The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 2)

“I’ll leave that to you and Gordon—my majordomo. He’s young and learning the ropes, so he’ll be grateful for your guidance. He was a footman at Raventhorne Abbey—I stole him away from Mary, but as they have a surfeit of footmen, she didn’t really mind.”

“I’m glad you warned me.” Consternation seeped into her expression, then she gripped his hand a little tighter. “I just realized I’ve agreed to marry into the nobility. I’ll have to entertain lords and ladies and, possibly, even duchesses.” Her tone had turned faintly aghast.

Smiling, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Behind the titles, we’re all just people. Wealthier, perhaps, but you can’t take even that for granted. And you’ve met Mary and Stacie and several others of the family already, at Rand’s wedding. And if Felicia, of all ladies, can cope with the challenge of us without turning a hair, then I’m more than confident that you will, too.”

She tipped her head consideringly. “There is that. Felicia is more...unworldly than I am.”

“Buried at Throgmorton Hall as she was, she unquestionably had much less experience of the wider world than you. You’ve been dealing with the directors of the Dock Company, the Dean, and the luminaries of Bristol society for years. Handling a few members of the haut ton won’t even count as a challenge.”

He shifted on the bench, half facing her and drawing her hand to where he could enclose it between both of his. “But enough of others. What of us?”

Turning slightly, she met his gaze. “What about us?” Before he could reply, she went on, “I assume you’ll spend your days working on building your yachts, while I continue to manage the school...” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t think I would give up my position with the school??

?

“No.” Disgruntled that she’d even thought of it, he frowned. “Of course not. I assumed you would continue to manage all—perhaps that I would see you to your office every morning before going on to mine, then meet you at the school in the afternoon, before we head home.” Together in all things was his vision.

“Then...what?” She looked at him encouragingly.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I was trying to be delicate. So—children?”

She blinked. “Oh.” Faint color touched her cheeks. “I assumed...well, that if they came, they did.” Her gaze grew dreamy. “But...”

He watched her face, her eyes, as, clearly, she examined the prospect. “But...? Would you like children? My children? To have children—perhaps even a whole tribe—with me?”

Her lips curving, Sylvia refocused on Kit’s eyes. “Can I just say yes and leave it at that?” She couldn’t describe the feelings that had surged to life inside her simply at the thought of holding a tiny Kit in her arms. And later, overseeing a brood of adventurous children—one challenge she would embrace with her whole heart.

He held her gaze for a long instant, as if reading her emotions in her eyes, then, his voice lowering, said, “Yes is acceptable. Entirely acceptable.” His gaze fell to her lips, and the rhythm of her breathing fractured.

Slowly, he leaned closer—as if he, too, was as mesmerized as she.

She lifted her face, her lids lowering.

His lips brushed hers. Warm, inviting. Then they settled, and she gave herself up to the moment—to his kiss.

To a caress that consumed her and sparked passion in her soul.

She’d known many passions—enthusiasms, desires—but nothing to compare to the surge of feeling he and his kiss evoked.

Emotions she’d only recently come to know stirred and rose, and compulsions she’d yet to come to grips with flared.

Physical desire was new to her, but she could taste it now—a need on her tongue and in her veins.

He shifted closer, and she leaned into him. His arms slid around her, gathering her into a possessive embrace, as under the skillful pressure of his lips and the artful stroking of his tongue along her lips, she parted them and welcomed him in.

His tongue stroked, then languidly probed, and she relished the sensation, so much so she felt compelled to return the pleasure. Soon, they were engaged in a duel of sorts, of tangling tongues and hungry lips and a quest to lavish as much pleasure on the other as they could.

So this is what passion is all about.

On the thought, she lifted her hands and framed his face the better to kiss him more deeply.

In response, he hauled her even closer, crushing her breasts against the hard planes of his chest—making her aware of how much her breasts ached.

His kiss had turned dominant, subtly aggressive—possessive—but she discovered she could meet him and match him even there, provoking and inciting and even daring to challenge him.

In this, in their wanting, they were evenly matched. Despite her lack of experience, in this arena their desires clashed and merged, neither overpowering the other, yet overwhelming in their combined force.

The kiss had turned desperately hungry and needy—transforming into a ravenous exchange she previously would have labeled wanton.