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Gwen grabbed Mary’s elbow and propelled her toward the house. “Look at that hoyden! Lady Harth’s letter was well-timed.”

Mary pulled against her mother so she might see. A timid “oh” escaped her lips; then she turned to her mother and resolutely straightened. “We did grant her permission to ride astride, so we must be complacent about the breeches. It would hardly be seemly to raise her skirts to such heights.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware of that,” Gwen returned testily. “But not in front of strangers!”

“What?”

“Look, there by the stable archway."

Mary cringed. “Maybe, Mother, he won’t recognize her as a girl, dressed like that, with her hair tucked under her hat,” she offered weakly, shoving her hands deep into her muff.

Gwen harrumphed and raised her skirts to climb the steps before the house.

“Just pray he’s looking more at the horse than the rider.

If this London venture’s to be any success, we don’t need any rumors circulating.

” She continued to grumble under her breath as she passed through the doorway into the hall.

Mary followed meekly, risking one last glance in the direction of the stables and paddock. She bit her lip in helpless frustration when she saw the elegant gentleman gesture toward the paddock. Then, compressing her lips in determination, she went into the manor house.

Sir Eugene Burke watched the horse and rider with pride. “So, Stefton, what do you think?” he asked the gentleman standing next to him.

The Marquis of Stefton folded his arms across his broad chest. “I’ll own I prefer a gray or a black,” he said. “However, that horse could cause me to make an exception. Have you coursed him?”

The corner of Sir Eugene’s mouth kicked up in wry humor. “Not personally, but I have good reports--excellent action, good clean jumps without a falter.”

“Who schooled him, Michaels or Stoddard?”

“Neither. You’re looking at the one who claims that credit.” Sir Eugene’s grin broadened as he noted the Marquis’s black eyebrows rise in disbelief.

“That squib of a lad? Come, Gene, you're doing it too brown. I didn’t cut my eyeteeth yesterday.”

“On my honor. Done a wonderful job with that horse. He’ll fetch a good price in London.”

The Marquis studied the rider carefully. “Got light hands, a good seat . . .” He frowned a moment, then turned back to Sir Eugene. “Would you take it amiss if I offered the lad a chance as a jockey for me?”

Sir Eugene appeared to consider the matter for a moment.

‘With your reputation,” he said lightly, “her mother would take exception to the idea—it is hardly an occupation for a gently-reared female.”

“Female!” Lord Stefton’s head whipped around and he stared at Sir Eugene. “Are you saying that boy is a woman?”

Sir Eugene nodded. “My niece,” he answered complacently.

“Have you gone daft, man?” The Marquis shed his languid posture to peer intently at the rider.

Every idea of propriety was affronted, delightfully so.

He found himself possessed of a lively curiosity as to the personality of his friend’s niece.

Unexpectedly, the image of himself as a hound keen to the scent flashed in his mind, effectively dousing his initial interest.

He gave Sir Eugene a sideways glance. It was taken for granted no woman could ride a Burke horse. Sir Eugene, he knew, did nothing to disabuse the world of this notion. Most likely, he knew full well this increased the mystique and, therefore, the horses' value.

“Why are you telling me this? I cannot believe you wish me to spread such insight among the ton,” he drawled wryly.

Sir Eugene tore his eyes away from Catherine to look at the Marquis.

“Hardly,” he said levelly. “I don’t know why I mention it now, other than some desire to show my pride.

She’ll be my heir. She’s like a daughter to me.

” He laughed, looking affectionately at Catherine.

“Or perhaps I should say, more like a son.”

The sounds of Gwen’s carriage being driven into the stable yard drew his attention, and he glanced away from Catherine toward the source of the sound. “That’s my mother’s carriage. She must be inside. Excuse me, Stefton, I must pay my respects. Are you sure you won’t stay the night?’ ’

“No, though I thank you for the offer. My luggage and valet are ten miles down the road. I only stopped on my return from visiting a friend in Northumbria to see if I might steal a march and acquire one of your horses before the spring sale.”

“Well, stay long enough to share a mug of ale and warm yourself. Dawes will show you the way to the library.”

The Marquis nodded absently as Sir Eugene turned to leave, his attention returning to the rider on the big bay horse.

Gwen and Mary surged past the butler into Deirdre's sitting room, a sunny yellow room with broad windows overlooking the park, stables, paddocks, and fields beyond that constituted the central part of the farm.

It was Deirdre's favorite place, for there she could sit and sew and look out over Eugene’s world, though her delicacy of constitution precluded her participation.

She was a fragile woman with a heart-shaped face and an almost translucent complexion, save for the natural roses in her cheeks.

She possessed the merriest blue eyes, always ready to crinkle at the sides when she laughed.

Her fine brown hair insisted on slipping out of its confining pins, so she always looked as though she’d been rushing about.

This impression was intensified by the rapid, birdlike movements of her hands as she talked, carrying her beyond spoken thoughts.

She was mending Sir Eugene’s shirts when Gwen and Mary entered, and she turned like a startled fawn when the door opened.

Her brief expression of surprise turned to warm welcome when she recognized her visitors and urged them to come in by the fire.

She carefully folded her husband’s shirts and rang for refreshments.

Gwen chuckled at Deirdre's occupation and leaned back into a deep gold brocade armchair across from her. “Still refusing to let a seamstress touch his shirts? Well, be careful you don’t ruin your eyes.”

Deirdre giggled. “Oh, faith, if I don’t have a care and sew only when the light is best, Eugene scolds me like a child.” Her hands fluttered. “He looks black at me enough for enjoying the mending. I can’t help it, I must be busy, and mending is ingrained in me from childhood.

“But tell me,” she continued, leaning forward, her face intent, “is the rector’s youngest quite recovered now from the measles?

I haven’t gone out for nigh on a week now, and I find it disconcerting not to know everything has happened.

I sometimes think Eugene is too cautious of my health.

Though I catch a cold easily, I am otherwise strong. ”

“That may be, but don’t you be getting any ideas, my girl,” Gwen said gruffly, trying to mask her emotion for the slip of a woman seated before her.

Deirdre had been a genuinely energetic woman until her accident ten years ago.

Deirdre had come to her mother-in-law’s house to announce the joyful news that she was finally breeding.

When Ralph drove her home that afternoon, a sudden storm blew up, with more wind and sound than rain.

A stray small branch of leaves, carried by the wind, blew across the eyes of one of the horses.

The startled horse reared and bolted. The carriage careened madly after the horse until the entire assemblage tumbled into a ditch not far from Fifefield.

Raymond Dawes, the son of Sir Eugene’s estate agent, found them.

Ralph was dead, his neck broken when he was thrown from the carriage.

Deirdre was alive, but she lost the child she was carrying and contracted pneumonia.

The incident took its toll on her health.

In her activities, she was a mere shadow of her former self, though outwardly as gregarious as ever.

“Yes, the child is better. Now it looks like the squire’s two boys have it,” Mary answered sadly. “The poor man, he is in such a state. To see his two babes, usually so full of life, still and quiet frets him to flinders.” Mary’s voice broke slightly, caught up in her thoughts of the squire.

Deirdre and Gwen exchanged knowing looks and smiled.

Together, they talked about happenings in the village in a pleasant, gossipy manner until Deirdre's butler brought them tea and left, closing the big white double doors softly behind him.

It was a signal to the elder Lady Burke, and she leaned forward in her chair.

“Deirdre, love, we must admit this is not a mere social call on our part. We need your assistance,” she said, nodding over in Mary’s direction.

Deirdre's eyes opened wide. “Oh! Anything, need you ask? But whatever for?”

Gwen smiled, leaning back once more in her chair and bringing her hands together, forming a steeple with her fingertips.

“You said earlier you often do not know what is going on with people because you are so secluded here.” She paused for a moment and glanced briefly at Mary, who was sitting straight in her chair with an intense expression on her face.

“But I dare swear,” she went on, “you see our Catherine more than we.”

Deirdre grinned. “Yes, that is most likely true.”

“Does she appear content with the horses? Has she ever mentioned to you any other wishes? Dreams?” Gwen asked.

Deirdre's brow clouded for a second. “Alas, no. And if I be understanding you right, you mean, does she think of marrying.”

“Yes. Though she has never voiced such dreams to us, we wonder if they do cross her mind.”

“I’ve often teased her that she should have a man of her own rather than share mine.” Deirdre's laughter tinkled merrily. “For so it does seem at times.”