The Lord Kit Cavanaugh she was coming to know was so unlike the man his reputation and her own observations-from-a-distance had led her to think he was—had convinced her he was—that it was almost as if he was a completely different, unrelated man.
The sort of lord she’d thought he was would never have devoted himself to a project such as Cavanaugh Yachts, would certainly never have bethought himself to aid the school in finding a new venue—and the thought of that imagined lordling bestirring himself over the plight of Johnson and Ned was simply laughable.
Yet the real Kit Cavanaugh, the man walking by her side, had done all those things, freely and willingly.
They—his actions—were the true measure of the man he was.
There was no denying that, to her, the real Kit Cavanaugh was far more attractive than the ton version had ever been. Even though, in that ton version, for more than five years he had been her romantic ideal—her fantasy gentleman—that status had been based purely on his physical attributes; she’d never liked or approved of his character—the character she and the ton had been led to believe was his.
Although she’d reined in her senses as tightly as she could, she remained excruciatingly aware of him walking close beside her; his strength, the controlled grace investing his powerful frame, and the sheer physicality of his presence impinged on her nerves, made her lungs constrict, and set her heart to beating just a soupçon faster.
He drew her—lured her—as no other man ever had.
As she’d discovered at the wedding, when it came to him, no amount of denial—not even imagined deficits of character—made the slightest difference to that intrinsic, instinctive attraction.
In an effort to stop dwelling on her reaction to him—at least not while he was so close—she searched for distraction... “This other boy—the one you call Jack the Lad. How old is he?”
“Thirteen, I believe.” He met her eyes. “I gather he’s known up and down the docks by that moniker.” Without her having to further prompt, he told her of Jack’s story and of how he came to be an apprentice at Cavanaugh Yachts.
Watching his face as he related what she realized were merely the bald facts, Sylvia felt her heart soften even further. He was a good man, although she doubted he thought of himself in such terms. He was focused on marching toward his goal, and, she suspected, he viewed his acts of kindness and generosity as very much incidental—in one way or another supporting his efforts to reach said goal. He could help, so he did, and in his eyes, that simply made his path easier.
Yet the fact was he saw and cared when things were wrong and acted to set matters right—or as right as he could make them.
She was aware that some of the ancient noble families still lived by the creed of noblesse oblige. Having met Kit’s older half brother, the marquess, she suspected that the House of Raventhorne was one such family.
With such desirable characteristics combining with his undeniable physical attractiveness, it was no wonder at all that he, the real Kit Cavanaugh, lured her in so very many ways, engaging her mind as well as her senses.
They reached Baldwin Street and crossed the cobbles to Back Street. Her lodgings were less than ten minutes away.
Kit sensed his time with Sylvia drawing to a close; he wanted to prolong it, but aside from the fact he couldn’t imagine how, caution raised its head. Better he used the time to learn more than to do anything that might make her skittish.
Tipping his head, he caught her eyes. “Other than your work for the school, how do you fill your time?” When she blinked at him, he elaborated, “What entertainments does the city offer that draw you?”
She smiled a trifle self-consciously. “I expect I lead a very circumscribed life, at least by London standards.”
He swallowed a grunt. “We’re not in London.”
“No. So...” She looked ahead. “I enjoy music of all sorts—in summer, there’s often concerts in the parks, and in winter, there’s the theater as well as the occasional recital. And, of course, I sing in the choir at Christ Church”—the glance she slanted him was playfully self-deprecatory—“like any good clergyman’s daughter.”
He smiled. “Your father’s vicarage is near, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I visit fairly regularly. Papa has always been interested in the school. He’ll be delighted to hear of your involvement and our new premises.” She paused, her brow lightly furrowing, then looked ahead. “I should visit him soon and see what advice he has to offer about establishing a scheme such as you suggested—one linking school and apprenticeships.”
“Would he know about that sort of thing?”
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.