Yet as he sat behind his desk—at a distance of a yard or more—and patiently waited for her to accept his offer, her unwanted reactions to him, initially overridden by her fury, inexorably rose with every breath, until she could almost feel physical awareness crawling over her skin. Significantly taller than she, broad shouldered and vigorous, with ruffled hair of a rich mid-brown, warm, light brown eyes, an austere and uncompromisingly patrician cast to his features, and sensual lips, from the first instant she’d set eyes on him, he’d been the visual embodiment of her fantasy gentleman. Just the sight of him affected her as no other man ever had. That said, she’d dealt with her silly sensitivity throughout the full day of Felicia’s wedding, had successfully suppressed and concealed it. Surely she could do the same again?
Yet now, his impact on her senses and her involuntary response seemed heightened—more intense. Possibly because she was dealing with the real man—one significantly more real than the rake who haunted her dreams—and without the predictable framework of a wedding and reception to act as a formal structure, directing and defining their interactions.
Here, now, they were interacting freely, adult to adult, with no screens, no masks. No façades.
Letting the silence stretch, she eyed him assessingly. She would dearly love to retreat to the chilly reserve she’d previously maintained with him—infinitely safer, without a shadow of a doubt—but the intent look in his caramel eyes and that faint suggestion of a smile about his lips gave warning that she would be unwise to attempt it; barging into his office in full and furious flight had shattered the mask she’d worn before, and no amount of acting was going to patch it back together.
So. Her response to his proposition ultimately hinged on the question of how much she was willing to give—to risk—to ensure the continuation of the school.
No question, when all was said and done.
He’d shown not the slightest sign of being discomfited by her prolonged scrutiny. Still holding his gaze, she tipped her chin higher. “How do you suggest we proceed?”
A tacit acceptance, one, it appeared, he was perfectly willing to seize. He glanced at the plans scattered over the desk. “We want to begin fitting out the warehouse on Monday—so as we would prefer not to have to close the school, even for a few days, we should move quickly to secure new premises.” He tipped his head at the plans. “I have to finish checking these and authorize them by early afternoon. Also, I don’t know the city well.”
He met her gaze and faintly arched his brows. “Might I suggest you make inquiries as to available and suitable buildings to lease—preferably in a better part of town than the warehouse, yet still within easy reach for the boys? Then you and I can meet here—shall we say at three?—and together, we can go and view the possibilities and make our choice.”
She had a sneaking suspicion that, somewhere in all this, she was being...not manipulated but steered. Yet she had no reason to even quibble with anything he’d suggested. Mentally throwing her hands in the air—she was about to willingly make a deal with her personal devil—she inclined her head with what grace she could muster. “Thank you. I’ll assemble a list of suitable premises for lease and return here at three o’clock.”
Gripping her reticule, she rose, bringing him to his feet—which made her stupid senses leap. Hurriedly, she waved him back to his chair. “I know the way out. I’ll see you later.”
With that, she turned and—metaphorically, at least—fled.
Kit watched her go. Only after she’d closed the outer door did he allow a smile of equal parts satisfaction and anticipation to curve his lips.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Sylvia found Kit Cavanaugh waiting on the steps of the building housing his office. He smiled as she approached, and her pulse fluttered.
Studiously ignoring that and the inexorable tightening about her lungs, she briskly nodded as she halted beside him. She made a production of consulting the list she held in one hand, then announced, “Our first possibility lies in Puddle Avenue.” She swiveled and pointed to the south. “It’s that way—off Queen Square.”
With a graceful gesture, he waved her forward. “Lead on.”
She started walking, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her slightly shorter ones. While in the company of other women and, indeed, most men, she felt on the tallish side, with him, her head barely cleared his chin, leaving her feeling...more feminine than usual. She was glad he made no attempt to take her arm; she wasn’t sure what she would do if he tried. Just walking beside him was entirely close enough; her senses were skittering as it was.
She drew in a breath—one rather too restricted—and reminded herself that she would need to keep her wits about her, especially now she’d been forced to drop her previous haughty mask.
They crossed to the south side of King Street and took to the eastern pavement of Princes Street. In an attempt to keep her mind from wandering his way, she glanced down at the list she’d prepared for this excursion. On leaving their earlier meeting, she’d visited several leasing companies. Through them, she’d identified a total of eight presently untenanted buildings that lay within the area the boys could reach and that sounded large enough to house the school.
She’d listed the buildings in order of desirability based on her general knowledge of location, but as she had no way by which to gauge Cavanaugh’s commitment—how much he was truly willing to commit—she’d decided to start at the bottom of the list.
They reached the corner of Puddle Avenue and paused. She looked up, searching for numbers on the nearer buildings. “It’s number fifteen.”
She glanced at his face; his expression was impassive, but she sensed he wasn’t impressed with Puddle Avenue.
Nevertheless, he gestured her onward and kept pace beside her as she walked slowly along the street.
Number 15 Puddle Avenue proved to be a run-down building wedged between two warehouses; the flanking buildings appeared to be holding Number 15 up. What paint still clung to its timber facing was peeling away in curls, and there were visible cracks in the stone foundations.
She cleared her throat. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have relied on the property manager’s description.”
Cavanaugh grunted. “Obviously not.” His features were hard as his gaze swept the exterior of the building. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. “Where’s the next place?”
* * *
The hall off Bell Lane was only marginally better than the Puddle Avenue building.
Regardless, Kit felt compelled to look inside before passing judgment, and the feisty Miss Buckleberry agreed—although she hung back as, after pushing through the slightly warped door, he walked into the musty space.
He stopped two paces in, looked around, then turned and walked back to where she stood on the threshold.
Jaw firming, he met her eyes. “Next?”
* * *
The third place she took him to was, he supposed, a possible venue for the school. At a stretch. But the hall was dark, overshadowed by taller buildings on either side and on the other side of the narrow street, and a telltale odor of mildew and mold rose from the ancient lining boards, leaving him in little doubt that the timbers behind were rotting.
The notion of setting young boys to work through their days in such surroundings...he simply couldn’t see it.
He glanced at Sylvia. She’d been watching him—his face—but had glanced down at her list of potential properties.
On impulse, Kit reached out and, with a quick tug, filched the list from her gloved fingers.