The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)
She turned her bonneted head to look at him; he felt her gaze briefly search his face. Then she said, “My stance has nothing to do with you,” and he was shocked by the relief that slid through his veins.
What have I got myself into?
She drew breath and faced forward. “I’ve been set against marriage since before I left the schoolroom, so to answer your question, it’s marriage in general, the institution, that I’ve decided is not for me.”
He debated the wisdom of probing, but eventually said, “Can I ask why?” A swift glance at her face showed her chin firming, and in an even, unthreatening tone, he went on, “It would help to ensure that I don’t tread on your toes during the coming months.”
A frown formed on her face, and she didn’t immediately reply.
He didn’t press but steered his horses out of the Cumberland Gate and around into Park Lane. She would answer, or she wouldn’t.
They’d just made the turn into Green Street when she glanced at his face. “My reasons are…wretchedly complicated and highly personal and not readily explainable to others. However, I can assure you that I won’t change my mind.”
He drew his horses to a halt outside her house and met her eyes.
The expression in those stunning eyes was serious, even somber, but she put out a hand and lightly gripped his arm, and her lips curved up in an easy smile. “I appreciate that you are quite the catch, but you don’t need to worry that I’ll suddenly be seized by a desire to be a marchioness and press to make our engagement a real one.”
I wasn’t worried about that.
The words burned his tongue, yet as much as she couldn’t explain her stance, he couldn’t explain his, either—indeed, in that moment, he wasn’t even sure what his ultimate goal was.
He’d lived his entire life operating more or less on impulse, by trusting his instincts; if they’d ever led him wrongly, he couldn’t remember it.
Now, those instincts decreed that he needed to do whatever was required to gain her trust. He couldn’t recall ever wanting to secure anyone else’s trust before, yet with her, for some reason, his instincts insisted that was paramount.
So he returned her easy smile with one several degrees more reassuringly charming, tossed the reins to the waiting Timson, then descended, rounded the curricle, and helped her down.
As they climbed the steps to her door, she said, “After the excitements of last night, I doubt any of the hostesses will expect to see us tonight, although I’m sure they’ll hope.”
He imagined it and nodded. “Indeed. Tonight’s events will be best avoided.” He met her eyes and smiled. “There’s only so much interrogation I can bear with in one day.”
She chuckled, and on impulse, he caught her hand and drew her nearer. Close enough that her skirts pressed against his legs.
Her laughter died. Anticipation leapt to life between them, a palpable thrill running down their nerves. He felt it and knew she did, too. An expression he couldn’t define filled her eyes. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, slowly, he raised her hand and pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles, then, greatly daring, he turned her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the skin at her wrist bared by the slit in her glove.
He heard her breath catch. Slowly raising his head, he leaned close—close enough to, if he dared, brush his lips to her cheek. Instead, he hovered there and breathed, “My tiger is watching, and so are the biddies who live across the road.”
She exhaled. “Oh. I see.”
Hiding a smile at how breathless she’d sounded, he straightened, briefly met her now wide eyes, and as the door beside them opened, released her, stepped back, tipped his head in a salute, and strolled down the steps. Without looking back, he called, “I’ll come around tomorrow morning, and we can make our plans.”
Stacie watched him leap into his curricle, take up the reins, and with a flourishing wave, drive off.
She stood and watched until the curricle turned the corner, then she looked down at the tiles beneath her feet. After a moment, she shook her head, straightened, and walked inside.
Frederick strolled into his front hall to find Fortingale hovering.
Relieving Frederick of his driving gloves, Fortingale informed him, “A message just arrived, my lord. From Raventhorne House. I placed the missive on your desk. The footman who brought it said nothing about a reply.”
“Thank you, Fortingale.” Frederick had been expecting the summons. “I’ll deal with it now, and I expect I’ll be going out again shortly.”
“Indeed, my lord. Will you require the carriage?”
Raventhorne House was in Mount Street, only a few blocks away. “No—I’ll walk.”
He strolled into his study and found the letter bearing the seal of the Marquess of Raventhorne in the middle of his blotter. After sitting in the chair behind the desk, Frederick picked up his letter knife, broke the seal, and spread open the parchment.
As he’d anticipated, the Marquess of Raventhorne requested his presence at his earliest convenience to discuss a matter of mutual importance. Frederick grinned at Ryder’s formal—yet plainly terse—phrasing. He could imagine the eldest Cavanaugh hadn’t been thrilled to have his only sister’s engagement sprung on him.