EPILOGUE
August 26, 1843
Berkshire
Lord Christopher Cavanaugh reached the church just in time. On the southern edge of the village of Hampstead Norreys, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, with its proud Norman tower, had—thank God—been easy to locate. After leaving his groom, Smiggs, to deal with the curricle, Kit found the reverend standing by the door; after shaking Kit’s hand with some relief, the reverend directed him around the outside of the church toward the vestry, where, apparently, his brothers were waiting.
Striding down the side of the church, Kit felt something of the good reverend’s relief. He’d overslept; if it hadn’t been for Smiggs, Kit would still be snoring in his room at the inn in Newbury. While such a lapse might be excusable, given he’d landed in Bristol yesterday afternoon and had had to make a mad dash across the country, driving for as long as he’d been able to make out the road, if he hadn’t made it in time, his brothers would never have let him hear the end of it. He’d reached Newbury too late to forge on, so had made a halt there, leaving covering the last ten or so miles to the village for this morning.
He’d driven those last ten miles like a madman, but he’d reached the church before the bride, and with time to join his brothers for Rand’s last minutes of freedom.
Lips quirking, Kit reached for the latch of the door to the small room built off the north transept. Before he could grasp the iron ring, the door was hauled open, and his younger brother, Godfrey, looked out at him.
“It is you—I thought I recognized your footsteps. About time.” Godfrey—who appeared to have grown another lanky half foot since Kit had last seen him, which had been only a few months before—impatiently waved Kit inside. “You’re just in time.”
“But I am in time,” Kit stated, stepping into the small room and letting Godfrey—at twenty-five years old, four years Kit’s junior—close the door behind him. “And that’s what counts.” Finding his two older brothers standing before him, Kit beamed. He nodded to Ryder, who, lazily amused, nodded back, then Kit turned to Rand, reached for his brother’s hand, and, simultaneously, clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, old man, so the time has come.”
As Rand shook Kit’s hand, Rand’s answering smile held a happiness—a contentment—Kit hadn’t expected to see. He felt a jab somewhere in the region of his solar plexus; unbelievable though it seemed, apparently, Rand truly had found what Kit had long thought none of them—Rand, Kit, their sister, Eustacia, and Godfrey—would ever claim.
The sort of love Ryder, their half brother, had found with his Mary.
After what their mother, Lavinia—Ryder’s stepmother—had put her own children, Rand especially, through, Kit had assumed none of them would ever be tempted by marriage. Although Lavinia had died nearly six years ago in a self-inflicted accident, her malignant influence lived on—or so Kit had thought.
When he’d received the letter informing him of Rand’s impending nuptials, he’d assumed either Rand had fallen victim to the matchmakers—a possibility Kit had found difficult to believe—or, more likely, Rand had decided to contract some sort of comfortable marriage in order to put an end to the unrelenting onslaught of the aforementioned matchmakers.
Looking at Rand, at the shining expectation in his eyes, Kit realized his assumptions had been incorrect. With his Miss Throgmorton, Rand had found love.
“We’d thought you would meet us at the Abbey,” Ryder drawled.
Raventhorne Abbey, the principal seat of the Marquess of Raventhorne, was their ancestral home and, presently, Ryder and Mary’s principal residence, shared with their growing family. As the Abbey was only about three hours away, Rand’s family had elected to gather there before traveling to Hampstead Norreys for the service. “I’d hoped to,” Kit replied, then transferred his gaze to Rand. “But I was in Bermuda when your letter reached me—I had to race to get back in time. And then, of course, we ran into storms off the Bay of Biscay. Truth to tell, I’m just glad I got here at all.”
Rand grinned. “So am I—if you hadn’t arrived, the wedding party would have been unbalanced, and Mary and Stacie would have been exceedingly peeved.”
“The pair of them have done most of the organizing,” Ryder explained, somewhat unnecessarily as Kit was well acquainted with his sister-in-law’s and his sister’s proclivities.
Rand’s face softened. “Arranging social events is not Felicia’s forte.”
“Indeed?” Kit leveled a mock-challenging look at Rand. “It sounds as if I should be doubly sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet Miss Throgmorton before she agreed to let you put your ring on her finger.”
Rand’s eyes lit, and he laughed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance—you know nothing about inventions.”
Ryder was chuckling, too.
Kit looked from one to the other and noticed Godfrey was doing the same. “You’ll have to fill us in on what inventions have to do with anything later.”
Rand grinned. Then the door leading into the church opened, and the reverend looked in. He beamed at them all, his gaze coming to rest on Rand. “Lord Cavanaugh—it’s time.”
Although the words should have sounded like the knell of doom, Kit noted that Rand’s expectation—his joy—only mounted. As the brothers filed into the church, Kit pondered that; he was increasingly curious to meet Rand’s soon-to-be wife.
On the steps before the altar, they lined up beside Rand, with Ryder to Rand’s right, Kit next to him, and Godfrey the last in the line. As they took their places, a wave of hushed feminine whispers rippled through the crowd. Kit straightened and, clasping his hands before him, exchanged a cynical look with Godfrey.
It wasn’t often society saw the four brothers all together, displayed in such a way. Although Kit stood just over six feet tall in his stockinged feet, Ryder and Rand both had several inches on him, and over the last months, Godfrey had nearly caught up, although he was still an inch or so the shortest. While Godfrey had inherited the lean, lanky build of their maternal grandfather, Ryder, Rand, and Kit had been blessed with the broad shoulders and powerful, athletic physique of their father; having all four brothers in their perfectly tailored morning coats and dark-gray trousers lined up with their backs to the congregation was setting quite a few of the females—and not just the young ones—tittering.
In his mind’s eye, Kit envisioned what the congregation saw. Viewed from the back, Rand, Ryder, and he were, in body, very similar, but the color of their hair instantly distinguished them one from the other. Although the way their hair grew and the styles they favored for their faintly wavy locks were similar, Rand had dark-brown hair, Ryder’s mane was a tawny mixture of golds and brown, while Kit’s hair was a rich mid brown. Godfrey had inherited their mother’s shade—a dark brown with russet tints, a true auburn—a feature he shared with their sister, Stacie.
As if Kit thinking of Stacie had called her into being, the organist changed his tune to a processional wedding anthem, and together with his brothers, Kit turned and watched the bride’s attendants walk up the aisle. Stacie led the way, a relaxed smile on her face suggesting she was glad to be there, although Kit had his doubts.
Possibly even more than Rand, Stacie had had her mind and certainly her view of marriage manipulated and impacted on by their mother and her doings. Stacie was already twenty-six years old and, to date, had shown no interest in marriage—and that wasn’t an issue her brothers, or even Mary, bossy as she was, sought to push. Kit thought it very likely Stacie would never marry. That conclusion stemmed not so much from a judgment on any likely suitors as a suspicion that Stacie would never trust herself in such a union; she’d seen all too clearly what their mother had become.
He might be her brother, but Kit was also a man; as his gaze took in Stacie’s artfully arranged dark-auburn hair and her figure stylishly gowned in pale-violet silk, he couldn’t help but admit that his sister bade fair to being as voluptuously attractive as their mother had been.
As Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, Stacie hailed from an ancient noble lineage and was well-dowered and well-connected. Kit cynically mused that the grandes dames had to be severely exercised over the prospect of such an eligible bride insisting on placing herself beyond their reach.
As Stacie neared the end of the nave, she met Rand’s eyes, and her smile brightened with patent sincerity—then her gaze skated along the line of her brothers, fleetingly meeting each of their gazes. Kit allowed his lips to curve as his eyes met Stacie’s, then as she turned to take her place along the bride’s side of the steps, he looked up the aisle at the second bridesmaid.
The young lady who would, he realized, be his partner in much of what followed.
Gowned in the same pale-violet silk as Stacie, the unknown lady was tallish, slender—distinctly willowy—with golden-blond hair piled in a neat knot on the top of her head. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion pale with just a hint of color in her cheeks. Her forehead was wide above finely arched brown brows; her eyes were large and well-set beneath those brows, but Kit couldn’t guess their color, and somewhat to his surprise, he discovered he wanted to know. His gaze lowered to her lips...and, for several heartbeats, lingered there. Perfectly sculpted in pale rose, the curves drew his gaze even when he tried to look away.
Following in Stacie’s wake, the young lady’s figure was nothing in comparison, yet...
Kit drew in a breath and shifted his gaze and his attention to the determined lines of the lady’s nicely rounded chin. As she walked, she looked ahead, but, apparently, without focus, yet as she neared the steps, she smiled sweetly at Rand.
Kit waited, but she—whoever she was—didn’t glance his way.
He felt vaguely cheated; she had to know that he would be her partner for the rest of the ceremony and the associated events.
Surreptitiously, he nudged Ryder. When Ryder cast him a sidelong glance, Kit murmured, “Who is she—the other bridesmaid?”
As Mary, a delighted smile on her face, was presently walking down the aisle, “the other bridesmaid” could mean only one person.
“A Miss Sylvia Buckleberry—a distant cousin and childhood friend of Felicia’s,” Ryder murmured back.
Mary reached her place, then the music swelled, and the bride—an utterly radiant golden-haired young lady gowned in ivory silk—walked down the aisle on the arm of a gentleman Kit realized must be her brother, William John Throgmorton.
The brother halted before the altar and, with an insouciant grin, placed his sister’s hand in Rand’s.
Even though Ryder’s bulk was between them, Kit would have sworn he literally felt Rand’s and Miss Throgmorton’s—Felicia’s—joint happiness, an incandescent joy like a small sun casting its rays over everyone near.
As one, the bridal party faced the altar and, with the congregation, gave their attention to the reverend as he commenced the service.
Kit had stood beside Rand at Ryder’s wedding; he knew the ropes. Having sensed the nature of the connection Rand and Felicia shared, Kit wasn’t surprised by the clarity and sincerity that rang in their voices as they made their vows.
This, Kit inwardly acknowledged, was how marriage ought to be. He felt both glad and humbled that Rand had found his way to Felicia and had had the courage to embrace love and thus secure all it would bring them.
Kit knew himself well enough to admit that he also felt just a tad jealous. Not over Felicia herself, but over the future Rand now had a chance at creating with her.
On the one hand, he would dearly like such a chance himself, but, on the other hand, after all he’d learned of his mother and her doings—in actuality, far more than Rand, Stacie, or Godfrey had ever known, and a great deal more than Ryder had ever guessed—marriage was an entanglement he couldn’t see himself ever risking.
Then the reverend pronounced Rand and Felicia man and wife, and they shared a kiss before God and the congregation. Kit found himself grinning, infected with the newly-weds’ happiness as the pair drew apart, then, arm in arm, their faces glowing, led the bridal party up the aisle.
With a proud smile, Ryder offered his arm to his marchioness. Mary took it, and they fell into step behind Rand and Felicia—slowed by the well-wishers on either side, all wanting to press their congratulations.
Kit duly paced to the center of the step and offered his arm to his enigmatic partner. “Miss Buckleberry.” He watched, waiting to catch her eyes if, finally, she glanced at him.
She did, and he discovered her eyes were a soft violet blue—periwinkle blue.
Somewhat to his surprise, she met his gaze with a very direct, level look.
Before he could say anything more, she dipped her head crisply. “Lord Cavanaugh.”
Then she placed her fingertips on his sleeve and stepped down—perforce, Kit moved with her.
As they took their place behind Ryder and Mary, Kit glanced sidelong at the confounding Miss Buckleberry, but even though he waited—and he was fairly certain she could feel his gaze—she didn’t look his way again. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed forward, her chin high...almost as if her nose was, at least figuratively, in the air.
What?
Puzzled by the muted but distinct frostiness emanating from the lady by his side, Kit wracked his brain. Had he met her before? Was she miffed because he hadn’t recognized her?
But no. He had an excellent memory for faces, and he’d take an oath he’d never seen hers before.
Buckleberry. The name rang not a single bell; he hadn’t met her father or any brother, either.
They reached the front of the church, and, after Rand and Felicia had braved a storm of rice, everyone gathered in groups on the sloping lawns to chat while the carriages were brought around.
Miss Buckleberry drew her hand from Kit’s sleeve the instant they stepped out of the church, but of necessity, she remained in the same group, more or less by Kit’s side, although she largely ignored him in a perfectly polite way.
Rand and Felicia departed first in Rand’s curricle, which had been bedecked with ribbons and rosettes. The crowd waved them off, then Ryder and Mary followed in Ryder’s curricle. The Throgmorton brougham drew up next, with Kit’s curricle following behind.
Kit studied Miss Buckleberry, then touched her arm. When she looked inquiringly at him, he waved toward his curricle.
She glanced at it, then, again, met his eyes with a direct—and faintly challenging—look. “Thank you, my lord, but it’s more appropriate that I travel with your sister in the brougham.” She turned her perfectly polite and faintly smiling gaze on Godfrey. “I’m sure you and your brother have stories to share.”
Kit stared at the confounding creature.
More appropriate?
What the devil did she mean by that?
After Felicia’s cousin Flora had taken her seat, Kit, clinging to what was—where Miss Buckleberry was concerned—fast becoming a mask of civility, handed her into the brougham, then stood aside as Godfrey helped Stacie in and Felicia’s brother followed.
Kit shut the brougham’s door, then stalked to his curricle.
Godfrey followed and climbed up to the seat beside Kit.
After Smiggs swung up behind them, Kit shook the reins, and the pair of bays obediently stepped out in the brougham’s wake.
As the curricle rolled behind the carriage, Kit rested his gaze moodily on the back of Miss Buckleberry’s fair head. She had settled beside Flora on the forward-facing seat, which left him free to glare at her as much as he wished.
Godfrey leaned back in the curricle’s seat. “We—Ryder, Mary, Stacie, and I—are leaving for the Abbey after the breakfast. Are you planning on joining us?”
“That was my intention.” Without shifting his gaze from its obsession, Kit added, “I could do with a few days of—” He broke off, then his lips twitched. “I was going to say peace and quiet, but with our nephews and niece racing about, I suspect there’ll be precious little of that. Still...”
Godfrey nodded. “I know what you mean. A stay at the Abbey might not be restful, but it is comforting.”
Struck by the fact that was true, Kit made no reply.
After several more seconds of staring, he gave up all thought of understanding Miss Buckleberry’s incomprehensible attitude and glanced at Godfrey. “So what have you been up to?”
Godfrey shrugged. “This and that.”
Recognizing the response as an invitation to pry, Kit obliged and learned that his little brother, courtesy of several friends, was spending a significant amount of time with a more arty circle.
“They’re not Bohemian—I could introduce them to Mary without a qualm—but they do see things rather differently.” Godfrey tilted his head consideringly. “I wouldn’t say they’re practically minded. Often, hauling them back to earth falls to me.”
That was said with a self-deprecatory smile.
On glimpsing it, Kit smiled himself and drove on.
“That’s the drive.” Godfrey pointed to where the brougham was turning in between two gateposts. “It’s rather a nice place—close to the village but quite private, what with these woods all around.”
It transpired that they were to make use of that privacy—tables had been set up on a long, sloping lawn. After leaving the curricle with the various grooms in the forecourt, Kit and Godfrey were shown to their places as more of the guests from the church arrived.
Rand and Felicia had wanted a small wedding, but given their family, “small” still numbered more than fifty guests. Of course, judged against the last family wedding—Ryder and Mary’s—fifty qualified as tiny.
A long table had been set up for the bridal party, just below the raised terrace and facing down the lawn toward the other tables. Accustomed to the way such things were done, Kit wasn’t surprised to find himself seated between Mary and Miss Buckleberry. As he claimed his seat, Miss Buckleberry was already deep in conversation with Miss Throgmorton’s brother, who was seated on her other side, and Mary was chatting avidly to Rand, on her right.
Kit settled—and Mary turned to him and immediately quizzed him on his intentions after the breakfast. After assuring her that he would, indeed, be joining the family at the Abbey—which was definitely what she’d wanted to hear—he deftly turned the tables and asked her about her offspring. From experience, he knew that recounting their latest exploits would occupy Mary for quite some time, and so it proved.
The first toasts were made, the meal was served, and the event rolled on in customary fashion—and, finally, over a particularly good syllabub, Kit managed to seize a moment of Miss Buckleberry’s time. He absolved Felicia’s brother of monopolizing her attention; if anything, the shoe had been on the other foot.
As the laughter occasioned by the final toast—proposed by Ryder—faded, he fleetingly caught the lady’s elusive eye. “I understand, Miss Buckleberry, that you’ve known my new sister-in-law for some time.”
Rather than look at him, she poked at the syllabub, but consented to nod. “Indeed. We met as infants and have been close friends ever since.”
Kit waited, but she said nothing more. “So you often visited each other’s homes?”
“When we were young children, yes. But after her mother’s death, Felicia was more or less stuck here, managing the household, so I was the one who visited.”
“Do you live far afield?”
“My father has a living not far from Bath.”
Aha. She was a clergyman’s daughter. Perhaps that was what was behind her prickliness.
They were interrupted by the staff clearing the empty plates, then Miss Buckleberry pushed back her chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Cousin Flora.”
Kit summoned a meaningless smile, rose, and drew back her chair for her.
With the faintest inclination of her head, she headed to where Flora sat at the end of one of the other tables.
Other guests were getting to their feet and mingling in groups.
Kit stepped back into the shadow of the terrace. With his hands in his pockets, he stared, faintly frowning, at the confounding Miss Buckleberry.
From her words and also from what he’d seen, he judged her to be of much the same age as Felicia, who Rand had told him was twenty-four.
No green girl. No silly, flighty flibbertigibbet.
Miss Buckleberry’s attitude to him had nothing to do with nerves. If anything, he sensed hers were quite steely.
No. For some unfathomable reason, Miss Buckleberry was deliberately giving him the cold shoulder.
Kit wasn’t accustomed to inspiring such a reaction in the breasts of young ladies. Generally speaking, they were effusively attentive, very ready to return his smiles and chatter to him with eager enthusiasm for however long he deigned to make himself available.
Not Miss Buckleberry.
Ryder, with Rand at his elbow, strolled up, interrupting Kit’s cogitations.
“So,” Ryder drawled, “did you succeed in securing what you went to Bermuda to get?”
Kit had discussed his plans with his half brother; from their earliest years, Ryder had always been the one Rand, Kit, and Godfrey had turned to for advice and to sound out their ideas. Shifting his gaze to Ryder’s face, Kit nodded. “Yes. Cobworth has agreed to return to England and build for me.” He paused, then added, “I’m thinking of setting up in Bristol, rather than somewhere on the south coast. There’s so much ship-building going on in Bristol at the moment, any trade or materials we’ll need will be there, at our fingertips.”
Ryder arched his brows, his expression considering. “That might well be wise, especially given you want to build larger yachts, rather than just sloops to run across the Channel.”
Rand added, “That will also be a point of distinction between you and other yacht-builders—not just the location of your works but that you’ll have access to different craftsmen. And that’s not something to sneer at.”
“No, indeed. Hence my chasing Cobworth. And,” Kit continued, “there’s also the fact that the town council are likely to be encouraging—they want more jobs, and an enterprise such as I’m proposing will deliver that.”
The three of them settled to go over Kit’s plans. Ryder’s business acumen and Rand’s background in raising capital gave Kit plenty of support on which to draw. While they talked, Kit saw Godfrey and Stacie chatting with several other young ladies farther down the lawn—then Miss Buckleberry joined the group, smiling and chatting, relaxed and assured, and not at all buttoned-up, aloof, and reserved, as she had been through every second she’d spent with Kit.
A string quartet had set up on the terrace, and the soothing strains of an orchestral air floated out over the three brothers’ heads.
Then Mary bustled up. She threw Ryder and Kit a meaningful look, but it was Rand’s hand she caught. “Come along. It’s time.”
Rand sent a look heavenward, but he was smiling as he allowed himself to be towed away.
Mystified, Kit asked, “What was that look—Mary’s—about?”
Ryder dropped a hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Apparently, just because we’re out on the lawn, doesn’t mean we get to skip the bridal waltz.”
“Oh—I see.” Kit’s gaze fixed on Miss Buckleberry as she laughed gaily at something Godfrey had said. “I’d better go and claim my partner, then.”
Ryder made a sound of agreement and ambled off in his wife’s wake.
Smiling intently, Kit walked across the lawn. The fact that Ryder—who, despite his lazy air, inevitably noticed damned near everything—hadn’t commented on Miss Buckleberry’s frostiness suggested that, although the lady’s attitude to Kit was glaringly obvious to him, her façade of easygoing politeness had been good enough to screen it from everyone else.
He circled the group she was still chatting with—the one including Stacie and Godfrey—and quietly came up behind her. The lawn was thick; she didn’t hear him approach.
At that moment, Mary, up on the terrace, clapped her hands, and when everyone looked her way, she asked the gathered guests to stand ready for the bridal waltz.
Immediately, the violins swelled, and Rand stepped out with Felicia in his arms, and they revolved across the lawn.
If anyone had entertained any doubt that theirs was a love match, the glow in Felicia’s face, the simple pride in Rand’s expression, and the open devotion with which, their gazes locked, each regarded the other, oblivious to the onlookers all around, would have slain it.
Stacie and the other young ladies in the group sighed as Rand and Felicia whirled past.
Curious, Kit leaned to the side and checked, but Miss Buckleberry did not sigh. She was too absorbed scanning those standing on the other side of the lawn.
Behind her, Kit grinned—a touch evilly.
Then Stacie grasped Godfrey’s sleeve. “The bridal party is supposed to join them on the second circuit. We should step out after Kit and Miss Buckleberry...” Stacie glanced at Miss Buckleberry and saw Kit behind her. Stacie smiled at Kit. “There you are, brother mine.”
Miss Buckleberry whipped around. Her eyes were wide when they collided with Kit’s.
She hadn’t known about the bridal waltz—she’d assumed it wouldn’t be held on the lawn.
For one instant, those truths were easy to read in the violet blue, then she drew breath, her lashes lowered, hiding her lovely eyes, and her expression smoothed from... What had he seen in it? Shock, yes, and something akin to horror—but why?
But she was safe behind her aloof, reserved shield again. With a little dip of her head, she murmured, “Well met, my lord.” She glanced at Rand and Felicia—and at Ryder and Mary as they stepped out in the newly-weds’ wake. Without looking at Kit, Miss Buckleberry held out her hand. “Shall we, my lord?”
Kit didn’t bother replying—not with words. He closed his hand about her fingers—felt them tremble, but the reaction was so swiftly stilled he wasn’t sure, in the next moment, that he’d felt any such thing. Smoothly, he drew her into his arms, then stepped out and expertly steered them so they fell into line, revolving in Ryder and Mary’s wake.
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Stacie and Godfrey joining the group. Another circuit, and all the other guests inclined to do so would join them.
Kit bided his time, very aware that although he was holding her in prescribed fashion and not so much as half an inch closer, Miss Buckleberry’s spine was rigid, her back beneath his hand stiff as a board. He had no idea how she managed it, but despite her rigid state, she performed the dance with commendable grace.
Throughout, her gaze remained fixed past his left ear.
As the rest of the company joined in and the sound of laughter and conversations rose around them, he transferred his gaze fully to his patently reluctant partner’s face and said, “Miss Buckleberry, I greatly fear that our paths have crossed before, and I must have—somehow, in some fashion—stepped on your toes. Literally or figuratively.”
Her lips tightened, and she threw him a glance so swift he wasn’t able to snare it. “Why do you imagine that, my lord? I assure you we’ve never met before.”
“I believe you must be mistaken, and I have, indeed, at some time, done something quite grave to earn your displeasure.” This time, when—puzzled—she glanced at him, he caught and trapped her gaze. “How else am I to account for your chilly, not to say frigid, behavior toward me?”
Several seconds passed. He felt sure she would disclaim and turn his probing aside with a flustered disavowal.
Instead, she surprised him. Her eyes fearlessly meeting his, her gaze as ever direct and uncompromising, she drew breath and evenly said, “My reason is simple enough, my lord. I’ve heard of your reputation, I know it to be well deserved, and I have no wish whatever to feature as another of your conquests, intentional or otherwise.”
For two revolutions, he held her gaze. Then, his eyes narrowing, he softly said, “I wasn’t aware you stood in any danger of falling at my feet, Miss Buckleberry. Was I mistaken?”
The flare of temper that lit her eyes turned them a deeper violet. Her chin rose a notch, but her voice was cool as she replied, “What an exceedingly arrogant presumption, my lord.”
The music ceased. Their feet slowed of their own accord. But Kit, lost in the tangle of whatever this was between them, didn’t immediately let her go.
Her chin set, and she stepped back, tugging her fingers from his grasp and forcing him to lower his arms.
She drew herself up, icicles positively dripping from her as she inclined her head to him. “Good day, my lord.”
Kit stood unmoving and watched her walk—with outward serenity—away from him.
During the rest of the wedding breakfast, he didn’t get another chance to approach her—not that he tried. He knew quite well what his reputation in society was, but was it his fault that young ladies dreamed and fantasized about things he never even spoke of, much less promised?
He could, of course, have informed her that his intentional conquests were always thoroughly aware that marriage was not on offer; aside from all else, his intentional conquests were invariably already wed.
By her own admission, they hadn’t previously met, so what the devil had she been about, flinging his reputation in his face like that? She’d pokered up on him before he’d so much as smiled at her.
Miss Buckleberry, he concluded, was touched in her upper works.
He waltzed with Felicia, who he found delightful, warm, and easy to talk with—nothing like her closest friend. Relaxing—he wasn’t losing his touch—he told Felicia several stories of Rand’s exploits when they’d been children, just to keep his brother on his toes.
Mary and Stacie both claimed him for waltzes, then he set himself to beguile Flora into taking a slow turn with him.
By the time the sun started to slide down the western sky and the guests drifted toward the forecourt, where the carriages were waiting, he’d largely managed to blot Miss Buckleberry from his mind.
The first to depart were the newly-weds. Rand had told Kit that he and Felicia were going to spend the next months in the house they’d recently bought near the village of Wickham Heath, roughly midway between the Abbey and Throgmorton Hall.
Kit had promised to call in after his stay at the Abbey.
The entire company of guests and all the household gathered to wave Rand and Felicia off. Then came the usual fuss as the party bound for the Abbey sorted themselves into carriages and tendered thanks and farewells.
Just before he climbed into his curricle, Kit glanced around, but Miss Buckleberry was no longer in the forecourt.
Deciding that was probably just as well—he had no idea what he would have said to her if she’d been there—he climbed up, took the reins, and, with Godfrey once more beside him and Smiggs up behind, he gave the bays the office, and the curricle rolled smoothly down the drive.
Just before they were engulfed by the woods lining the drive, Kit glanced back at the house.
His gaze went directly to a window on the first floor—to the golden-haired lady standing there, watching him drive away.
His gut tightened. Premonition swept over him.
Shrugging off the sensation, he faced forward and set the horses to a faster pace.
Miss Sylvia Buckleberry was the sort of irritating, judgmental female he might, in other circumstances, have been tempted to subtly pursue, purely to rattle her in payment for her hoity dismissal, but the reality was that he would, very likely, never set eyes on her again.
THE END
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