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My Dearest Mary,

I have invited my twin nieces, Lady Iris and Lady Dahlia, to London for the Season. As daughters of my brother Aldric, fifth Earl of Whelan, they possess the rank which demands a society debut.

Recently, it was brought to my attention that I have two other Shreveton nieces, both of marriageable age, who have come out provincially yet have not had the opportunity of a London Season.

One is Susannah, daughter of my youngest brother, Captain Glendon Shreveton, and the other is Catherine, your daughter, and the only child of my dear departed brother, Ralph.

I am certain you are aware that the Shreveton family holds a respected place in Society. We owe it to Society to introduce our children. I cannot allow any of my brothers' daughters to be overlooked in this manner.

I have decided this Season should be enlivened by the presence of four young Shrevetons, and I intend to undertake this effort. Under my aegis, all of my Shreveton nieces can be assured of the proper notice from the polite world.

If you send my dear niece Catherine to London, I will introduce her to the ton. Do not worry for the lack of suitable gowns. I intend such articles to be gifts I grant all my nieces.

I am confident that Catherine, though the eldest and possessing the least in prospects, will be able, under my tutelage, of course, to make an eligible parti. If you will forgive my plain speaking, at least she will have a better chance than in the wilds of Yorkshire.

I remain with respect, etc.

Lady Harth, Countess of Seaverness

L ady Burke’s knuckles were white and her hands shook as she lowered the letter. The brown eyes she turned toward her daughter Mary glittered with anger.

Seeing her mother’s expression and knowing full well her Irish temper, the Honorable Mrs. Ralph Shreveton’s hands fluttered beseechingly.

“Lady Harth has no way of knowing Catherine’s true position, Mama.

She knows Ralph’s portion was small. It would be natural for her to think Catherine has never had a Season because we are too poor! ”

“Fustian.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Mary, she’s implying Catherine’s a nothing!”

Mary looked down at her hands which were twisting her handkerchief into a ball. “Maybe it would have been better if she were,” she said softly.

“Mary!”

The younger woman blushed and looked up quickly, stilling her nervous fingers by pressing her hands deep in her lap. “Well, she will be two-and-twenty this spring.” The note of defiance mixed with exasperation in her tone was unusual.

Gwen drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair, staring at the sunlight shining through the tall parlor windows that showed dust in the air as silver glitter and made patterns of light on the Aubusson carpet, lending jewel-like clarity to its mellow old colors.

It was not for lack of beauty or money that Catherine remained unwed, rather from a lack of concern!

Two-and-twenty Catherine would soon be; however, a nothing she was not.

To a string of forlorn young men who had crossed her path, she was the elusive beauty.

None were able to capture her attention, let alone her heart.

No matter how long she talked or danced with them at the local assemblies, they always proclaimed to be head over heels in love with her warm brown eyes, laughing freckled countenance, and masses of auburn hair shining like burnished copper in candlelight or fire in the sun.

That was part of the problem. There was too much proclaiming and little enough sincerity.

And Catherine knew it.

The only sincere aspect of Catherine’s suitors was their awe at discovering Catherine was schooled as a horse trainer for her uncle, Sir Eugene Burke, Bt., and would be his heir.

Perhaps it would be wisest for Catherine to go to London for the Season.

She knew Catherine had no desire for a taste of town life.

Yet how could the chit choose to be a country spinster without knowing the alternatives?

But how to make Catherine see that? And how to make her obey the wishes of the haughty Countess of Seaverness?

Gwen turned to face her daughter, a thoughtful expression on her face. Mary smiled timidly back, afraid to break into her mother’s thoughts.

“Do you truly wish her to go?” Gwen finally asked.

Mary, who was again studying her hands, looked up at her mother. This time her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Gwen sighed, nodding her head as she tossed the letter on the little table by her chair. “I believe Deirdre is the key,” she said. “She can turn the lock on this matter. Of that, I am certain. After all, she is Irish.”

Mary nodded and inquired if she should request the carriage be brought around. Gwen asked her not to be such a ninny, saying they would make their call at their usual hour.

“Depend on it,” she said, “to do anything out of the ordinary would only cause comment and make Catherine suspicious, which we would not want to do."

"Should we not tell Lady Harth the truth of Catherine’s position? It cannot be right to allow her to make plans based upon false assumptions,” Mary suggested later that afternoon as they drove through the village of Umberfife to Fifefield, the Burke estate.

“Nonsense,” Gwen replied, scarcely glancing at Mary seated opposite her in their carriage. “What right does she have to make such assumptions? It would be worse if she thought her to be rich and she wasn’t. No one will sneer at money and pedigree, my dear.”

“Do you remember, Mama, when Ralph and I were first married and made that visit to his family? It was easy to see they did not care for Ralph’s choice for a bride, and Lady Harth made sure I knew it. She is Ralph’s eldest sister, but not at all like my dear Ralph in temperament.”

Mary paused as she cocked her head to the side, remembering. “Though, in all honesty, I do feel her haughty nature is assumed in self-defense,” she said, smiling.

“Self-defense?” Gwen asked, astounded.

“Yes.” Mary blushed and looked guilty, for she hated to speak ill of others. “She is, well, she is clumsy. There is no other way to put it. Since she is prone to breaking things by her clumsiness, she has adopted a formidable mien to hide behind and haughtily pretends none of her accidents happen.

“ . . . And hardly anyone else tried to be kind to me,” she continued with a sigh.

“Aldric, Ralph’s oldest brother, was under the thumb of his first wife, Lily.

A more domineering, hateful woman I could not imagine.

She looked down her nose at me and made the most hateful comments that Lady Harth echoed, for they were bosom-bows.

Penelope, Ralph’s other sister, tried to be pleasant, but she was breeding and spent much of each day in her room. I was never so miserable.”

Mary smiled suddenly, a faraway look reflected in her soft brown eyes. “Lady Harth’s loudest complaint was that I was a nobody, that even Penelope had the sense to marry a baronet.”

“What? Mary, do not tell me you have allowed that woman to continue in her misguided beliefs for over twenty years!” Gwen said.

Her daughter shrugged helplessly. “You remember how Ralph was. He loved a good joke, and he thought the fact that I was really the daughter of a baronet was terribly funny. I was quite overwhelmed. All I wanted to do was run away. If Ralph had not remained by my side, and if his youngest brother, Glendon, had not been there to keep us in laughter, I doubt I would have survived it.” Mary’s voice choked on her last words, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Gwen sniffed. While her daughter might feel a miserable stay with Ralph’s family was worthwhile if it gave him amusement, she thought otherwise.

“Pardon, Mama, did you say something? I’m afraid I wasn’t attending,” Mary said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“No, merely an old woman muttering to herself. No, don’t question me further. See, we’ve arrived at Fifefield Manor,” Gwen said, feeling the rush of pride she always experienced when she visited the Burke estate.

The house Sir Eugene Burke’s grandfather had purchased for his line was in keeping with his character.

It was a large, three-story, gray stone edifice built in the late sixteenth century.

The estate had changed hands several times before it came into Burke’s keeping, and each owner made changes to suit his whims and needs.

Consequently, the house belonged to no era but commanded respect and mention in the guide books because of its unique design and its illustrious owner.

When the footman handed her down from the carriage, Gwen looked away from the house toward the stables, from which the real fame of the Burkes derived.

The Burke name was a byword in the sporting community, for Burke horses were known as excellent mounts for hunting and pleasure.

A Burke horse was not a horse to be ridden by just anyone.

It took a competent rider to handle such a high-strung, vibrant animal.

This added to the horses’ value. They were treasured possessions, and often family heirlooms were sold by an impecunious individual in order to maintain the animal.

Gwen’s breast swelled with love when she saw her handsome son by the stable courtyard archway.

He was in serious discourse with a gentleman of Corinthian proportion and elegance, who was attired in a prodigiously modish, multi-caped greatcoat, with a high-crowned beaver set rakishly atop glossy black locks.

The men were turned away from her, obviously studying the horse being put through its paces in the training paddock.

Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and she raised a hand to shield them from the winter sun’s glare. Could it be? Her breath whistled through her teeth, clouding the cold air before her with white vapor.

That boy on the horse was Catherine! And in front of a member of the ton!