Page 63 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

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 strolled 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.

The instant Kit lowered his arms, Sylvia twined her arm with one of his. “If I might make a suggestion?”

His gaze, somewhat hunted, had returned to the shifting throng.

She leaned closer. “You can’t hide, but there’s no reason we can’t go on the offensive, as it were, and choose with whom to engage—namely, those who might have relevance to the school or your business.” When he blinked at her, she gently tugged and got him moving. “Just follow my lead, and rather than getting caught in conversations to no purpose, let’s see if we can’t put our time to better use.”

He met her eyes, then acquiesced with a nod and faced forward. “All right. Wither away?”