Page 32

She ducked quickly into her room, forestalling further comment.

She leaned for a moment against the closed bedroom door, struggling against the waves of emotion pulling her under to a dark sea of strange new feelings.

She laughed drily, without humor. She didn’t even know if Stefton would return before Lady Harth’s ball.

She wanted him to. She wanted to show him the true Catherine Shreveton that he so often claimed he wished to see.

Would it make a difference? Or after achieving his goals, would he forget her existence?

She sighed, moving away from the door to ring the bell for Bethie.

No matter. The die was cast. She’d play the scene to the end, whatever that might be.

After the ball she’d find a way to return to Yorkshire, for she would not remain in London long after the truth of her wealth was known.

She could not suffer the humiliation of being courted merely for the gold guineas she would bring.

Bethie peeked in the door. “Did you ring, Miss Catherine?"

“Yes. Fetch my brown and gold walking dress and help me change.”

“The one Mrs. Scorby made, Miss? It’s about time you wore those dresses. Now ain’t it fortunate that I took to pressing those just this morning, too.”

Catherine laughed. “Bethie, you’re a canny one. Just watch out that one of these days you don’t outsmart yourself."

"No, Miss, certainly not.”

The Marquis of Stefton, disdaining the knocker on the front door of Harth House, impatiently rapped the brass head of his cane against the carved oak panels.

When John opened the door, he pushed past him into the hall, asked to see Catherine, and peremptorily handed the startled footman his hat, gloves, and cane.

“B—but my lord, she isn’t in at present. She gone for a walk in the park with the other young ladies.”

“I see. Is the countess available, then? I bear messages for her.”

Almost instantly, he was conducted to the drawing room, where Lady Harth still reclined in her pile of pillows.

“Lady Harth, I hope I do not find you ill?” he said, making his bow and claiming one of her hands in his.

“It is my back. I had the misfortune to suffer a fall yesterday, which has left me quite bruised and sore.”

“My dear lady, I am sorry to hear that. But perhaps the news I bring you will cheer you up. I’ve come to tell you that Lady Orrick and the Earl of Seaverness will be returning to London later today.”

“Seaverness is coming! But it lacks a week till the ball. I had not thought to see him before the day of the ball, impossible creature that he is.”

The Marquis laughed. “Yes, he bent my ear for over an hour last evening with his antipathy for the frenzy of London at the height of the Season.”

“But why is he returning early?”

“That you will have to ask him,” advised the Marquis, his lips thinning. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Harth, I think I shall stroll toward Hyde Park and see if I may find your nieces. I understand from your footman that they’ve gone for a walk there?”

“Yes,” Lady Harth confirmed vaguely, her mind contemplating the advantages of the Earl’s and Penelope’s early return. “They went there in company with Mr. Dabernathy, Sir Richard, Lord Soothcoor, and Captain Chilberlain."

"Thank you. Don’t bother ringing for the servants to show me out. I know my way.”

Stefton had been anticipating seeing Catherine again almost since he’d left London.

Somehow the chit caught his thoughts more often than any woman.

He readily admitted he enjoyed her company, for she talked to him without artifice and was not afraid either to get angry with him or to contradict whatever he said.

He grinned raffishly. In fact, she did both things frequently, deliberately provoked a few times by him, for he enjoyed seeing sparks light her eyes and high color on her cheeks.

It was at those times that, despite the plain dresses and hairstyles she steadfastly wore, he was able to see what a beautiful woman she was.

He swung his walking stick idly as he scanned the park’s footpaths.

The Shreveton party was nowhere in sight, but that did not perturb him unduly.

He strolled down the Kensington path, nodded at acquaintances as he went, and planned how he would tell her he’d again saved her, but this time from the justifiable wrath of her uncle.

He had a hunch, remembering Sir Eugene Burke’s anger and determination to come to London to straighten out both his niece and Lady Harth, that this was one rescue she might even thank him for.

And this may just be another, he thought disgustedly when he saw the group. He broke into a run.

At first, Catherine refused to believe the evidence before her eyes.

It must be a coincidence, a horse similar in appearance to the bay she’d schooled.

It had to be, for surely Raymond Dawes would not sell Zephyrus, or any Burke horse, to Kirkson after his injury to Maureen.

But in any case, it was a beautiful animal and did not deserve the treatment it was receiving.

Sir Philip, astride the sidling and bucking animal, was making prodigious use of a wicked-looking crop that had already drawn a spot of blood. Catherine screamed and ran forward.

“Miss Shreveton! No!” called Soothcoor, echoed by Sir Richard and the Captain while Mr. Dabernathy looked frightened and worried his hands. Soothcoor started forward only to be halted by the anchor of Lady Iris’s talon grip.

“Stop it! Stop it at once, I say!” cried Catherine. “Sir, you are frightening the animal!”

“He’s hasn’t the brains to be frightened,” growled Kirkson, scarcely glancing at Catherine. He raised his arm. “I’ll teach this sluggard to obey me!” he vowed, bringing the crop down on the horse’s head.

“No!” screamed Catherine, grabbing the frightened horse’s bridle and throwing up her other arm to block the blow.

The gentlemen yelled a warning to Kirkson, but he was deaf to their calls. The whip descended, the crack at its impact loud in the air. Catherine cried out in pain, falling in a crumpled heap near the horse’s hooves.

Susannah fainted and the twins screamed, covering their faces and hanging on to their escorts. Soothcoor bitingly lambasted Lady Iris while prying at her fingers, but she defeated him by sagging against him.

“Miss Shreveton! Are you all right?” Kirkson asked, visibly shaken.

The crop fell from his hand as he quickly dismounted.

“Miss Shreveton!” he cried, coming forward to help her up.

Zephyrus came between them, rearing and pawing the air.

“Damn you, back, you hell-spawned nag!” Kirkson rapidly retreated before the flailing hooves, his arms raised to shield his head and face.

“Easy, boy, easy . . ." Soothcoor coaxed, attempting to approach. The horse whinnied, his eyes rolling as he kicked at the Earl. When all were far enough away, the animal came down next to Catherine, instantly calmer, and nudged her with his nose. Catherine groaned.

A crowd was growing, and suggestions were made from all corners about how to proceed, but no one could venture near for the horse stood guard.

Kirkson called for a pistol, and young blood trotted off to a carriage where he claimed he carried a brace of pistols under the seat.

Soothcoor and Chilberlain argued against it while Susannah, revived from her faint, called to her cousin, pleading with her to regain consciousness.

Catherine’s eyes fluttered open, and the horse gently lipped her face in the manner of a privileged dog.

She smiled, knowing it was Zephyrus, and reached up to stroke the animal’s nose.

A renewed cry of fear swept the crowd, and she was enjoined to be careful, for the horse was obviously mad and needed to be destroyed.

She laughed, and hanging on to the bridle, pulled herself up.

Kirkson took the pistol the young man brought from his carriage and carefully loaded it. “Stand away, Miss Shreveton. Move slowly so as not to startle him.”

“Just what do you think you’re going to do?”

“Destroy the beast.”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” Catherine declared, throwing her arms around the horse.

“Stand away, lest you would have the animal’s blood all over your gown,” Kirkson coolly declared.

“You're mad, man,” Soothcoor exclaimed.

“You could hit Miss Shreveton. Leave done. The animal seems calm enough now,” Chilberlain said.

A murmur of horror rose from the crowd.

“I believe Sir Philip’s pride to be injured,” drawled the Marquis, strolling casually in front of Catherine and the horse. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He turned to face Kirkson, his body directly in line with the pistol.

“Stefton, you’re back,” exclaimed Catherine stupidly.

He did not turn to look at her, his attention centered on the gun. “As you see, little one.” The Marquis’s words were spoken languidly enough, but every muscle in his body was tense, and the expression on his face made words of greeting from others in the area die within their throats.

The gray of his heavily-lidded eyes gleamed like a Damascus steel sword while his black brows drew together, one slightly elevated, and a sneering smile curled his thin lips.

“Out of my way, Stefton. The horse is mine.”

“Do not be a fool any more than you can help,” Stefton said in a measured, quiet voice that floated eerily in the air. “Think, man. Shooting a horse in Hyde Park will scarcely curry you favors with the beau monde. Not at all good ton, you know,” he added in a bored tone.

Kirkson looked from the horse to the murmuring crowd and back, a heavy frown pulling down his handsome feature, his eyes becoming beady and suspicious.

“I tell you what, Kirkson,” the Marquis said, drawing a snuffbox from his vest pocket and a taking a pinch of its contents. “I will buy the horse from you at twice what you paid for him.”

“Why?” Kirkson demanded, the gun beginning to sink.