Page 61 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

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.