Page 96 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

The tables had been removed and chairs set in the corners for those who needed to sit. Now the musicians started up, and Stacie joined the other guests in watching Kit and Sylvia circle the floor in their first waltz as a married couple. As was expected, she and her partner—Godfrey—joined the other couples of the bridal party in the second revolution. Then the rest of the guests joined in, and laughter and merriment bubbled all around.

Subsequently, she danced with Wayland Cobworth, Kit’s longtime friend and business partner, and learned how their new enterprise, Cavanaugh Yachts, was faring.

Then exhibiting not the slightest preference, she danced with the others who admiringly solicited her hand.

She was a past master at slipping from their side with a smile at the end of each measure.

Finally, the musicians put up their bows, and she was free to wander the hall. She’d noticed Godfrey circling the walls, pausing before each portrait that adorned the paneling. She caught up with him, sliding her arm through his and looking up at the portrait he was presently studying.

He glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the picture—of a man in robes with a chain of gold discs hanging halfway down his chest. A past mayor, she supposed. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Oh, examining these. Some are really quite good. I wonder if the council knows the value of what they have hanging in this hall.”

She peered more closely at the painting, trying to find a signature. “Are they really that valuable?”

Godfrey sent her a sidelong glance. “Enough to warrant stealing. Not that I’m about to embark on a life of crime.”

“Good to know.”

The exchange reminded her of something that had struck her the day before, when the bridal party had gathered at Kit’s house and everyone had been sitting around catching up with each other’s news.

Everyone else had had something to say; she’d been the only one with no actual purpose to her life and, consequently, nothing in terms of goals achieved to report.

Mary had her children, her household to run, and she was also working to establish schools and other improvements for the workers on the marquessate’s far-flung estates.

Felicia worked hand in glove with her brother, William, on steam-powered inventions and also with Rand in evaluating the inventions of others; the pair were planning a trip to Paris to investigate some new type of pen, of all things.

And Sylvia was neck-deep in running her school—a school she’d more or less single-handedly founded.

Her brothers all had occupations—Ryder managing the marquessate’s estates, Rand and his investment syndicates, Kit with his yachts, and even Godfrey was tiptoeing toward some sort of position in the art world.

Only she was utterly without purpose.

As on Godfrey’s arm, she moved around the room, pretending to study the paintings, she decided that, as she wasn’t going to marry, her lack of occupation needed to be rectified.

She’d noted that all the others had found their purpose in their strongest passion—Godfrey and his obsession with art being a perfect example.

Her only true passion was music. Sadly, among the ton, a liking for music was hardly unique, but for her, the fascination went much deeper. So what life-purpose could she create for herself based on music?

She continued to cling to Godfrey’s arm and the relative privacy that bought her. Ignoring the dry judgments he passed on each painting, she set her mind to the task of devising some position for herself—some absorbing career to which she could devote herself.

One that wouldn’t harm anyone else but, instead, would help others.

Eyes narrowing in concentration, she told herself that there had to be something she could do.

She was still trying to imagine what that something might be when a stir ran through the guests and calls went up for all the unmarried young ladies present to gather in the center of the hall.

Stifling a sigh, Stacie drew her arm from Godfrey’s, pulled a hideous face that only he could see, then left him chuckling and dutifully joined the small group of ladies smiling and jockeying for position before the chair onto which Kit had lifted Sylvia to stand. From long experience, Stacie knew that arguing that she was beyond marriageable age—that, indeed, she was old enough that in earlier times she would have been termed an ape-leader—would get her nowhere, especially not with those around her being mostly family, connections, or Kit’s friends.

Smiling wryly to herself, she joined the very back of the small pack.

She was shorter than most of those in front of her—no real risk of Sylvia’s bouquet reaching her.

She’d reckoned without Sylvia, who turned to face away from the group. On a count of three, to cheers and whoops, Stacie’s new sister-in-law slung her neat bouquet in an energetic fashion sideways around her shoulder.

Instead of flying high and landing among the shifting ladies, the bouquet whizzed toward them just above head height, causing some to instinctively shriek and duck, while others belatedly raised their hands toward the prize—bobbling the small bouquet and sending it tumbling and skipping across their reaching fingers.

Until it was flying toward Stacie.