They’d been in and out of each other’s company ever since. They’d worked together to achieve minor goals that advanced her, his, and oft-times both their current aims.
They’d formed an effective alliance in dealing with threats and steadily advancing their now-mutual goals to the extent that he now longed for her company, and she didn’t seem at all averse to his.
He wanted to bring that alliance home and establish it here—at the center of his private life.
Leaning his head back against the chair, he stared unseeing at the ceiling.
Even without closing his eyes, he could imagine her sitting in the chair across from him, perhaps working on some list or reading a novel.
She would fit into his household effortlessly. She understood people with much the same facility he did.
In his estimation, she was the perfect candidate to fill his vacant position.
His lips curved self-deprecatingly, and he raised the glass and sipped. A clergyman’s daughter—who would have thought it?
Certainly not the racy matrons of the ton—those ladies who would invite him to their beds while doing their utmost to direct their daughters’ eyes elsewhere.
He grinned at the thought of how those ladies would react were he successful in winning Sylvia’s hand.
Mentally, he pulled himself up short. He was going to win her—there was no question about that.
Again, he sipped, leaving only dregs. He wasn’t normally afflicted with self-doubt; that ran all but counter to his character. He was usually utterly confident in moving forward, assured that, even if something along the way went wrong, he would ultimately triumph.
With Sylvia...uncertainty dogged him; he constantly felt as if he was feeling his way with her, never sure how she would react. With her, he felt like a green youth and not the experienced nobleman-about-town he most definitely was.
His difficulty, he suspected, stemmed from two sources. Her attitude to him at the wedding had flummoxed him and still did; he had no idea why she’d treated him so dismissively and disdainfully. His reputation couldn’t have been the sole cause; she might have disapproved of him for that, but her aversion—the intensity of her antipathy—had to have sprung from some deeper motivation.
Indeed, even after the revelations of that meeting in his office, if she hadn’t needed his help with the school, he doubted he would have got
closer to her; she would have held him at a distance, as she had at the wedding.
The somewhat unnerving thought that she might, at any time, revert to viewing him as she previously had left him understandably wary.
On top of that, he’d never interacted with a lady of her ilk before, not with any amorous intent. She was a very different proposition from ladies reared within the bosom of the ton. As their acquaintance deepened, that, more than any other factor, was what was undermining his native confidence and making him second-guess himself over every little step he thought to take.
In short, the seduction of Sylvia Buckleberry would be a very different dance set to a very different beat than any seduction he’d undertaken before. When it came to capturing the affections of a clergyman’s daughter in Bristol, he had no experience to fall back on at all.
She’d only just consented to take his arm and walk more definitely by his side.
Somewhat grimly dwelling on that, he drained the last drops of brandy from his glass, then set it aside and pushed to his feet.
In the matter of securing Sylvia Buckleberry as his wife, he had a long way to go.
He was determined that their excursion on Friday night would significantly advance his cause.
Turning down the lamp, he headed for the door—and his empty bed, which he fervently hoped would not remain empty for much longer.
* * *
The next morning, Kit walked into the workshop to see Wayland scowling at a heavy chain, examining the links he was passing between his hands.
Kit focused on the chain and felt his hackles rise. It was the chain they’d used to secure the workshop doors. He halted beside Wayland. “Problem?”
Grimly, Wayland said, “Some blighter tried to cut this. See?” He held up a thick iron link and pointed to the telltale scratches. “He failed. But...”
Now equally grim, Kit nodded. “He tried. Therefore, he’ll return better equipped and try again.”
Wayland sighed, lowered the chain, and met Kit’s gaze. “Whoever he is, he’s intent on causing us harm.” His brow furrowed. “I still can’t imagine who he could be.”