Kit hefted the chain and turned to the door. Tonight looked set to be a long night—he hoped it also proved eventful, one way or the other or both.

CHAPTER 12

Sylvia stared at the cheval glass in her bedroom. She was holding her two favorite evening gowns against her—first one, then the other—trying to decide which made her look more the sort of lady people would expect to see gracing Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s arm.

“Mauve?” she muttered, holding up the first gown. “Or pale green?” She swung the second gown into place, then, undecided, repeated the exercise yet again.

The realization that she would be going to the concert with a bona fide scion of the nobility had dawned on her as she’d hurried home that afternoon. Kit Cavanaugh was a lord born and bred, something she’d largely forgotten over the past weeks of working alongside him, grappling with school affairs and hearing of his business successes. Over that time, the man she’d seen was so very different from the image of Lord Kit Cavanaugh that she’d carried in her head for years that she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of the here-and-now man as someone quite separate—as a gentleman far more worthy of her attention.

He was still Lord Kit Cavanaugh.

And tonight, at least half of Bristol society would see her on his arm.

“Oh, God.” She wasn’t given to taking the Lord’s name in vain, but the situation seemed to warrant it. She stared at her reflection and almost wailed, “Which one?”

A tap sounded on the door. She whirled as it opened, revealing Mrs. Macintyre, who she’d asked to come up and help with her laces.

Seeing her hovering in indecision, Mrs. Macintyre tsked. “Still not ready?” Then she raked her gaze over the two gowns and declared, “It’s obvious—the green one with that pretty lace. That shade makes your skin look as if it’s glowing and your hair appear more golden.”

Sylvia blew out a breath and laid aside the mauve gown. “All right.” She felt breathless and strangely giddy, and her nerves were all but twanging. She couldn’t recall feeling this way during her London Season, much less at any other time. She shrugged out of her robe and started climbing into the apple-green silk gown with its fullish skirt and lightly embroidered bodice and overskirt.

“Wait.” Mrs. Macintyre stepped behind her, flicked loose her corset strings, then wrenched them a great deal tighter.

Sylvia gasped at the sudden constriction that locked about her ribs and waist. “I need to breathe!”

“Not that much, you don’t. And you want to make the most of the assets God gave you.” Ruthlessly, Mrs. Macintyre tied off the strings, then peered over Sylvia’s shoulder.

Sylvia followed her landlady’s gaze to the mirror to see her breasts mounding above the corset’s bodice, while her waist was nipped to the point a man’s hands could span it and the curve of her hips was an attractive line.

“There!” Mrs. Macintyre beamed. “That’s better.”

Sylvia wasn’t so sure, but then she thought of what Kit might think...

There wasn’t enough time to fuss with her corset. Mrs. Macintyre eased her fully into the gown, then helped settle the skirts. Fussing with the hem at the rear, Mrs. Macintyre said, “It’s good to see you walking out with such a suitable gentleman. A lord, no less, so you’ll become a ladyship once you’re wed.”

What little breath Sylvia had managed to draw in left her. Her eyes widening, she blurted, “He... I...” Desperate, she got out, “It’s not like that at all.”

Straightening behind her, Mrs. Macintyre met her gaze in the mirror, her own expression one of deep skepticism. “Is that so? Seems awfully like it to me. Why ever would a lord like him ask you to this concert if he wasn’t keen on you?”

Sylvia blinked. That was an excellent question. Her mind skittering this way and that, the only answer she could come up with—other than the obvious conclusion Mrs. Macintyre had leapt to, which Sylvia didn’t think she was yet ready to even contemplate—was that Kit, as he’d mentioned, was new to the city. He wouldn’t know who was whom and knew she would be able to guide him.

The thought acted on her giddiness like a dash of cold water.

Her unacknowledged hope abruptly deflated, leaving her feeling hollow inside.

Of course, that had to be it.

Subdued, she sat and let Mrs. Macintyre arrange her hair. Her landlady was always a help and a support; Sylvia was grateful for her ministrations, but she could have wished that, in this instance, Mrs. Macintyre had kept her mouth shut and not jarred her to earth quite so soon.

She wouldn’t have minded feeling like Cinderella going to the ball for just a little longer...

She blinked at her reflection, then frowned. What was she thinking?

Had her long-ago infatuation with Lord Kit Cavanaugh resurfaced while she wasn’t paying attention?

The thought horrified her, but then she had to don her jewelry—her mother’s pearls and earbobs—and check her evening reticule, pull on her gloves, and allow Mrs. Macintyre to brush her velvet cloak.

Then the knocker on the front door beat an imperious tattoo, and it was too late to panic. She sucked in a breath and looked at Mrs. Macintyre.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens The Cavanaughs Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net