Page 22

Though Catherine laughed freely at what she considered her cousin’s fancies, privately, they did begin to haunt her.

Just thinking of Sir Philip caused her to shudder, a reaction that was the antithesis of what happened when she thought of the Marquis.

Nevertheless, she was determined to ally the infamy of Kirkson with the Marquis until both gentlemen were equally vile in her mind.

That evening, knowing she was pledged to partner Kirkson at the theater, Catherine dressed as severely as possible, pulling her hair back into a painfully tight coronet of braids and donning a high-necked gown of an icy blue color unsuitable for her complexion.

Susannah dolefully shook her head at her cousin’s attire; however, their Aunt Alicia found nothing to object to and even told Catherine she looked “as neat as wax.” That was not, perhaps, the type of compliment Catherine would look for; it reminded her of a description of someone’s housekeeper or governess.

But she bore it with good grace and even managed to have a slight smile on her face when she descended the stairs to greet the gentlemen who were to escort them to the theater.

The carriage ride to the theater was uneventful, and Kirkson was the model of propriety, making no comments or allusions to their first meeting. Soon, Catherine felt that perhaps the evening would not be the unmitigated disaster she feared, and she sat back in her chair to enjoy the play.

“How dare she? She’s positively nude!” Lady Harth vehemently declared. She sniffed. “And she has the audacity to call herself a lady.”

Everyone looked up across the boxes to ascertain who had caught Lady Harth’s attention. It took but a moment, for in a box directly across from them sat the Marquis of Stefton and the beautiful woman who shouldered Catherine out of the way just as she would enter Madame Vaussard’s establishment.

To say that the lady with the Marquis was not dressed decently was, to Catherine’s mind, an exaggeration.

Nonetheless, the sheer lilac silk gown revealed more of her figure than it hid.

The décolletage plunged to a large knot of ribbons where the bodice joined the skirt.

The fabric covering her globular breasts was minimal, and even at a distance, it was plain that no chemise came between her and the dress.

Catherine thought the dress cleverly designed, for though shocking at first glance, the gown hinted more than it revealed.

She wondered if it were one of Madame Vaussard’s creations.

Dispassionately, she looked again at the dress, studying its design, until her eyes happened to catch those of the Marquis.

She was startled to discover him intently watching her, a frown pulling his black brows together. She blushed and hoped no one noticed.

A deep chuckle shook the spare frame of the Earl of Soothcoor. “So that be his unfinished business.” He looked across Lady Iris’s head at Captain Chilberlain. “I’ll roast him over hot coals for this. Aye, see if I don’t.”

“With my best wishes,” agreed Chilberlain.

Lady Harth sniffed again and tossed her head up, in ill-humor that the Marquis should turn down an invitation to attend the theater with them in favor of the likes of her. “I am extremely disappointed in his lordship and of a mind to cut his acquaintance.”

“Who is she?" Catherine found herself asking, only to be glared at by her aunt.

“That, Miss Shreveton,” supplied Kirkson, “Is Panthea, Lady Welville, who claims she’ll be the next Marchioness of Stefton and Duchess of Vauden.”

The Earl of Soothcoor snorted rudely, his thin lips twisting in sour distaste. “She may claim all she wants.”

Kirkson raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe she’ll succeed.”

Soothcoor folded his arms across his chest and looked at him from under tangled black and gray brows. “He’ll not get leg-shackled to the likes of her,” he said firmly, then compressed his lips. The subject was closed.

Kirkson shrugged and laughed nastily.

Catherine shuddered at the sound, for it reminded her all too well of the night at the inn. She edged away from him as far as she could, which was only a matter of inches in the close confines of the theater box.

A disagreeable expression crossed Kirkson’s face at her movement.

He would teach the minx a lesson and have his revenge for the handling he received at the hands of the Marquis and Sir Eugene’s man.

No man or woman got the best of Philip Kirkson.

It would serve her right to be compromised and then left to her own devices.

Or, if she stood to gain an inheritance from her uncle, she could be his wife, one who funded his pleasures in all ways.

It might do well for him to begin some discreet inquiries into Miss Shreveton’s fortune.

She did not strike him as the poor relation, for she did not have the proper demeanor for poverty.

He supposed her attire could stem from a lack of town education.

But still, that did not serve. Something was amiss, and he intended to discover what it was.

It could be that the little Shreveton could prove very valuable to him, very valuable indeed.

He glanced up to see the Marquis still regarding them, ignoring Lady Welville’s play for his attention.

It seemed the Marquis would still wish to play guardian to Miss Shreveton, for his expression was black.

So much the better. From his position across the way, there was nothing he could do to come to her aid.

Kirkson grinned spitefully and turned sideways in his seat, his left arm extended to drape negligently across the back of her chair. He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “I still say it will be a pleasure to tame you, my dear,” he said silkily, his voice hushed for her hearing alone.

A dark red blush suffused Catherine’s face, her eyes widening.

Slowly she turned her head to look over her shoulder.

“Sir Philip, I had hoped that on learning my identity, you would have the decency to apologize for your atrocious summation of my character and your equally atrocious behavior,” she said sternly, fighting the waves of color that proclaimed her acute embarrassment.

Kirkson grinned, very much aware of the Marquis’s eye on them, and leaned closer still. “Knowing your name doesn’t preclude the other consideration,” he murmured, bending to kiss her shoulder.

In revulsion, Catherine jerked away, overbalancing on the corner of her chair and falling across Captain Chilberlain’s lap. Mortally chagrined, she struggled up, knocking her chair completely over.

“Are you all right, Miss Shreveton?” the Captain asked solicitously as he bent down to right her chair.

“Yes! No! Oh, I don’t know,” she squeaked, breathing fast. She dared not look in Kirkson’s direction and frantically wondered how she could refuse to sit down next to the man again.

“I—I think I’ll stand up for a while. It’s tiring, sitting for so long, you know,” she babbled as she edged her way past the other guests toward the rear of the box.

“Catherine, return to your seat immediately,” commanded Lady Harth.

“But, Aunt?—”

“We shall overlook your ridiculous clumsiness. Now sit. You’re disturbing everyone’s enjoyment of the play.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Catherine murmured, moving miserably toward her seat.

Susannah pulled on the Captain’s coat sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked over at Kirkson. The man was gloating. The Captain frowned suddenly and swiftly rose from his seat.

“Please, Miss Shreveton, allow us to change places. I am convinced you are in a draft.”

The relief that flooded Catherine was palatable. “Thank you, Captain Chilberlain, that is very kind of you,” she said, hurriedly sliding into his chair.

The malicious smile on Kirkson’s face faded to be replaced by a cold glare. He slumped down in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, as he broodingly watched the play, oblivious to its humor.

Susannah reached over to pat Catherine’s hand reassuringly, then turned shining eyes upon her Captain, silently thanking him.

The Earl of Soothcoor, watching the whole, grunted and looked across at Stefton. The Marquis was no longer watching their box, but he lounged in his chair as he watched the play, satisfaction plainly seen on his usually expressionless visage.

The interval came too swiftly for Catherine. She knew she would be expected to stroll the galleries on Kirkson’s arm. She hoped that in a crowd he would not make any unwarranted comments or actions. She did not know what would be her recourse if he did.

Sensing her discomfort, Captain Chilberlain whispered that he and Susannah would stay near. Catherine smiled then and thanked them, sternly commanding her stampeding pulse to slow down.

“I give you the game, Miss Shreveton,” said Kirkson before he extended his arm to her. He was very much aware of the towering presence of the Captain and ascertained the man’s intentions. He smiled at Catherine.

Gingerly, Catherine placed her hand lightly on his arm, allowing him to draw her forward. “But I have not lost all, for there is plenty of time,” he assured her, still smiling.

Kirkson’s smiles never reached his eyes. Catherine felt a shudder begin to wrack her body. Ruthlessly she controlled it, though her heart continued to hammer loudly. She lifted her head up, her chin thrust forward. “I would not, if I were you, Sir Philip, waste time on idle chatter.”

He smirked but vouched no other comment.

Catherine pointedly ignored him. Instead, she elicited opinions from others in their party as to the quality of the play production and maintained a lively dialogue with Mr. Dabernathy on the thespian skills of the leading actor.

“Well met, Lady Harth. I trust your party is enjoying the play.”

Catherine turned at the sound of the languid, deep voice. The Marquis and Lady Welville were standing nearby, the lady draped bonelessly over Stefton’s arm.