Kit shared a quick glance with Sylvia, then reached across and took her hand.
He looked at her father and simply said, “With your permission, sir, I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Reverend Buckleberry studied him for one more second, then smiled delightedly. Then he hesitated, looked at Sylvia, then returned his gaze to Kit. “To be frank, my lord, my daughter has been so remarkably reluctant to view any gentleman in a matrimonial light that I had quite despaired of hearing those words.” His smile grew teasing as he switched his gaze to Sylvia. “That said, my dear, the decision remains yours. Do you wish to take Lord Kit Cavanaugh for your husband?”
The gaze Sylvia turned on Kit held a radiance he’d never before seen. “Yes, I do.” For a second, she held his gaze, letting him see to her soul, then she looked at her father. “But it’s important to me—and to Kit—that we have your blessing.”
Her father studied her face for a second, then beamed upon them both. “You have my blessing and my very best wishes. I am delighted and, indeed, expect to be eternally grateful that you have chosen to marry such an eminently worthy man.”
Kit felt his heart swell, not with pride but with gratitude. With a warmth and a burgeoning joy he couldn’t—and didn’t wish to—deny.
Love—it had to be love.
Sylvia looked at him. He captured her gaze, raised her hand to his lips, and gently pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you,” he said and meant every syllable. He might have had the capacity to be the worthy man her father now saw, but only through the challenge of wooing her had he looked for what lay inside him—those qualities he knew she would admire—and brought them to the fore. In many ways, the man he now was—the man he would henceforth be—was the product of his pursuit of her, of his love for her and hers for him.
His voice lower, he said, “I vow to you now, here, tonight, that I will make it my life’s overriding mission to ensure that you never regret that decision, as long as we both shall live.”
Sylvia gripped his hand and fell into the love filling his caramel eyes.
* * *
Later that night, before they retired to their separate bedrooms, Sylvia walked with Kit in the cool of the vicarage garden.
“I smell roses,” Kit murmured.
“My mother’s rose garden.” Sylvia led him to the entrance. “There’s a bench at the end of the path.”
They stepped down to the flagstone path that bisected the garden and walked between mature bushes to the stone bench that stood in a shell-like alcove. They turned and sat, settling comfortably side by side. The last flush of roses bobbed in the moonlight, wreathing them in delicate scent.
Kit retained his hold on her hand. “When did your mother die?”
“When I was seventeen.” She paused, then lightly squeezed his hand. “The household here was long established. Papa had the Henleys, Egbert, and our cook, and Deacon Harris, and all the parishioners—let alone the bishop and Papa’s other friends in the church. Once our sorrow had passed, Papa didn’t need me to keep house for him or entertain him—he still had his life.” She tipped her head, as if viewing something only she could see. “Eventually, I realized that I needed to make a life of my own, and that led me to start on the journey that, ultimately, led to me founding the school.”
Kit suspected there had been more to her life than that, but learning of her past could wait; he was more concerned with her future. He raised her hand and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. “How soon can we wed?”
She glanced at him sidelong, a smile curving her lips. “Impatient?”
“Very.” Now he’d got past the proposal and her father’s agreement, he wanted nothing more than to formally claim her as his and install her in his home.
“Banns, I fear, are a necessity in this case.”
He’d expected that. He nodded. “So three weeks clear, then the wedding?”
“And today’s the first of October and a Sunday, too,” she said, “so late this month or early the next.” She arched a brow at him. “Will that suit, my lord?”
With his free hand, he sketched a flourishing bow. “It will.” It would have to; he could only hope the time flew. But the weeks between would give her time to prepare, to arrange a wedding gown and her attendants and all the other things females so delighted in when it came to weddings. Felicia, Stacie, and Mary would, undoubtedly, throw themselves into assisting, and Kit realized he wanted that period of building anticipation and joy for Sylvia.
He liked to plan ahead, and so did she. “Once we’re wed, I take it you won’t be averse to living in the city?”
She turned her head to study him. “You have a house, don’t you? I assumed we’d live there.”
He inclined his head. “That would be my preference, but if you wished to reside somewhere outside the city itself...”
“No.” She tilted her head, her gaze on his face. “Is your house big enough? You mentioned it’s in Queen’s Parade—that’s a very acceptable neighborhood.”
“It’s definitely big enough. I have the beginnings of a staff—a majordomo, an excellent cook, Smiggs, and, of course, a footman-in-training. I daresay you’ll wish to—indeed, will need to—add to them.”
She smiled. “I imagine hiring a housekeeper and maids would be wise.”