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Catherine’s chest rose and fell in suppressed outrage. There was no way she could refuse to dance with the Marquis in the face of Lady Oakley’s solicitation. She glared at the Marquis, incensed to see his smile broaden at her discomfiture. Arrogant, odious man! she thought.

“I am obliged,” she said tightly, certain Stefton understood her double meaning.

“Not so much as I, Miss Shreveton. Shall we join the set just forming?” He gave her his arm.

Stiffly she laid her hand on his, allowing him to lead her into the center of the room.

Stefton looked down at her, his piercing gray eyes nearly hooded beneath coal-black lashes. “You should try for a bit of civility, Miss Shreveton. I am rescuing you from the ignominious distinction of being one of the only women not to dance at a ball.”

“I do not consider it ignominious, my lord,” she replied, keeping her eyes studiously averted from his.

“I know that, Cinderella.”

His sally was rewarded with a quick glance up at his face. “What did you call me?” she asked frostily.

“You heard me.”

“I fail to understand, my lord, why you bother. You know I do not wish for your attentions.”

“Perhaps that is what has me so intrigued,” he murmured, bowing formally to her in the opening movement of the dance.

She curtsied to him and they circled each other.

“Then again,” he said conversationally, “perhaps it is for my friendship to your uncle. You do remember him, don’t you? He’s very proud of you, you know. What would he say if he saw you now?”

Catherine had the grace to blush, glad that the movement of the dance took them momentarily apart, giving her time to recover.

“You do him little honor,” he continued when they met again.

Catherine squirmed inwardly.

“What do you know of honor, my lord?” she ground out as he led her down through the set.

“More than you, little one,” he returned, smiling wolfishly down at her.

Thus silenced, Catherine averted her face, determined not to look at him or speak directly to him again.

Her perseverance was sorely tried, for he kept up a pleasant monologue, seemingly unaffected by her silence.

She was further annoyed to note the fawning behavior of other women in the set as they briefly entered into figures with other dancers.

Stefton treated them all with cool urbanity, and Catherine didn’t know whether to be glad or indifferent, for whenever she looked at his handsome face, her heart and mind warred.

At the close of the dance, he led her to the side of the room where a gentleman in red regimentals and another in brown and dull gold evening attire stood.

“Miss Shreveton, this is Captain Richard Chilberlain and my lord, the Earl of Soothcoor,” the Marquis said. There was a curious note in his voice that did not go unnoticed by his friends. “Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Shreveton.”

Captain Chilberlain bowed low over Catherine’s hand. “At your service, Miss Shreveton. I beg of you, may I have the honor of this next dance?”

Flustered, Catherine managed to nod jerkily and, to her chagrin, found herself looking back over her shoulder at the Marquis as the Captain led her onto the floor. Stefton inclined his head slightly in recognition of her regard, a slight smile playing upon his lips.

“That is your Cinderella?” Soothcoor inquired incredulously.

“Careful, my friend, that your bumptious tongue does not lead you astray,” Stefton murmured, his eyes mere slits as he glanced over at his friend.

Soothcoor looked at him in wonder and shook his head. “I say again, what devil is in you tonight?”

Stefton gave him a wintery smile. “Call it a whim or a quixotic gesture.”

The next two hours passed in a whirl for Catherine.

After her dance with Captain Chilberlain, she found herself being led out by the dour Northumbrian, Lord Soothcoor, then, strangely, by one gentleman after another.

She scarcely had time to draw breath between dances.

It was with relief that she heard the orchestra strike up a waltz, for she knew she could not venture onto the floor without prior approval by one of the doyennes of Society.

She gently refused the youthful gallant who solicited her hand for the waltz and sent him off instead to procure her a glass of punch.

Despite her avowed wish to remain a wallflower, she was forced to admit she had enjoyed herself.

The gentlemen she was introduced to were, for the greater part, more interesting than those she met at the country dances at home.

Furthermore, there was the added fillip of knowing they did not dance with her for her wealth.

But the question remained, why did they ask her to dance?

The ball did not lack available women; in fact, there were more young women present than men.

Unconsciously she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she considered the matter, a faraway look in her chocolate brown eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corners of the Marquis of Stefton’s mouth as he saw Catherine bite her lip. He had retired to the card room after assuring himself that she would not lack for dance partners and had just returned to the ballroom, searching out his Cinderella to see how she had fared.

He was pleased to note that wisps of wavy auburn hair were escaping the tight confines of her braided coronet.

They curled riotously about her piquant features, softening the planes of her face at cheek and jaw.

She was a wide-eyed innocent beauty, and he almost regretted the game to propel her into the forefront of Society.

But not quite. She was vastly different from the young women launched every year into Society.

She possessed wit, courage, and determination.

It was a pity she was so determined to play the role of a poor country mouse.

Looking at her as she gracefully accepted a glass of punch from Mr. Stanley, he decided he must pay a call upon Raymond Dawes. Perhaps Sir Eugene Burke’s agent could explain her odd behavior.

Whatever her reasons, he was equally determined she would not go unappreciated by the beau monde. He heard the chimes ring announcing supper was being served. A contemplative eyebrow rose, a feral smile transforming his face to satyr wildness. Quietly he approached Catherine and Mr. Stanley.

“Thank you, Stanley, for dancing attendance upon Miss Shreveton in my absence.”

Stefton’s dark, low voice floated over Catherine’s shoulder, startlingly near. Catherine whirled around, nearly dropping the punch glass she held. He removed the glass from her grasp and placed it by a vase on a nearby pedestal. He looked markedly at Mr. Stanley until the youth began to fidget.

“No trouble at all. Delighted. Perhaps we may have our dance later.

. . . He ran his forefinger underneath the white stock of the cravat that swathed his neck in intricate folds.

He bowed stiffly, his lips still working though no words came, then turned and scurried to the far reaches of the ballroom, placing as much distance as possible between himself and the Marquis of Stefton.

Stefton watched him go with satisfaction.

“My lord,” Catherine began crossly, “I fail to understand how you so intimidate everyone.”

“Because I don’t intimidate you?” he asked softly.

She looked up into his handsome face, her fingers curling into fists at her sides as she fought back the heady wildness his presence always brought forth in her. “No, you do not."

"Good. Then you will not be afraid to accept my company down to supper. Ah, here comes your cousin. Miss Shreveton, with your permission, I shall ask a friend to join us so that I may dine with two lovely ladies.”

“My lord,” Susannah said, ‘‘you honor us.” Blushing, Susannah turned her head slightly away to look out across the ballroom. She gasped.

Catherine and Stefton broke the challenging eye contact they’d maintained to see what had so caught Susannah’s attention.

Approaching them was Captain Chilberlain.

A rather bemused Captain Chilberlain, Catherine thought.

She looked over in her cousin’s direction to see a twin expression on Susannah’s features.

“There you are, Stefton,” the Captain said, but he never looked in the Marquis’s direction, his attention, his world centered on Susannah.

The Marquis’s lips twitched, but he managed to respond gravely. “Yes, here I am. Perhaps you would like me to present you to Miss Shreveton’s cousin. Miss Shreveton, this great looby, totally lacking in manners, is Captain Richard Chilberlain.”

“Miss Shreveton,” breathed the Captain. He bent formally over her hand.

Catherine had never believed in love at first sight. She was rapidly revising her beliefs. She exchanged amused glances with the Marquis, relaxing in his company as they observed love come full bloom before their eyes.

“We were all just going down to supper, Chilberlain. Care to join us?” Stefton asked laconically.

“What?” The Captain’s eyes slowly focused on the Marquis. “Oh, supper, right. A grand idea.” He turned back to Susannah, offering her his arm. “Miss Shreveton?”

Shyly, Susannah laid her hand on his arm. He quickly covered it with his other hand, anchoring her to his side. They smiled at each other, big, silly smiles.

“After you, Chilberlain,” interrupted Stefton.

His eyes never leaving Susannah’s, Captain Chilberlain led the way across the ballroom and down the stairs. Behind them, a fragile camaraderie had sprung up between Catherine and Stefton and they smiled at each other.

It was an exchange of glances witnessed by many of the guests still in the ballroom. Tongues, which had wagged curiously early in the evening at the strange behavior of the Marquis, were now set to furiously flapping behind fans and gloved hands. A hissing sound rose throughout the room.

“It’s the devil, to be sure,” sighed the Earl of Soothcoor, shaking his head. “And what will be the end, I ask?”

“I beg pardon, my lord?” said a young gentleman standing nearby.

“Nothing, laddie. We’d best do our duty and choose a lady to escort downstairs afore Lady Oakley does it for us. I’ve not a mind to sit through a meal with any hatchet-faced wench of her choosing. That would spoil my digestion.”