Chapter 12
Sylvia stared at the cheval glass in her bedroom. She was holding her two favorite evening gowns against her—first one, then the other—trying to decide which made her look more the sort of lady people would expect to see gracing Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s arm.
“Mauve?” she muttered, holding up the first gown. “Or pale green?” She swung the second gown into place, then, undecided, repeated the exercise yet again.
The realization that she would be going to the concert with a bona fide scion of the nobility had dawned on her as she’d hurried home that afternoon.
Kit Cavanaugh was a lord born and bred, something she’d largely forgotten over the past weeks of working alongside him, grappling with school affairs and hearing of his business successes.
Over that time, the man she’d seen was so very different from the image of Lord Kit Cavanaugh that she’d carried in her head for years that she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of the here-and-now man as someone quite separate—as a gentleman far more worthy of her attention.
He was still Lord Kit Cavanaugh.
And tonight, at least half of Bristol society would see her on his arm.
“Oh, God.” She wasn’t given to taking the Lord’s name in vain, but the situation seemed to warrant it. She stared at her reflection and almost wailed, “Which one?”
A tap sounded on the door. She whirled as it opened, revealing Mrs. Macintyre, who she’d asked to come up and help with her laces.
Seeing her hovering in indecision, Mrs. Macintyre tsked. “Still not ready?” Then she raked her gaze over the two gowns and declared, “It’s obvious—the green one with that pretty lace. That shade makes your skin look as if it’s glowing and your hair appear more golden.”
Sylvia blew out a breath and laid aside the mauve gown.
“All right.” She felt breathless and strangely giddy, and her nerves were all but twanging.
She couldn’t recall feeling this way during her London Season, much less at any other time.
She shrugged out of her robe and started climbing into the apple-green silk gown with its fullish skirt and lightly embroidered bodice and overskirt.
“Wait.” Mrs. Macintyre stepped behind her, flicked loose her corset strings, then wrenched them a great deal tighter.
Sylvia gasped at the sudden constriction that locked about her ribs and waist. “I need to breathe!”
“Not that much, you don’t. And you want to make the most of the assets God gave you.” Ruthlessly, Mrs. Macintyre tied off the strings, then peered over Sylvia’s shoulder.
Sylvia followed her landlady’s gaze to the mirror to see her breasts mounding above the corset’s bodice, while her waist was nipped to the point a man’s hands could span it and the curve of her hips was an attractive line.
“There!” Mrs. Macintyre beamed. “That’s better.”
Sylvia wasn’t so sure, but then she thought of what Kit might think…
There wasn’t enough time to fuss with her corset.
Mrs. Macintyre eased her fully into the gown, then helped settle the skirts.
Fussing with the hem at the rear, Mrs. Macintyre said, “It’s good to see you walking out with such a suitable gentleman.
A lord, no less, so you’ll become a ladyship once you’re wed. ”
What little breath Sylvia had managed to draw in left her. Her eyes widening, she blurted, “He… I…” Desperate, she got out, “It’s not like that at all.”
Straightening behind her, Mrs. Macintyre met her gaze in the mirror, her own expression one of deep skepticism. “Is that so? Seems awfully like it to me. Why ever would a lord like him ask you to this concert if he wasn’t keen on you?”
Sylvia blinked. That was an excellent question.
Her mind skittering this way and that, the only answer she could come up with—other than the obvious conclusion Mrs. Macintyre had leapt to, which Sylvia didn’t think she was yet ready to even contemplate—was that Kit, as he’d mentioned, was new to the city.
He wouldn’t know who was whom and knew she would be able to guide him.
The thought acted on her giddiness like a dash of cold water.
Her unacknowledged hope abruptly deflated, leaving her feeling hollow inside.
Of course, that had to be it.
Subdued, she sat and let Mrs. Macintyre arrange her hair. Her landlady was always a help and a support; Sylvia was grateful for her ministrations, but she could have wished that, in this instance, Mrs. Macintyre had kept her mouth shut and not jarred her to earth quite so soon.
She wouldn’t have minded feeling like Cinderella going to the ball for just a little longer…
She blinked at her reflection, then frowned. What was she thinking?
Had her long-ago infatuation with Lord Kit Cavanaugh resurfaced while she wasn’t paying attention?
The thought horrified her, but then she had to don her jewelry—her mother’s pearls and earbobs—and check her evening reticule, pull on her gloves, and allow Mrs. Macintyre to brush her velvet cloak.
Then the knocker on the front door beat an imperious tattoo, and it was too late to panic. She sucked in a breath and looked at Mrs. Macintyre.
Her landlady beamed. “You look lovely, dear. I’ll just go and get the door—you wait a moment before you follow.”
Sylvia forced in several deep breaths and sternly told herself to stop questioning and simply enjoy the evening. Whatever Kit’s reasons for inviting her to accompany him, she’d learn them soon enough.
Remembering to glide, she started along the corridor. She’d attended dinners, musical soirées, and the like at the houses of various of the city’s hostesses, but given she avoided the morning teas and at-homes, she was considered something of an eccentric. Not quite a bluestocking, but close to it.
She reached the stairs and started down, her mind on who they might meet, then she felt Kit’s gaze and raised her own to see him standing in the front hall, looking up at her.
Her breath tangled in her throat; her lungs seized, and she stopped breathing.
He looked… “Magnificent” didn’t come close to doing him justice.
Oh, my!
His often unruly hair sat in neat, tamed waves about his well-shaped head.
His clean-shaven features appeared chiseled, aristocratically severe, while his superbly cut coat emphasized the width of his quite remarkable chest. His attire was impeccable, from ivory silk cravat, striped waistcoat in varying shades of gray, and trousers that clung to his powerful thighs before falling to brush the tops of highly polished boots.
Although from on the stairs, his height was less obvious, she knew he towered a full head taller than she—he would be taller than the majority of men at the concert.
More, the aura of dominance that hung about him wasn’t purely a matter of physical attributes. Dressed like this, he looked exactly what he was—a nobleman of understated power.
Then he smiled a slow, deeply appreciative smile—one she didn’t even need to see his eyes to read—and what wits she’d retained scattered like autumn leaves in a gale.
Savoring the moment, Kit waited for her to come to him. His mouth had dried; the instant he’d seen her starting down the stairs, a sylph in truth, slender as a reed in her pale green gown, his attention had locked on her, and he’d forgotten the rest of the world.
For these few minutes, she demanded and captured his mind, and he was more than happy to devote his senses to her.
To drinking in her feminine delights, such as the delectable curve of her swan-like neck, exposed above the raised collar of her gown.
From high at her nape, that embroidered collar, edged with fine Belgian lace, swept down and around, showcasing the luscious mounds of her breasts.
He hadn’t previously seen those; the gowns she normally wore covered her from the neck down, and her bridesmaid’s gown had also possessed a modest neckline.
She’d been hiding herself away—just as she’d concealed the fiery, passionate nature that had sent her barging into his office over a week ago.
On reaching the last stair, she stepped down to the tiles, and he managed at last to fill his lungs and realized his smile revealed rather more than he wished it to—at least at this point—but she merely smiled serenely back; she didn’t seem unnerved by his appreciation.
Relaxing somewhat—reminding himself that even if this felt like the first time, he’d done this sort of thing countless times before— he held out his hand.
When, coloring faintly, she glided the last feet to him and laid her fingers in his, he swept her an elegant bow.
Straightening, he met her eyes—and saw something of her usual dry wit appear, as if she’d recognized the gesture for the extravagance it was.
“Good evening, my dear Sylvia. You look…utterly divine.” He reached out and took the cloak of midnight velvet her landlady offered and held it up for Sylvia to don.
She sent him a faintly warning look and swiveled to give him her back.
He gently draped the cloak in place, then lightly rested his palms on her shoulders. Tipping his head, he met her eyes. “If you’re ready, our carriage awaits.”
Throughout the next minutes, Sylvia felt like some magical princess floating on air.
Kit swept her out of the door, down the steps, and into a carriage so new she could still smell the faint scent of varnish.
Inside, the carriage was the epitome of luxurious comfort, with well-padded leather-covered seats and paneling of golden oak accented with brass fittings.
Kit sat beside her and the carriage moved off. As the equipage turned into Back Street and rolled smoothly north toward the Council House, it seemed that the latest in modern engineering had eliminated a great deal of the usual rocking.
Even through the dimness, she could feel Kit’s gaze on her—mostly on her face, her profile—yet even though she was swathed in her cloak, occasionally, that heated gaze slipped lower before he raised it again.