Chapter 10 #3
She smiled fondly. “Papa is a font of wisdom on many matters, but in this instance, I’m hoping he’ll have some insights into how best to present the idea to the Dean and the parish council.”
“Ah.” Kit smiled. “I have to admit that any form of politics, at any level, is not my forte.” Briefly, he met her eyes. “I’m more a ‘do what needs to be done and worry about getting permission later’ sort of person.”
She laughed, and the sound slid beneath his skin and teased.
In his opinion, she didn’t laugh enough.
When she looked ahead, he allowed his gaze to dwell—just for a few seconds—on her profile. Then smoothly, he faced forward. He’d sensed every tiny reaction that his being so close beside her had evoked and had noted every response to his touch that she’d worked so hard to suppress.
At the wedding, he’d realized he affected her in what, to a gentleman of his experience, was a distinctly telltale manner. He knew what such reactions—those instinctive, impossible-to-prevent leaps of the senses—portended, what they were symptoms of.
Yet at the wedding, the almost-desperate way she’d scrambled to suppress those revealing reactions had left him unsure.
Even now, he didn’t know if she recognized the implication of such reactions, much less whether she would welcome exploring them further.
While he was increasingly sure of what he wanted vis-à-vis her, he had no idea what she wished for when it came to him.
That wasn’t a quandary he’d ever faced with any other woman.
They turned into her street. Her lodgings lay at the far end, where the street curved around the leafy park. He guided her along the pavement that ran beside the grass.
He knew what he wanted to do next, what he wanted to ask of her, but an uncharacteristic hesitancy laid hold of his tongue.
A whisper of uncertainty threaded through his mind and warned him that before he made his next move—any further move—he needed to be absolutely sure of his direction. And he needed to know more. He should evaluate his options first…
They reached the corner and crossed the cobbles to Mrs. Macintyre’s house.
Feeling nearly suffocated by his wretched uncertainty—so unlike the bold self-confidence with which he normally faced the world—he fought to draw in a deeper breath.
Sylvia halted on the pavement before the gate, and he halted beside her. She gently disengaged and drew her arm from his; he had to battle an urge to snatch her hand back and only just won.
Smiling, she turned to him. “I haven’t asked where you’re living.” She immediately looked conscious for having voiced such a question.
Before she could blush, he shoved his hands into his pockets—to ensure he didn’t reach for her—and replied, “I bought a house in Queen’s Parade, facing up Brandon Hill.”
“Ah.” Her smile returned. “That’s a pretty area.”
He shrugged lightly. “I wanted a house that was big enough, but not too big.”
“I saw Ollie at school. How’s he settling in with your people?”
Her assumption that he would have “people” made him smile.
Holding her gaze, he said, “There’s only my majordomo, Gordon, my groom, Smiggs, and our cook, Dalgetty, so Ollie is far from overwhelmed.
In fact, he might even be underwhelmed by my paucity of servitors, but I’ve heard him chatting freely with the others, and they’re the sort who’ll take a lad under their wings. ”
“I see.” Her smile remained, but her eyes studied his, and as the moment stretched, her smile slowly faded…
Then she sucked in a tight breath and flashed him another smile—one much less certain—and turned to the gate. “I should go in.”
Why?
But he reached over the gate, lifted the latch, swung the gate open, and held it for her to pass through.
This time, he didn’t follow. That damned uncertainty anchored his boots to the pavement.
She paused on the path and looked back at him. For a moment, her eyes searched his features, then she met his gaze. Her smile was soft, but real and more assured. “Thank you for escorting me home.”
He let his lips curve and inclined his head. “As always in your company, the pleasure was mine.”
Her smile deepened a touch before, with a dip of her head, she turned and walked on.
He watched her climb the steps, open the door, and go inside. He stared at the door as it closed and the lock clicked into place.
After a second more of mindless staring, he forced his feet to move.
Striding back along the park, he kept his eyes peeled for an available hackney; several were trotting along the cobbles, ferrying people home as twilight descended.
He found one disgorging its passenger—a businessman with top hat and cane.
The instant the hackney was free, Kit climbed aboard and gave the jarvey his address.
Kit sprawled on the seat. After turning the carriage, the driver whipped up his horse. Kit stared unseeing at the streetscapes flashing past as he headed home—to his all-male household and his lonely bed.
If he wanted to alter either of those facts, one thing had just become crystal clear.
Before he next met Sylvia Buckleberry, he needed to devise a plan of campaign.
A campaign unlike any he’d ever waged.
Because he’d never felt so wretchedly unsure of himself with any woman before.