Page 23

The countess pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing before she spoke. Finally, she rocked backward on her heels, her breath expelling in a rush. “Very much, thank you,” she said stiffly.

A raffish, thoroughly masculine smile turned up the corners of Stefton’s mouth. “Very wisely done,” he murmured.

Lady Dahlia pushed past Catherine, dragging Mr. Dabernathy behind. “My lord, what an unlooked-for pleasure to see you here,” she simpered, smiling coyly at him.

Catherine exchanged glances with Susannah and rolled her eyes expressively. Her cousin giggled.

“Thank you, Lady Dahlia,” Stefton said gravely.

“Oh, do come away, Oliver. I am quite parched and you did promise me refreshments before the next interval,” Lady Panthea pouted prettily, fanning her deep cleavage.

Lady Harth snorted in disgust. Lady Welville turned to raise one thin, well-defined eyebrow, her gaze finally traveling to take in the group. The superior smile on her face froze when she finally noticed Catherine. Her nostrils flared briefly, her features turning hard.

She tugged on the Marquis’s hand. “Introduce me, Oliver,” she said imperiously.

The Marquis looked at her quizzically but made the introductions before Dahlia reclaimed his attention. Catherine dipped a slight curtsy while Lady Welville stood stiffly, looking down her nose at her.

“Well, did you find what you wanted at Madame Vaussard’s?” she asked archly, certain the seamstress was above Catherine’s touch.

Catherine paused, taking the woman’s measure. “Perhaps,” she returned easily.

“Perhaps, she says,” Lady Welville mimicked to Kirkson as if inviting him to share the joke. “What a little equivocator you are, Miss Shreveton. Personally, I found the woman’s fabrics and styles much too gauche for my taste. Isn’t that right, Oliver?”

The Marquis yawned. “I wouldn’t know. When I left, you were enamored of a certain silver net.”

She laughed shrilly. “Oh, la, I daresay that was before I could see it in decent light. It turned out to be quite tawdry, as you suggested it would. You have such excellent eyesight, Oliver, I find I quite envy you,” she said with a die-away air, turning to Catherine.

“Miss Shreveton, I’m sure your country ways have left you unprepared for city fashion.

Be guided by me. Have nothing to do with Madame Vaussard lest she truss you up like a tart.

Of course,” she purred with a cat’s sleepy-eyed grin at cornering its prey, “it might be an improvement.”

“Panthea,” snapped the Marquis, a slight flush discernible under his tan, “let’s get some oranges before the play resumes.” He dragged her off with curt apologies.

Lady Dahlia pouted at having her prey so quickly vanish and swung around, stamping her foot in vexation.

The fringe of her shawl caught her sister in the face as she twirled about, nearly initiating an argument.

All the gentlemen save Kirkson rushed forward to soothe ruffled feathers.

Soon the twins were preening at the attention.

Lady Harth observed the incident with something akin to self-satisfaction.

The twins were getting the attention that was their due as daughters of an Earl, and Sir Philip was showing himself dedicated to Catherine.

It would be a relief if he should offer for her, else Lady Harth gravely feared Catherine would be her singular failure.

Lady Harth did not like failure, particularly as it precluded bragging to other matchmaking mothers and relations.

She did not understand what had gone on in the box earlier between Catherine and Sir Philip.

Most likely, the girl took some distempered freak to a compliment he extended.

Silly chit. She would not stand for any missishness from Catherine.

The girl was not going to throw away an eligible suitor on a whim!

Her eyes traveled from Catherine to where Susannah stood, leaning on the Captain’s arm. The Captain had been a mistake. He would not do for Susannah at all. She would have to find a way to nip that friendship in the bud.

It was a great deal too bad that the Marquis of Stefton had declined to be a part of the theater party.

It would be quite a coup to secure his hand for Dahlia.

Well, she would bite her tongue at his current choice of companionship, but she would endeavor to trick Dahlia out in just the attire to capture his attention.

Iris seemed to be progressing nicely with the Earl of Soothcoor. His lineage was good, but such a dour fellow, though his manners were unfailingly polite.

She hurried after her protégés, knocking against one lady in her endeavor to catch up.

Luckily that lady’s escort saw her coming and, fully conversant with Lady Harth’s propensity for accidents, swiftly removed the drink from his lady’s hand, saving it by a mere fraction of a second from jostling and spilling down the front of her gown.

Unfortunately, his lady was not duly appreciative of his efforts and gave him a tongue lashing for his peremptory behavior.

Lady Welville’s bedchamber was done entirely in rose-colored silk, and the air was redolent with that flower’s scent. Though familiar with the room and its odor, the Marquis of Stefton grimaced at the overpowering smell.

Panthea poured champagne into two tall fluted goblets, then picked one up to hand to the Marquis. “To you, my lord,” she said huskily, her eyelids drooping seductively.

He took the glass, silently acknowledging the toast with a sneering smile curling his thin lips.

“I sent Babbette to bed early this evening. She has a cold or something. She is constantly sniffing. I can’t abide sniffling.

” A look of distaste crossed her beautiful features; then she smiled up at the Marquis.

“Would you be a pet and play abigail for me this evening? I really cannot get these hooks by myself,” she said plaintively.

Stefton set his champagne glass on her dressing table and turned her around, his fingers lingering on the creamy white expanse of her bare shoulders.

His hand slid down to the row of fasteners, his long fingers quickly releasing them, her dress parting to reveal the white expanse of her back.

She really did forego underclothes with the dress.

Panthea smiled at him over her shoulder. “You are so quiet this evening, my lord. Whatever can you be thinking of that holds you so intent?”

He looked at her, a thick black brow quirking upward.

She laughed delightedly. “For shame, sir,” she said, twirling away from him, her dress barely hanging on her body.

She bent down to refill her champagne glass, a side of her dress dipping, revealing one full, ripe breast. She did not pull her dress into place.

She sipped her champagne, running her tongue over her lips to catch all errant beads of moisture as she looked at him through the veil of her lashes.

A slight smile playing upon his lips, the Marquis of Stefton began to remove his coat.

Lady Panthea smiled at him in return. “I swear London is getting crowded with insipids,” she said conversationally as she watched him divest himself of his jacket and reach for his cravat. “Can you believe those four Alicia is trying to foist on society? La! It is too comical.”

Stefton froze, a dark scowl pulling his brows together and so hooding his eyes that only a glint of hard metal color could be seen. He walked over to her dressing table mirror and began to retie his cravat.

“Oliver?”

Slowly he turned to look at her. “Almost. Almost you made me forget my purpose this evening. You are very talented. You will easily find another willing to pick up my leavings."

"What? Oliver, what are you saying?” demanded Panthea, suddenly very frightened. She allowed the other side of her dress to fall down her arms. She pulled her arms free of the brief sleeves and reached toward him coaxingly, the dress riding on her hips.

“Very Grecian,” he observed drily, stepping out of her reach and bending down to retrieve his coat. He eased his arms into the tightly-fitted sleeves. Panthea stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him, preventing him from getting the jacket on completely.

“No, Oliver, don’t go. Stay with me. I can make you forget everything,” she breathed, faint traces of tears dampening her lashes.

“Cut line, Panthea,” Stefton said harshly. “You knew it would end sometime.” He twisted free of her and settled his coat on his broad shoulders.

“It doesn’t have to end. I promise I’ll no longer importune you for marriage. It’s not important to me now. Just having you is important, Oliver!”

“Very prettily said, but it doesn’t wash, my dear.

Neither do those tears you are so artfully manufacturing.

But don’t worry,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and extracting a velvet cloth bag.

“It is not my intention to leave you unpaid for all the delights you shared.” He opened the bag and drew out a diamond and sapphire necklace.

The necklace coruscated in the candlelight, and Panthea’s mouth went round in a silent Oh of wonder.

Stefton smiled rakishly. He turned Panthea around so she faced the mirror, then he placed the necklace around her neck and placed a parting feather-light kiss on the sensitive place under her ear.

Panthea stared entranced at the necklace, one hand tentatively reaching up to touch it as if to see if it were real.

Stealthily, Stefton backed away from her to the door, slipping through it while she admired herself in the mirror.

At the click of the latch, Panthea spun around.

“Oliver! No! Oliver, wait!” She tried to run toward the door, but her trailing skirts impeded her.

Impatiently she kicked them free and ran to wrench open the door.

“Oliver!” she shouted, real tears now streaming down her face, tears that twisted and blotched her features into ugliness.

Below, she heard the front door open and close.

She screamed and slammed her bedroom door, then threw herself across the rose silk sheets and wept into the pillows, calling Stefton every abusive name she could think of.

How could he casually cast her off like an old coat!

She was not a simpering little nobody. She would reclaim his attentions and be the next Duchess of Vauden, or he would rue the day he trifled with her affections!

Copious tears dampened her pillows, and streaks of black from her artfully darkened lashes smudged the fabric by the time she fell into fitful slumber and dreamed of revenge.