She’d kept her new diamond-and-pearl band anchored across her hair; just looking at it still thrilled her, purely because it had come from Kit with a simple message penned in his masculine scrawl: For now and forever.
She registered the quietness that pervaded the house—and the absence of Gordon and, indeed, all the staff.
Kit noticed her glancing at the door at the rear of the hall. When she looked at him questioningly, he smiled. “They’re being discreet.”
“Ah.” Her own lips curving, she nodded. “I see.” She ignored the butterflies that had started to dance in her stomach. In search of distraction, she directed her mind toward those who, henceforth, would be her staff.
She’d met his people often over recent weeks when, at Kit’s invitation, she’d used the period of their engagement to take up the reins of the household. Together with Gordon, she’d hired a housekeeper, a Mrs. Sutchley, who had already proved to be a godsend. The good lady had coped with the influx of Kit’s family, including the three boisterous imps who were Ryder and Mary’s children, without batting an eye.
In addition, she and Gordon had settled on a footman, a parlor maid, a kitchen maid, a scullery maid, and a lady’s maid. Never having had a personal maid in her life, Sylvia had been doubtful about the need for one, but Gordon had assured her that she would find the assistance invaluable, and so it had proved. Now that she was Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s wife, she’d rocketed to the top of every Bristol hostess’s guest list; there was a small pile of invitations already on the mantel in the drawing room, and that was for just the next few weeks. Her wardrobe had needed to expand dramatically to support her sudden prominence, and for that alone, Polly was already indispensable. The girl also had a deft touch with arranging hair in the latest fashion.
Kit closed his warm hand around one of hers, and side by side, they started up the stairs.
The gallery at the top lay wreathed in silent shadows.
The master bedroom was situated in one rear corner of the house, overlooking a walled garden that Sylvia hoped to fill with roses. It was a large, south-facing room; when Kit opened the door and ushered her inside, her gaze went to the wide bank of windows to find them screened by the heavy velvet curtains in forest green, several shades darker than the walls. During the day, with the skirting boards, paneling, and cornices picked out in ivory, the room’s atmosphere was that of a soothing wooded glade, while at night, with the lamps casting pools of warm golden light, the space felt like a roomy, luxurious cave.
One with a very large, richly appointed bed.
A bathing room was attached, and doors in one wall led to separate dressing rooms. Sylvia had already explored everywhere—and knowing Polly’s delight over having her mistress finally residing under this roof, Sylvia’s gowns would already be hanging in the lady’s dressing room, and her brushes would be laid out neatly on the dressing table in there.
Several interesting paintings graced the walls, and two armchairs stood angled before the window.
But it was the huge tester bed with its plump ivory pillows, silk sheets, and forest-green-and-gold coverlet that dominated the room, at least in Sylvia’s eyes.
She halted beside it and turned as she heard the door click shut.
Kit stood with his hand still on the knob and his eyes locked on her. His gaze was weighty, intense, and seemed to grow more acute with every passing second.
Then he released the doorknob and prowled toward her.
Her breathing suspended as he halted before her. The look in his melted caramel eyes was hot enough to scorch.
Slowly, he raised both hands and cupped them about her face, gently tipping it up to his.
Instinctively, she raised her hands and wrapped her fingers about his wrists, lightly gripping as she studied his eyes. The potent mix of hunger, desire, and raw passion she saw—that he let her see—swirling in the depths left her utterly breathless.
Very nearly witless.
She—her mind—couldn’t think beyond this moment; she had no experience upon which to draw. Here, tonight, she had to place herself wholly in his hands and trust him—put her trust in him—in this most intimate arena.
Luckily, she had complete and unshakeable faith in him—in his honor and in his need to protect and care for her. On that, she would stake her life.
And while he wanted her, she wanted him...
She sensed his hesitation, but to her mind, they’d waited long enough.
She pushed up on her toes and kissed him. They’d shared many kisses in recent weeks, and caresses, too, but into this kiss—their first private kiss as a married couple—she poured everything she’d he
ld bottled up inside her.
She opened her heart, found the fire within, and set it free.
It was past time for caution, past time for restraint.
With her lips and tongue, she painted a picture of her need, her wanting—and made it as vibrant, as compelling, as she could.
His hands slid from her face, and she raised hers to clasp his head and hold him—hold them steady to the kiss as her hunger stoked his, as her passion swirled, flamed, and ignited his.