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“I will just be a moment, my lord, while I get my bonnet and cloak.” She looked over at her aunt to see her agitatedly plucking at the folds of her skirt. Catherine looked down and hurriedly left the room.

Lady Harth stood up, knocking another small pillow off the sofa. “I have a splendid idea,” she said to the room at large. “I propose a theater outing this evening. Would you gentlemen care to join us?”

“Delighted, my lady,” Chilberlain said with alacrity, beaming down at Susannah while he spoke.

Lady Harth frowned at him, noticing for the first time his attentions to Susannah.

Stefton raised a thick black brow and looked pointedly at Soothcoor.

The Scotsman’s lips twitched sourly, but he bobbed his head in Lady Harth’s direction. “Aye, I’ll come,” he said grudgingly.

Catherine appeared at the drawing room door wearing her blue spencer and a plain chip bonnet. “I’m ready, my lord.”

“A woman with a sense of promptness. How unique,” he drawled.

Catherine flushed, the embers of the anger she often felt in his presence flaring into flame.

“And what about you, my lord?” Lady Dahlia said coquettishly, interrupting Catherine before she could frame a sharp retort. “You’ll also join us at the theater tonight, won’t you?”

“I’m afraid not,” he told her blandly. He ignored Soothcoor’s scowl. “I have unfinished business to attend to this evening.” He bowed to all and, clasping Catherine’s elbow, escorted her to the door.

Exasperated at the Marquis’s smooth escape, Lady Harth sat back down abruptly, her teacup sliding off the saucer she held, splashing its contents on the hem of Lady Dahlia’s gown as it crashed to the floor.

Catherine maintained a steadfast silence as they descended the steps before the house and the Marquis handed her into his phaeton, covered her with a warm lap robe, and jumped up beside her.

He waved his groom away from his horses’ heads, and they set off at a trot down Upper Grosvenor Street toward Park Lane and Hyde Park Corner.

His horses were fresh and apt to be fractious, so for a few moments, his attention concentrated on getting them to work together.

They settled down quickly under his firm hand and moved out smoothly, their paces evenly matched.

Catherine found herself admiring his driving skills.

She knew herself to be a competent whip but not in his league.

The grays he drove were beautifully matched, and she soon found herself querying the Marquis as to their breeding, despite her intention to remain silent unless specifically addressed.

“I bred them myself,” he said, his eyes intent on guiding his team through the traffic near Hyde Park Corner.

“You?”

“Yes. On one of my estates I have established a small breeding program. Nothing in comparison to your uncle’s, but I fancy I have met with a modicum of success."

"Judging by this pair, I’d say you’ve had some splendid success!”

A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and the silver metal glint in his eye softened to pewter. He glanced at Catherine and inclined his head in salute. “Coming from you, I take that as high praise indeed.”

“Oh, come now, I can’t think why you should. You are pitching gammon, my lord.”

“On the contrary, Miss Shreveton. You forget I have seen you put a horse through his paces. A Burke horse, I am to understand, that you schooled.”

Catherine blushed. “That is perhaps a circumstance best forgotten,” she said softly.

“That is what your uncle said. Tell me, Miss Shreveton, am I doomed to be requested to forget every meeting with you?”

Catherine laughed. “No, my lord. You may remember Lady Oakley’s ball, if you wish,” she told him primly, though her eyes still smiled warmly.

“Almost you relieve me, Miss Shreveton.”

‘"Almost?’ ’

“My only problem now is my lamentable memory. I believe we have discussed its existence before?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“With my memory, how am I to contrive to remember what I am supposed to forget and what I am allowed to remember?”

“I can see where that is a problem.”

“I shall rely upon you, Miss Shreveton, to serve as the arbiter of my memories.”

Catherine laughed again. “Have done, my lord, I beg of you. I cry craven. I shall no more ask that you forget anything.”

“Thank you, Miss Shreveton. You have removed a great weight from my mind.”

“Fustian.”

He glanced at her again and smiled. “Friends?”

She pursed her lips and looked at him. Finally, she relented and nodded. “Friends. For the sake of my uncle.”

He accepted her statement without comment, intent on his driving.

Catherine studied the other carriages bowling along the way.

She spotted a few people on foot braving the cold and threading their way through bushes to secluded benches placed under the spreading branches of majestic old trees just tinged with the pale green of budding leaves.

By summer, those benches would be almost lost from sight, providing private rendezvous for lovers and hiding places for rapscallion children running from their governesses.

Now the benches, nestled among bushes and trees, provided a haven from the cold wind that blew through the park, reminding everyone that though it was a clear sunny day, winter was not yet finished.

As they drove down its wide concourses, more and more carriages entered the spacious park, and several people recognized the Marquis of Stefton and waved or inclined their heads in a token bow.

“Miss Shreveton,” the Marquis said suddenly, pulling his horses up, “would you care to take the ribbons?”

Catherine’s eyes began to glow. “Do you mean it?”

He laughed, a handsome smile replacing the satyr expression he usually wore and giving him a more boyish appearance. “Yes, of course I mean it.” He handed her the reins and whip, then leaned back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest like a groom.

Catherine expertly flicked the whip, letting the thong slide down the handle and catching it with her little finger. The team responded beautifully to her commands, and soon she was unconsciously cooing to them words of endearment.

Stefton watched her handle the pair and revel in the experience.

Her exuberance pleased him, and her murmured words of endearment to the team touched his soul.

This woman truly loved horses. She was probably more comfortable in their company than in the company of her own two-legged species.

Possibly he was wrong to bring her into fashion.

This was a woman who could turn the epithet ‘a rustic’ into a compliment.

The sight of the Marquis of Stefton allowing himself to be driven about the park was cause for comment.

The fact that a woman was driving him and that the woman was driving his precious grays drew gasps and fervent speculation as to the meaning behind the sight.

The park fairly sizzled with the hisses of whispered conjecture.

Most people failed to recognize the young woman as the niece of the Countess of Seaverness and guesses abounded as to her identity.

Catherine, enchanted with driving the graceful pair, failed to see the fervor she was creating. She felt suddenly happier than she’d been in a month, and it showed in her vivid countenance.

When she pulled up the team some fifteen minutes later to return the reins to the Marquis, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“They’re wonderful! Such light mouths, so perfectly matched in pace,” she looked back toward the horses then up at Stefton again.

“I don’t know what to say! Has my uncle seen them? ”

The Marquis smiled. “Yes, many times. He, too, was impressed, though his words lacked your enthusiasm,” he finished drily, guiding his grays back onto the roadway and into a brisk trot.

“Ah, yes, ever the horse trader,” she said with affectionate indulgence. “Did he make you an offer for the pair?"

"No, just for their breeder,” he returned blandly, his eyes intent on the carriageway.

A gurgle of laughter came from beside him. “That sounds just like Uncle Gene!”

Stefton was gratified to hear her laughter for it indicated a comfortableness in his company that he’d been at pains to create.

She was a prickly one, very much like the nettles growing on the hillside, a stroke the wrong way easily sending her into high dudgeon.

He guessed she was uncomfortable in the role she chose to play but did not know how to extricate herself from the folly of her own actions, let alone admit to folly.

He was enjoying his role as fairy godfather to a reluctant Cinderella.

The novelty of the game held at bay the habitual ennui he felt every Season when the new crop of debutantes descended upon London.

He didn’t know why he stayed in town every year.

Mostly habit, he surmised, and the entertainment provided in observing the intricate movements of the matchmaking contredanse.

Catherine Shreveton was a reluctant dancer.

The irony was that with her beauty, wit, and wealth, she should have been leading the set.

But she chose not to. That fascinated him.

Women of his acquaintance were typically too ready to flaunt their advantages.

Catherine denied their existence. He chose to look for and cultivate her advantages, dredge them out of hiding and place them in the light, then stand back and observe Society’s reaction.

He’d been gratified by the attentions she received at Lady Oakley’s after she’d been seen dancing with himself, Chilberlain, and Soothcoor.

Now he desired to see those attentions continued.

He would, he decided, see her married off before the Season ended.

He frowned suddenly. The trick would be to see that the gentleman claiming her attention was suitable for her and the Burke stables she would one day inherit. It wouldn’t do for her to become leg-shackled to a man who was a ham-fisted rider!