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.