Page 95 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

Mary chuckled. “The power of positive expectations. Hmm.” Her gaze cut to her husband, standing to one side talking to Kit’s other groomsmen, Rand and Godfrey, then to her three children, who had acted as pageboys and flower girl and who were presently standing opposite their father and, uncharacteristically quietly, watching the newlyweds. After a second of observing her children, Mary rather distractedly said, “I really must see if I can use the same tactic—and now might be an excellent time to attempt it. If you’ll excuse me, I suspect I have mayhem to avert.”

Stacie and Felicia chuckled as Mary stepped down and headed to where her children stood.

Shortly afterward, Kit and Sylvia were ushered by the crowd to the church doors. Along with the rest of the bridal party, Stacie followed and, from the porch, watched as the newlyweds descended the church steps to the pavement, showered with rice all the way. Laughing, arm in arm, the pair turned at the curb, waved, then made for the hall of the Council House on the other side of the street, where the wedding breakfast was to be held.

Those invited to partake—family and close friends—waited on the church steps while the rest of the crowd, smiling and laughing, dispersed in groups of twos and threes, heads together, excitedly reviewing all they’d seen and heard. Once the crowd had gone, the invited guests strolled after Kit and Sylvia.

Stacie had attended so many wedding breakfasts over her twenty-six years that, once the speeches started, she tended to stop listening. In this case, however, she found her attention transfixed, not so much by the words uttered as by the sight of Kit and Sylvia and the emotion that glowed all but tangibly between them. It was there in their faces whenever their gazes met. Visibly there even when one merely looked upon the other.

Of her mother’s four children, Stacie would have marked Kit as the least likely to put his faith in love. To take the risk and give his heart to any lady, yet plainly, he had.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t see the attraction—the lure of a home, a welcoming hearth, and a loving and supportive family. With Ryder and Mary, and Rand and Felicia, and now Kit and Sylvia all marrying for love, Stacie couldn’t pretend not to understand the benefits and joys of giving one’s heart into the keeping of another.

Another person one trusted to that depth, to that extent.

Trusted to the point of placing one’s most precious and vital inner secrets into that person’s hands.

It was that critical issue of trust that had long ago convinced her that love and marriage could never be hers—that she should never aspire to such a union.

She let her gaze travel over her older siblings—her half brother, Ryder, and her brothers Rand and Kit. Despite the misgivings she imagined all three must have harbored courtesy of Lavinia, the late marchioness, all three had had the courage to willingly trust another. She knew they wouldn’t have done so lightly, and, indeed, she felt certain all three had made the right decision.

Mary could and did manipulate with the best of them, but in that she merely matched Ryder, and Mary would never, ever, harm Ryder, much less her children. If any dared threaten her family, Mary transformed into a tigress—not a being wise people crossed.

As for Felicia, she, too, knew how to manipulate, but her love for Rand meant she rarely attempted to manipulate him. She and Rand shared a passion for logic and order and, from all Stacie had seen and heard, discussions between them tended to occur on a very rational and direct level.

And as Felicia had earlier said, Sylvia didn’t seem to know how to manipulate at all, which was just as well; Stacie didn’t think that, after being caught too often in their mother’s coils, Kit would ever respond well to being manipulated, even for his own good.

Of the five children of the late Marquess of Raventhorne, only Stacie and Godfrey remained unwed, and as Godfrey was only twenty-five and, in Stacie’s opinion, almost as unlikely to marry as she was, the present celebration seemed set to be the last Cavanaugh wedding for some years. Possibly for decades.

Kit’s was the last of the speeches. When he concluded and invited all to charge their glasses, Stacie lifted hers and, with a smile as bright as anyone’s, toasted first the bridal party, then Sylvia.

After that, everyone rose from the tables and mingled.

Stacie made a point of stopping beside the few Cavanaugh connections who were present and dutifully passing the time of day. As usual, several of the ladies inquired in an arch tone as to her own matrimonial intentions, but she’d long ago learned how to turn such queries aside without giving offense and also without revealing any of her thoughts.

If they only knew…

But no one knew as much about what Lavinia, the late marchioness and Stacie’s mother, had done than Stacie. No one else knew the full extent of the scandalous behavior in which Lavinia had indulged. As a child, then a young girl growing up in her mother’s shadow, always in her mother’s household and held very close under her mother’s not-so-loving wing, Stacie had seen far too much to ever trust herself.

To ever allow another to trust her with their heart.

She was her mother’s daughter. As many had reminded her even today, she was the spitting image of Lavinia in her heyday. Before the lines and wrinkles of dissipation had started to show.

And the similarity extended beneath the skin; manipulation was a skill that came far too readily to Stacie’s mind.

Sometimes, it was almost second nature.

A nature she’d sworn to resist.

She had no ambition whatsoever to follow in her mother’s footsteps. That, in fact, was her one ambition—to never become another Lavinia.

Which meant that she could never marry.

She would not risk it. Even marriages of convenience had been known to end in mutual affection—and even that was a temptation to manipulation she might not be able to resist, not if the lure was constantly before her.

She’d been there, in her parents’ household; she’d seen what manipulation had done to their marriage—how deeply the slow death of her father’s trust in his wife had hurt him.

The payments Stacie received from the marquessate as stipulated by her father’s will were generous; she didn’t need to marry to keep a suitable roof over her head or pay an appropriate staff. And as Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, with her connection through Mary to the powerful Cynster family, she didn’t need a husband’s title to give her standing in the ton.