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“I am reluctant to remind you that you are not in a position of having the luxury of turning down offers. If you dream of securing the Marquis of Stefton’s hand because he showed you a few kindnesses, I beg you to awaken.

I do not mean to be cruel, but you are hardly his style.

Iris or Dahlia would be much more suited to being the next Marchioness of Stefton and Duchess of Vauden. After all, they were raised to it.”

Catherine laughed. “No, Aunt, I do not look to the Marquis to make me an offer. Far from it. I think you should know, for it is what I told my family before they sent me here, I long ago settled on the intention of remaining a spinster--”

“Rubbish!” interpolated Lady Harth.

Catherine continued without pausing: “—just as I long ago settled on the knowledge that I will never be an accomplished needlewoman.” She stuck the needle in the fabric crosswise and folded the entire project up, placing it in the workbasket she shared with Susannah.

Pennymore entered the parlor, his manner more agitated than was his wont. “The Marquis of Stefton is below. When I informed him you were not at home, he begged me to take his card up.”

Susannah and Catherine exchanged startled glances.

“Did you tell him that Iris and Dahlia were not really at home?”

“Yes, milady. But he advised me he is not here to see them. He’s come to see Miss Catherine,” the butler said apologetically.

“Send him up, then,” Lady Harth said waspishly while casting her niece a sharp glance. “What could he want?”

Catherine could only shrug, but she sat straighter on the sofa, her feet primly positioned flat on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Excuse me, Lady Harth,” the Marquis said, breezing into the room without ceremony. “I’ve come to take Miss Catherine Shreveton riding.”

Lady Harth smiled haughtily. “I’m afraid you’re under some misapprehension, my lord. My niece Catherine does not ride. If you’d care to wait, my nieces, Iris and Dahlia, will return shortly, and they would be most gratified for the opportunity for a nice?—”

“Lady Harth,” interrupted the Marquis, “your niece Catherine not only rides, but she is also the possessor of a beautiful black mare that is in dreadful want of exercise.”

The countess turned to look at Catherine, her face white. “Is this true?” she asked in awful accents.

Catherine looked daggers at the Marquis, then compressed her lips tightly for a moment and nodded. Aunt Alicia gasped, her mouth working furiously as if she would speak, but no words would come.

The Marquis of Stefton turned to Catherine, his face and voice stern. “I have just collected Gwyneth from Raymond Dawes and she is restless. Don your riding habit and come exercise your horse.”

“Ah!” Lady Harth cried triumphantly, “I can assure my lord that my niece does not possess a habit.”

Catherine sighed and exchanged glances with Susannah. “I’m sorry, Aunt Alicia, but I recently ordered one. It was delivered yesterday,” she admitted.

The Marquis smiled and crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels.

“And how did you expect to pay for this extravagance? I trust you were not thinking of coming to me for payment!"

"It has already been paid for by money my uncle gave me,” Catherine said apologetically.

“Now that that’s settled, run upstairs and put in on. And be quick about it,” Stefton ordered, holding the parlor door open for her. “I will await you in the hall.”

Catherine glared at him as she passed, hurrying up the stairs.

This was not what she had in mind when she planned to ride Gwyneth.

But perhaps it was just as well. Ever since the habit had arrived, she’d been looking for an opportunity to put it on.

She had hoped that when she turned down Mrs. Howlitch, she would have time to sneak away for a short ride.

Unfortunately, Lady Harth kept her close by her side, insisting that she ply her needle.

She burst into her room, calling out for Bethie, and crossed to the wardrobe to drag out the large box hidden there, a stylish box bearing a label proclaiming it to be from Madame Vaussard’s.

From a drawer, she pulled out boots, hat, and crop.

Feverishly she worried the lacings of her skirt, inadvertently knotting them.

She cried out in frustration and searched for her scissors.

“Miss Catherine! What are you about?” exclaimed Bethie, entering the room.

“Thank heavens you’re here. Help me get this off. I fear I’ve knotted it dreadfully.”

“Just a minute. Stand still. There, now slip it off,” Bethie directed. “So, you’re going ridin’. Finally! You’ve been as restless as a stalled colt. How did you manage it?"

“I didn’t,” came the muffled response as Bethie tossed the habit over her head. “The Marquis of Stefton got Raymond to give him Gwyneth, and then he came here demanding I ride.”

“In front of Lady Harth?”

“Unfortunately. Though, in a way, I’m relieved to have it put forward so. I was beginning to think our grand plans for me to sneak out and ride were never going to be a possibility."

"Stand still while I finish with these hooks.”

When Bethie finished, Catherine flopped down on the edge of the bed and pulled on her black boots.

Bethie then shoved her into a chair and pulled down her hair, brushing it furiously then redressing it in a style suitable for her hat.

Catherine jammed the hat on her head, secured the layers of veiling, and then twitched the ends over her shoulder.

She did not spare a glance at the mirror but picked up her crop and headed for the door.

Less than fifteen minutes had passed, but Catherine doubted that even that short of time would meet with the insufferable Marquis’s approval.

She picked up the long train of her skirts and clattered down the stairs.

Halfway down, she saw the Marquis watching her. Self-consciously she slowed her pace and continued down at a more decorous gait, though her heart hammered loudly in her chest.

The Marquis’s face was impassive as he regarded her with hooded eyes. Internally, however, he was pleased with what he saw.

This was Catherine Shreveton as she should appear.

The russet wool habit fitted her form to perfection.

The bodice, amply trimmed with black silk braiding, rose to her neck and conformed to every curve.

The skirt was cut on the bias and allowed to drape her figure with soft folds.

The hem and train featured a rouleau of black silk held in place by crisscrossing black silk braid.

The hat sitting jauntily on her head was of black-dyed beaver.

It was small-brimmed and trimmed with russet-and-black-dyed ostrich feathers.

Across her face, obscuring her features, were layers of russet veiling, caught up in the back of the hat and allowed to drape like a train.

The Marquis’s eyes narrowed as he studied the veil, for he’d rather see her face.

He decided not to press the issue. He should be glad she did not refuse to ride.

It might have placed him in a most uncomfortable position of forcing her to if she had.

He would not have liked to resort to such measures.

He curtly nodded his approval of her attire and gestured her to proceed him to the door.

Catherine didn’t know whether to be angry or glad at the Marquis’s lack of response.

She was certain he was bound to rail at her for the veil and was strangely discomposed when he did not.

She slid a sideways glance at him as she passed, searching for something, though she didn’t know what.

Her pulse was racing, and the tingling touched all her nerve endings.

Warning signs, but warning her of what? He was a most enigmatic gentleman, fluctuating in his attentions, alternating between teasing, lecturing, and ignoring.

He was quite unlike any other gentleman of Catherine’s acquaintance.

To even begin to ponder his motivations was sufficient to leave one dizzy or with a headache.

However, the one thing she was sure of was that it would be ill-advised to develop affection, let alone a tendre for the man, and disastrous to let him know one’s feelings.

Not that she entertained any warm feelings for him, she told herself briskly.

Her feelings were anything but warm, unless one considered anger and disgust warm, which she did not.

All in all, he was an arrogant, insufferable, odious creature.

Except that he brought her Gwyneth.

A small cry escaped Catherine’s lips on seeing her beloved horse. She ran down the front steps of Harth House, grabbed the reins from the surprised Marquis’s man, and threw her arms around Gwyneth’s neck, happily stroking and cooing to her.

Gwyneth nudged her, nuzzling Catherine’s neck.

“Stop that! Stop that, Gwyn! You’ll tear the veil! Did you miss me, love? Have I been very bad?” she asked her horse, scratching her head.

“If I were you, Gwyneth,” came the deep, amused tones of the Marquis, “I wouldn’t be so quick to forgive.”

Gwyneth tossed her head, then lowered it to nudge Catherine again.

The Marquis sighed. “What do horses know, anyway?”

A rippling laugh came from Catherine. “She knows I love her, don’t you, old girl?”

The Marquis feigned disgust and offered to give Catherine a leg up.

“Today, Friarly,” the Marquis said as he took his reins from the groom and mounted his horse, “be here when we return, or you’ll swap positions with young Stephen.”

Friarly blanched. “You wouldn’t, milord! Stephen! B—but he’s nothing but a stable boy!”

“Precisely,” the Marquis said sternly, wheeling his horse about.

Gwyneth danced on the cobbled pavement as Catherine held her in, waiting for the Marquis. “She is a bit restive,” Catherine observed with affection. She cooed to her to calm her down.

Stefton eyed Gwyneth. “Can you hold her through the city traffic?” He drew nearer to her, ready to grab the mare’s bridle.