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The harsh lines etched into his face relaxed.

He doubted Catherine would even consider a man who didn’t ride well.

Then again, unless she rode beside him, how was she to know?

His next goal must be to get her back in the saddle.

A lady’s saddle, he mentally amended when the memory of her in boys’ clothes astride a big bay horse came to mind.

Dark clouds began to clutter the wide expanse of blue sky and the wind kicked up, sending oak leaves scurrying across the carriage road. Catherine pulled the lap robe closer and wrapped her arms about herself. Unconsciously she shifted closer to the Marquis.

Stefton’s eyebrow rose at her action. Then he frowned as he noted her huddled form. “I had best take you back before the weather turns damp and you take a chill,” he said, his voice unusually harsh. He turned the equipage down a path that led back to Hyde Park Corner.

“Oh, please, no need to hurry on my account. There is a bit more of a nip in the air now, but I’m used to such weather.

Truthfully, it reminds me of home. It is too bad that I did not bring my cloak with me from Yorkshire.

Grandmother thought it a great deal too shabby and country for London.

I daresay I could use its voluminous folds for warmth! ”

‘‘It might be a bit cumbersome to wear while riding, though. Do you have a warm habit, or is male attire your only riding dress?”

“I beg your pardon!” Two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks.

“My lord,” she continued repressively, “male attire is among the subjects I requested that your lamentable memory forget.”

“Did you indeed? And here I thought to place your male attire among my most treasured memories, for you said you would no more request I forget anything,” he said in faintly mournful accents.

“Odious creature,” she said without heat, though she did turn to glower at him. Catherine swore she saw his lips twitch, but he suppressed his inclination to smile, his attention ostensibly on the road.

“Perhaps we should stick to the subject of horses,” he offered.

“In my stables I’m not so concerned with breeding hunters or carriage horses.

I’m primarily interested in racehorses. I haven’t done too badly at Newmarket.

Quite well, in fact. Well enough that I’ve begun to consider expanding my stable.

Unfortunately, my main problem, it turns out, is finding good jockeys. ”

“That I can believe. It has always been my contention that a good jockey must be one with his horse. It is not enough to be small and light.”

“I agree. But such a man is hard to find, and if you do spot one, odds are the fellow is content at his current employer, or there are other problems precluding availability. It’s dashed frustrating. Just last month I wanted to hire a certain boy I saw riding.”

“Oh?” Catherine warily questioned, suddenly afraid the direction of his conversation had changed.

“Yes. The lad was the best rider I’d seen in many a day. Seemed at one with the horse, light as a feather, too,” he remarked, casting her a sideways glance from under drooping eyelids.

“How interesting,” she managed to comment in a strangled voice.

“Sad thing about that rider. Doesn’t ride at all now. Shocking waste and unfair to his horse. I saw it once. A magnificent animal. A high-stepping coal-black mare with the most luxuriously long mane and tail I’ve ever seen. Do you know the horse I’m speaking about?

“I’m familiar with her, yes,” Catherine said tightly, anger seething through her.

How dare he refer to her with veiled innuendos?

To say nothing of again alluding to her male attire, a subject she told him was closed.

Who is he to judge my actions? Her thoughts screamed, though in her heart, a twinge of conscience pulled at her.

Angrily she dusted the twinge away. She was determined not to allow one more person to attempt to manage her life.

“Too beautiful an animal to keep cooped up in a stall. Anyone who rode a horse like that in Hyde Park would cause comment and envy, I daresay,” he said conversationally as he pulled into the traffic on Park Lane.

“You may say or think whatever you like!” she said sharply.

“Have I said something amiss?”

“That horse you so subtly refer to is mine, as you well know. Her name is Gwyneth. Whether I ride her or not is none of your concern,” she ground out. She turned away from him to sit stiffly erect, her eyes on the road ahead.

“What would Sir Eugene say to the way you are abusing—yes, I said abusing, and well you know it, so don’t look daggers at me, my girl—what would he say to the way you are abusing that horse?”

“I am not abusing Gwyneth,” she denied hotly.

“If you are going to continue in this ridiculous role you have chosen, send the animal back to Yorkshire, or let me take her to one of my estates that are closer. At least there she can run in the fields and be exercised.”

“What do you mean, ‘role’?” she asked, her tone dangerously soft and even.

“The role of beggar maid,” he snapped, drawing up before Harth House. “Friarly! Friarly! Where is that confounded fellow?”

“Probably at a local ale house for a bit of respite from dealing with such a boorish employer.”

“Don’t sound so pleased. Without him to help you down, or to hold these nags’ heads so that I may help you down, you’ll have to do for yourself.”

“That suits me fine, my lord,” she retorted, her eyes flashing.

She turned to back down out of the phaeton, quietly thankful it was not one with a high perch.

She moved swiftly to demonstrate to the Marquis she was no bread-and-water miss and perfectly able to care for herself.

If she was a bit disconcerted by the penetrating steady regard of his gray eyes, silvered in anger, she gave no outward sign.

When her left foot touched the cobbled pavement she flashed him a superior smile.

Then she felt a tug on her gown. It was caught on a decorative curlicue of wood and was pulled up, amply displaying her shapely ankles and calves. She pulled angrily on the material, but it stuck fast, almost overbalancing her.

Stefton raised an eyebrow at her difficulties, a slight smile playing upon his lips as he observed the generous portion of leg she displayed to advantage.

Catherine saw the direction of his gaze and a dark red blush surged up her neck into her face.

She yanked on the fabric again until it gave a rending sound and fell away from the carriage.

Angrily, she twitched her skirts into place, pretending unconcern for the tear in the side.

Nodding her head perfunctorily in the Marquis of Stefton’s direction, she regally turned to cross the pavement and climb the stairs before Harth House.

The Marquis of Stefton silently watched her progress, keeping his team still without a glance in their direction.

Inexplicably, he still found himself angry with her, and the anger was a churning heaviness coupled with frustration inside him.

What bothered him the most was that he didn’t know if he was angrier with her for the horse, for her role-playing, or just because she defied him?

It was a novelty to discover a woman who did not attempt to placate him and defer to his every wish or make endless demands.

It was a novelty that, despite the anger, he rather enjoyed.