Page 56 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

He and Wayland had agreed that their first hull should remain the property of the company, a showpiece on which to take prospective buyers out on the waves. He would buy the second yacht they built, Wayland would take the third, and Ryder and Rand were going to go in together to purchase the fourth. That would give the company enough work to see them well into the new year. After that was when having a steady stream of orders would become essential.

There was little he could do in terms of securing further orders at present. Better he spent his time working with Wayland and the men to ensure their first yacht was as perfect as they could make it.

With that settled, he shifted his focus to the other side of his life—to home and hearth. His house was his, and his small household was taking shape nicely. The staff worked efficiently and had knitted into a comfortable core of mutual support; he deemed no adjustments to be necessary. However, Gordon and Smiggs had started dropping hints that they needed to hire a housekeeper, yet that was one selection neither felt capable of making—and Kit boggled at doing so himself.

Hiring housekeepers, maids, and the like was the province of the lady of the house—a position that, in this house, was currently vacant.

He shifted in the chair and sipped again. He hadn’t consciously considered marrying for a very long time. Not since his mother and her machinations had turned him off the entire concept, tarnishing the ideal to such an extent that he and all in him had revolted and rebelled.

But Lavinia was six years dead, and her effect on him had faded along with his memories of her interference.

Ryder had married, yet he’d never truly been under Lavinia’s influence so hadn’t had the same hurdles to overcome. But now Rand had found love, too. From all Kit had seen of them and their wives, Ryder and Rand were both now living the ideal he’d thought would be forever denied all Lavinia’s children.

Clearly, his assumption had proved false.

So what about him?

He eyed the amber liquid in his glass, then swirled it and sipped—and admitted to himself that he was definitely considering marrying now. Not only did it seem to be time, but he’d discovered a lady who attracted him as no other ever had—on multiple planes and in multiple ways.

Inviting Sylvia to attend the concert with him hadn’t been any rashly impulsive act. He’d hunted for the right place to take her—one that would advance his cause by making it clear that he was courting her.

That he was intent on wooing and winning her.

He had no recollection of when he’d made that decision, if he’d made it at all.

He’d been attracted to her from the first moment he’d seen her at Rand and Felicia’s wedding, but her off-putting behavior had all but immediately soured his mood. At the end of the day, he’d turned his back and driven away and hadn’t expected to meet her again.

In truth, he hadn’t. The Sylvia who had stormed into his office just over a week ago was a completely different lady.

A completely different prospect.

They’d been in and out of each other’s company ever since. They’d worked together to achieve minor goals that advanced her, his, and oft-times both their current aims.

They’d formed an effective alliance in dealing with threats and steadily advancing their now-mutual goals to the extent that he now longed for her company, and she didn’t seem at all averse to his.

He wanted to bring that alliance home and establish it here—at the center of his private life.

Leaning his head back against the chair, he stared unseeing at the ceiling.

Even without closing his eyes, he could imagine her sitting in the chair across from him, perhaps working on some list or reading a novel.

She would fit into his household effortlessly. She understood people with much the same facility he did.

In his estimation, she was the perfect candidate to fill his vacant position.

His lips curved self-deprecatingly, and he raised the glass and sipped. A clergyman’s daughter—who would have thought it?

Certainly not the racy matrons of the ton—those ladies who would invite him to their beds while doing their utmost to direct their daughters’ eyes elsewhere.

He grinned at the thought of how those ladies would react were he successful in winning Sylvia’s hand.

Mentally, he pulled himself up short. He was going to win her—there was no question about that.

Again, he sipped, leaving only dregs. He wasn’t normally afflicted with self-doubt; that ran all but counter to his character. He was usually utterly confident in moving forward, assured that, even if something along the way went wrong, he would ultimately triumph.

With Sylvia…uncertainty dogged him; he constantly felt as if he was feeling his way with her, never sure how she would react. With her, he felt like a green youth and not the experienced nobleman-about-town he most definitely was.

His difficulty, he suspected, stemmed from two sources. Her attitude to him at the wedding had flummoxed him and still did; he had no idea why she’d treated him so dismissively and disdainfully. His reputation couldn’t have been the sole cause; she might have disapproved of him for that, but her aversion—the intensity of her antipathy—had to have sprung from some deeper motivation.