Page 66 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

But not her. She was special, in a class of her own. A lady to be treated with the care lavished on the very finest crystal.

The kiss spun on, and he realized that, despite the fact they were barely touching, he was drowning in her.

In her elusive scent, in the lure of her lips, in the sensual warmth he sensed inside her.

It was he who had to draw back—it was that or go forward, and he was as certain as he could be that she wasn’t yet ready for more.

Moving slowly, he drew his lips from hers, then raised his head. He hauled in a much-needed breath and looked down into her face as she slowly raised her lids and revealed eyes that were deep violet pools of wonder.

They’d eased closer during the exchange; there was barely an inch between his coat and her bodice.

Her cloak had fallen open, and above her neckline, her breasts rose and fell dramatically, the mounds pearlescent in the faint light. He couldn’t help but notice, which didn’t make it any easier to do what he knew he must.

He tensed to step back, but then, instead, asked, “Might I call on you on Sunday afternoon? We could go for a stroll if the weather remains fine.”

Sylvia heard the gruff, gravelly words. Her head was spinning, her wits whirling. It took effort to find her voice and whisper, “Yes.” Given what they’d just shared, that seemed insufficient, and she added, “I would enjoy that.” At the last second, she managed to swallow the word “too.”

If there was one fact of which she was sure, Kit Cavanaugh didn’t need any encouragement in this sphere.

But oh, my, he most definitely knew how to kiss a wary woman.

Regardless of her wish to deny him any overt encouragement, judging by the rakish grin he flashed her as he—transparently reluctantly—stepped back, he’d caught the gist of her unvoiced revelation.

Experienced as he was, he definitely hadn’t needed to hear the words said.

To her surprise, not even that mental reminder of his status as a rake of the ton—regardless of her past view of his character being inaccurate, that aspect of his reputation had never been in question—caused her appreciation of the past moments to dim. Not in the least. And he’d asked for the chance to create more such moments.

She couldn’t resist returning his grin with a sincerely anticipatory smile. “Until Sunday, then.”

He nodded as he stepped down to the path. “Sunday.” He walked backward, his eyes on her. He tipped his head to the door. “Go in.”

She laughed softly and turned to the door. She unlocked and opened it. As she stepped over the threshold, she heard him softly call, “Goodnight.”

She paused and looked back and saw him waiting beyond the gate, his gaze still locked on her. Smiling softly, she called, “Goodnight,” then slowly shut the door.

A second later, she heard his footsteps on the pavement as he strode to the carriage.

She turned and leaned back against the door, in her mind reliving that kiss as the sounds of the carriage and horses faded into the night.

Unbidden, memories of the evening scrolled through her mind.

Eventually, she recalled Mrs. Macintyre’s questions and assumptions, right at the beginning of the magical time—assumptions she’d refuted.

So what is this, then?

She still didn’t know, still couldn’t be sure, but given that kiss—which incontestably bore little resemblance to the way he would have kissed countless ladies in the past—and given the way her heart was tripping, it was pointless to deny that she was starting to hope.

Just the thought made her mentally shy away; in all honesty, she could barely believe where she thought—hoped—she now stood.

Teetering on the cusp of falling into the arms of the riveting and until-recently believed to be utterly unsuitable lord of her dreams.

That said unsuitable lord had proved to be the man she’d come to know in much greater depth over the past weeks, with whom she’d just shared a truly pleasant evening even in the full glare of local society, was, to her mind, skating perilously close to a miracle.

She pushed away from the door and headed for the stairs. “Who knows?” she whispered into the darkness. “Perhaps even the most wayward dreams can rescript themselves into a reality that might—just might—come true.”

CHAPTER 13

At five o’clock on Saturday evening, Kit and Wayland locked the workshop and trudged around the corner to the tavern in Princes Street that Mulligan and the men had recommended.