If there was one fact of which she was sure, Kit Cavanaugh didn’t need any encouragement in this sphere.
But oh, my, he most definitely knew how to kiss a wary woman.
Regardless of her wish to deny him any overt encouragement, judging by the rakish grin he flashed her as he—transparently reluctantly—stepped back, he’d caught the gist of her unvoiced revelation.
Experienced as he was, he definitely hadn’t needed to hear the words said.
To her surprise, not even that mental reminder of his status as a rake of the ton—regardless of her past view of his character being inaccurate, that aspect of his reputation had never been in question—caused her appreciation of the past moments to dim. Not in the least. And he’d asked for the chance to create more such moments.
She couldn’t resist returning his grin with a sincerely anticipatory smile. “Until Sunday, then.”
He nodded as he stepped down to the path. “Sunday.” He walked backward, his eyes on her. He tipped his head to the door. “Go in.”
She laughed softly and turned to the door. She unlocked and opened it. As she stepped over the threshold, she heard him softly call, “Goodnight.”
She paused and looked back and saw him waiting beyond the gate, his gaze still locked on her. Smiling softly, she called, “Goodnight,” then slowly shut the door.
A second later, she heard his footsteps on the pavement as he strode to the carriage.
She turned and leaned back against the door, in her mind reliving that kiss as the sounds of the carriage and horses faded into the night.
Unbidden, memories of the evening scrolled through her mind.
Eventually, she recalled Mrs. Macintyre’s questions and assumptions, right at the beginning of the magical time—assumptions she’d refuted.
So what is this, then?
She still didn’t know, still couldn’t be sure, but given that kiss—which incontestably bore little resemblance to the way he would have kissed countless ladies in the past—and given the way her heart was tripping, it was pointless to deny that she was starting to hope.
Just the thought made her mentally shy away; in all honesty, she could barely believe where she thought—hoped—she now stood.
Teetering on the cusp of falling into the arms of the riveting and until-recently believed to be utterly unsuitable lord of her dreams.
That said unsuitable lord had proved to be the man she’d come to know in much greater depth over the past weeks, with whom she’d just shared a truly pleasant evening even in the full glare of local society, was, to her mind, skating perilously close to a miracle.
She pushed away from the door and headed for the stairs. “Who knows?” she whispered into the darkness. “Perhaps even the most wayward dreams can rescript themselves into a reality that might—just might—come true.”
CHAPTER 13
At five o’clock on Saturday evening, Kit and Wayland locked the workshop and trudged around the corner to the tavern in Princes Street that Mulligan and the men had recommended.
Kit pushed through the tavern’s heavy door. He halted and, with Wayland beside him, scanned the dimly lit, somewhat smoky space with its old and worn yet comfortable chairs, benches, and tables.
Kit continued to the bar-counter and leaned on it. Wayland did the same. After catching the barkeeper’s eyes, ordering two pints of ale, and chatting for several minutes with the man, Kit mentioned their need of a spot to discuss business in which they wouldn’t risk being overheard, and the barkeeper suggested they use the snug, located behind the bar.
After ordering their dinners, Kit picked up his pint and, with Wayland at his heels, ducked through the low door to the snug. Kit swiftly surveyed the small space, then slid onto the bench seat that ran along one side wall.
; There were only two narrow tables in the snug, each running parallel to the side walls, but he and Wayland were currently the only occupants.
“This is cozy.” Wayland settled on the bench opposite Kit and set his mug on the table. “I hope the food is as good as the men claim—I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
Kit grunted. “You’re always hungry enough to eat a horse.”
Wayland saluted him with his mug and drank.
Kit stared into his ale. He and Wayland had kept watch in the warehouse throughout the previous night. Doing so had required a degree of preparation. As the only way into the warehouse had been via the doors—secured with chain and padlock—they’d had to quickly construct another entrance; if their would-be saboteur called again in the middle of the night and found the doors unsecured, he wouldn’t venture inside to be caught.