Page 62 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

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 and 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.”