Page 51 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

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.”