Chapter 12 #4
He felt slightly silly over his discomfiture. “You are a clergyman’s daughter, as you’ve reminded me often enough.”
“Hmm.” She appeared to be savoring the quite acceptable wine. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the finer things in life.”
He watched her take another sip. Her lips—pale rose and delectably curved—glistened as she lowered the glass.
He had a vague memory of her sipping the beverage at the wedding, so decided she wasn’t simply trying to paper over his gaffe.
He steered her away from the crowd now flocking to the booth toward a spot by the wall where the press of bodies was rather less.
Sylvia drank the champagne, enjoying the slight fizz on her tongue, and allowed her gaze to roam over those pouring into the gallery, many coming up from below. If they stood there much longer, they’d end besieged.
On the thought, Kit shifted—much as if he wished to, metaphorically at least, hide behind her skirts.
She cast him an amused glance. “I would have sworn that, in society, you would be much more at home than I.”
His eyes were fixed on the shifting throng. “I seriously doubt that’s true.”
He really didn’t like being there—being surreptitiously gawped at and ultimately targeted by the local hostesses and their husbands as well.
While Sylvia felt vaguely tickled at being more assured in this sphere than he, she also felt an impossible-to-resist urge to ease his way.
Glimpsing several ladies eyeing him from behind their fans, she drained her glass and handed it to him.
He’d already finished his drink. He beckoned an attendant collecting glasses nearer and placed the empty glasses on the man’s tray.
The instant Kit lowered his arms, Sylvia twined her arm with one of his. “If I might make a suggestion?”
His gaze, somewhat hunted, had returned to the shifting throng.
She leaned closer. “You can’t hide, but there’s no reason we can’t go on the offensive, as it were, and choose with whom to engage—namely, those who might have relevance to the school or your business.
” When he blinked at her, she gently tugged and got him moving.
“Just follow my lead, and rather than getting caught in conversations to no purpose, let’s see if we can’t put our time to better use. ”
He met her eyes, then acquiesced with a nod and faced forward. “All right. Wither away?”
She spied Councilor Peabody and his wife. “Why not start with Peabody? It won’t hurt to connect with him again.”
As he’d agreed, Kit followed her lead. Given he’d met Peabody before, their interaction with the councilor and his wife passed off reasonably easily, especially as Mrs. Peabody proved to be a gentle, motherly sort.
They departed the Peabodys’ orbit and fetched up beside the mayor—a Mr. Forsythe—and his wife.
Although Mrs. Forsythe’s eyes lit, Forsythe himself was only too pleased to monopolize Kit’s time, and Sylvia’s, too, eulogizing over the establishment of Cavanaugh Yachts and all the great things Forsythe hoped would flow from that and also effusively commending the relocation of the school.
Kit ended amused by Forsythe’s earnestness and mentally labeled the mayor as a gentleman he could call on if Cavanaugh Yachts encountered any problem with the city council.
Sylvia accepted the mayor’s accolades with what Kit sensed was a large dose of cynicism, yet she remained gracious throughout.
On quitting the Forsythes’ circle—much to Mrs. Forsythe’s ill-concealed dismay—they fetched up beside Mr. Hemmings, the chairman of the Dock Company, and a lady who proved to be his sister.
Kit was glad of the chance to pick Hemmings’s brain regarding the workings of the docks and the Floating Harbor, which Hemmings seemed only too happy to discuss.
Miss Hemmings and Sylvia spoke of social matters, such as the school and several charities on the boards of which Miss Hemmings served.
Then two other couples arrived to join their circle.
Kit thought the conversation would slide out of Sylvia’s control, but after she deflected three probing comments directed at him with an artless ease he could only envy, in each instance firmly steering the conversation back to a discussion of some aspect of business, she tightened her hold on his arm, smiled at everyone, and made their excuses, then nudged him into walking on.
He was only too ready to do so.
While they continued to amble and stop here and there to chat with people she considered he should know, he realized that she’d been right. As long as they were moving with apparent purpose, no one was game enough to attempt to intercept them.
Increasingly, he relaxed and focused more definitely on using the opportunities Sylvia steered his way to further his knowledge of those who held power in Bristol’s business world.
When, eventually, the bells rang and they returned to their box, he sighed and dropped into the chair beside Sylvia.
Through the gathering dimness as the lamps were turned down, he met her eyes.
“That was an entirely unlooked-for bonus to my evening.” He dipped his head to her.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have managed that without you. ”
Sylvia’s cheeks heated; she was glad of the deepening gloom.
She glanced at the stage, but although the orchestra was in place, the conductor had yet to reappear.
She hesitated, then ventured, “From your questions to various gentlemen, I gather you’re taking a long-term view regarding Bristol and your company. ”
Kit was now very much more relaxed, sitting in an elegant sprawl and looking at the stage.
Lightly, he shrugged. “I intend Cavanaugh Yachts to continue in business for many long years. And I expect to remain at its helm, actively involved, for as long as I’m able.
” He turned his head and met her eyes, and his lips lightly curved.
“You have a passion for teaching dockyard boys, while mine is building ocean-going yachts.”
Even in the low light, she could see that truth in his face; he was committed to his business and to Bristol for life. He wasn’t going to flit away; he was putting down roots there.
Her lips lightly curved, she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his comment, then the conductor walked out, and they both looked at the stage. Seconds later, the music swelled and, entirely at ease in each other’s company, they lost themselves to Haydn’s brilliance again.
At the end of the performance, Kit decided he’d done enough socializing for the evening. He called on skills honed in London to steer Sylvia down the stairs, reclaim her cloak, then guide her out onto the Council House steps ahead of the rush and before any others could bail them up.
Smiggs had the carriage waiting, as arranged to the right of the steps. Kit ushered Sylvia to the door that Ollie, bright and cheerful despite the hour, was holding open.
“Thank you, Ollie.” Sylvia bestowed a warm smile on the erstwhile bootboy and allowed Kit to hand her into the carriage.
After a smiling nod to Ollie, Kit followed her inside.
As he sat, Ollie closed the door, then the carriage dipped slightly as the lad scrambled up, and then they were away.
Smiggs deftly steered the carriage into the still-reasonably-clear street and set off at a good clip, heading for Mrs. Macintyre’s house.
The carriage rolled smoothly on, and the brighter lights of the city’s center and the bustle around the Council House fell behind. A companionable silence descended.
Kit glanced at Sylvia and, by the light of a passing streetlamp, saw the smile playing over her face. She looked as if she might be humming the final rousing passages of the symphony in her head.
He elected not to break the spell and, resting his head against the squabs, held his tongue.
In no time at all, Smiggs drew the carriage to a halt just past Mrs. Macintyre’s gate.
Ollie was there all but instantly to swing open the door. Kit descended, then gave Sylvia his hand and steadied her down the carriage steps.
He looped her arm in his, drawing her closer, and they strolled the few paces back to the gate. To his mind, they’d grown significantly closer over the course of the evening and not just physically.
They reached the gate, and he held it for her, then stepped back to her side as they walked up the short path.
Their footsteps slowed—hers as much as his—as they approached the porch.
Kit sensed her nerves tightening—evidenced by the quick glance she threw him—then she looked down, raised her hems, and climbed the steps.
He followed and halted beside her—and realized that he, too, was experiencing that telltale tightening of nerves, the anticipatory tension he’d thought he’d left behind in his early twenties.
Apparently not.
When it came to Sylvia Buckleberry, it seemed he wasn’t that far removed from a green youth fresh on the town.
She drew her arm from his and faced him.
Mrs. Macintyre’s porch was inset beneath the upper floor of the house, and the small area was draped in shadows. Nevertheless, he could make out Sylvia’s wide eyes as she held out her hand and, decidedly breathlessly, said, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord.”
He closed his hand about her fingers and arched a quizzical brow. “Am I really still ‘my lord’ to you?”
Although her eyes remained wide, she battled to suppress a spontaneous smile and, eventually, conceded with a tip of her head. “Kit, then.” Her eyes had locked with his. “And I truly enjoyed the evening immensely.”
Were he dealing with some London lady, he would have grinned and, using her hand, drawn her into his arms for a long, slow kiss.
But this was Sylvia Buckleberry, clergyman’s daughter.
He shackled his impulses and gently squeezed her fingers. “Thank you for your company and your help in navigating the shoals of Bristol society. I definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed the evening had you not been beside me.”
She had to know that was the unvarnished truth.
Silence descended.