The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

“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.