  The end of the second movement brought an interval. The orchestra retreated from the stage, and Kit stirred and looked at her. “Shall we adjourn to the foyer for refreshments?”

  She smiled and picked up her reticule. “There’ll be refreshments served in the gallery on this level. We won’t need to go down.”

  “Good,” he muttered under his breath, and she laughed.

  “You are not that cowardly,” she chided.

  “No,” he admitted. “And despite being a provincial orchestra, the musicians have more than made up for the incidental drain on my patience.”

  She was still smiling broadly when he handed her down from the box, then wound her arm with his. Together, they st
rolled toward one of the booths set up to dispense lemonade, orgeat, and champagne.

  While they stood in the short queue, she was conscious of attracting more than a few glances, all of which she pretended not to notice while inwardly admitting that never in her life had she felt so envied.

  When they fronted the booth’s counter, Kit requested two glasses of champagne. On receiving them, he turned and offered one to Sylvia—and froze. He raised his eyes to hers. “I’m sorry—I should have asked. Is champagne to your liking?”

  She smiled laughingly and filched the glass from his fingers. “Yes—of course.” She sipped. Over the rim of the glass, her teasing eyes met his. “My only complaint is that I don’t get to drink it nearly enough.”

  He felt slightly silly over his discomfiture. “You are a clergyman’s daughter, as you’ve reminded me often enough.”

  “Hmm.” She appeared to be savoring the quite acceptable wine. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the finer things in life.”

  He watched her take another sip. Her lips—pale rose and delectably curved—glistened as she lowered the glass. He had a vague memory of her sipping the beverage at the wedding, so decided she wasn’t simply trying to paper over his gaffe. He steered her away from the crowd now flocking to the booth toward a spot by the wall where the press of bodies was rather less.

  Sylvia drank the champagne, enjoying the slight fizz on her tongue, and allowed her gaze to roam over those pouring into the gallery, many coming up from below. If they stood there much longer, they’d end besieged.

  On the thought, Kit shifted—much as if he wished to, metaphorically at least, hide behind her skirts.

  She cast him an amused glance. “I would have sworn that, in society, you would be much more at home than I.”

  His eyes were fixed on the shifting throng. “I seriously doubt that’s true.”

  He really didn’t like being there—being surreptitiously gawped at and ultimately targeted by the local hostesses and their husbands as well. While Sylvia felt vaguely tickled at being more assured in this sphere than he, she also felt an impossible-to-resist urge to ease his way. Glimpsing several ladies eyeing him from behind their fans, she drained her glass and handed it to him. He’d already finished his drink. He beckoned an attendant collecting glasses nearer and placed the empty glasses on the man’s tray.