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C atherine’s attention focused on Zephyrus, the deep-chested bay she rode. She was particularly proud of Zephyrus and eager to show off his paces to Raymond Dawes. She was confident the stallion would be the prize of the string he took to London that spring. She wanted to make sure he knew it, too.

Dawes leaned his forearms negligently on the top of the fence and watched horse and rider, a slight smile softening his ruggedly chiseled features.

As Sir Eugene’s agent in London, he was rarely at Fifefield for long, and on those occasions, he was closeted for hours on end with Sir Eugene in the estate office.

Slowly the patronizing smile he had adopted faded as he watched the performance in the paddock before him. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his crossed arms.

Catherine glanced at him, jubilant. She knew Dawes was now no longer indulging her and was seriously concentrating. With a self-satisfied smile, she put the horse to some difficult jumps. Intent on impressing the Burke sales agent, she failed to note the elegant gentleman by the stable yard.

“Well? Isn’t he marvelous?” Catherine finally asked, riding up to Dawes and slipping from the big bay’s back.

“Zephyrus could carry a good-sized man for hours without tiring and still look graceful and light doing so!” She stroked the bay’s nose affectionately and turned bright, shining brown eyes on Raymond Dawes.

“Mayhap, you have the right of it,” he said slowly as he straightened and reached out to stroke the horse.

“Is that all you can say? Don’t you have any other comment?

” Catherine felt disappointed. Her eyes glazed over as she turned back to stroke the horse’s neck.

“I think he’s one of the best we’ve had and should fetch a high price!

I must own, if I did not have my Gwyneth, I should be reluctant to part with him at all! ” she said.

Dawes scowled for a moment and looked out across the fields, then back to the big bay. The animal was beginning to prance at standing still for so long.

“Wouldn’t be right.”

Catherine cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. “Oh?” she asked softly, a hard edge to her voice.

“He’s too big for you.”

Catherine gave him a wrathful look, stamped her foot, and started to protest, but Dawes forestalled her.

“I said you were right afore when you said he could carry a good-sized man. Should, too. Not enough horses of his size and quality around. Fetch a top price, like you said.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so before?” Catherine asked, exasperated.

“No sense repeating what you just said. Don’t know why you want to hear again what you already know.”

Catherine frowned at him a moment longer until her sense of the ridiculous overcame her, and she had to laugh.

“Enough, I call craven! I’m taking him back to the stables now. Would you open the gate, please?” she asked.

Dawes fell into step beside her. “Miss Catherine,” he said as they walked toward the stable, “I still say it isn’t right, but you do have a way with horses.”

Catherine looked sharply at her uncle’s agent.

This was rare praise indeed! Some of the sparkles came back to her eyes, and she breathlessly launched into a recital of all the horses she had schooled that were in the string for the spring sale.

She did not stop until they reached the stable yard and turned over the bay to one of the young stable boys.

It was then that she noticed the stranger lounging there, watching her.

She blushed to the roots of her hair as she saw a slight half-smile curved his lips.

He touched his hat in a small bow her way, and she felt a sudden heat course through her chilled body.

He was quite simply the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen.

Belatedly she realized his gaze was lingering on her figure.

Glancing down at her attire, she blushed anew.

Never before had she regretted her breeches.

Now she felt awkward and strangely stripped bare.

“Miss Catherine?”

“What? Oh, sorry, Raymond. I just thought I should like to see a sale in London,” she babbled. “I’d like to see who gets my dears. Isn’t that a client you should attend to?” She gestured jerkily in the stranger’s direction and began to back away toward the house.

“Who? My lord!” Dawes exclaimed, striding over to the Marquis. “I beg your pardon. Have you been standing here long?”

Catherine took that opportunity to run toward the house in a very unladylike fashion.

The Marquis of Stefton, assuring Dawes he had not been standing long, watched her flee with a masculine appreciation for her slender yet nicely curved form. She would indeed be a handful, he acknowledged to himself before turning his attention to Raymond Dawes.

Entering through a side door, Catherine was met by a young footman who told her Lady Burke was desirous of seeing her.

Receiving this intelligence, she did not go directly to her aunt’s sitting room.

Her mind in turmoil and uncomfortably aware of her attire, she skipped nimbly up the backstairs, taking some steps two at a time.

She called to Bethie, one of the housemaids, to fetch hot water to the little room allotted to her.

Though her dear relations grudgingly consented to her wearing breeches to ride in, she did not wear the offending garments in the house and kept a few muslin dresses at Fifefield.

She shuddered at the thought of what their reactions would be if they knew a visitor had seen her in her breeches.

When she learned her mother and grandmother were below with Aunt Deirdre and Uncle Eugene, she rapidly washed and, with thinly held patience, suffered Bethie to dress her glowing auburn curls in an artful knot on top of her head with trailing ringlets.

A regular family conclave, Catherine thought with a hollow laugh.

She impatiently fidgeted while Bethie laced up her yellow sprigged muslin gown, much as the big bay had pranced when she stroked him.

Bethie, laughing, begged her to stay still a moment, and she’d be done in a trice.

When Catherine entered Deirdre's sitting room some minutes later, the room's conversation ceased abruptly, and four pairs of eyes turned to her. Catherine felt uncomfortably like a small child discovered in a prank but could not think why. There was her mother looking distressed, her grandmother with her bland expression that always spelled trouble, her Uncle Eugene giving her a curiously intent look. Of them all, only Aunt Deirdre seemed her usual self. It was she who broke the silence Catherine’s entrance caused.

“Catherine! You’ll never guess!” Deirdre giggled and patted a space on the yellow brocade sofa next to her. “Come here, for we have the most fabulous news!”

Catherine could not resist the infectious gay quality of Deirdre's voice and crossed the room to sit by her aunt.

Deirdre clasped both of Catherine’s hands in her own and looked intently at her.

“You must know, we have all felt a little guilty of depriving you of a London Season, as by rights you should have had one years ago. We are so complacent here we forget we have all seen London and the sights, whereas you have not. Happily, we may now bury our guilt because you are to go to London!”

Catherine tilted her head to the side. “Are we going to London?”

“Not we, dear,” broke in her grandmother despite Deirdre's warning glance. “Just you.”

“Yes, yes,” put in Mary breathlessly. “Your father’s sister has asked for you to come to London so she may present you.”

“But, Mama,” Catherine said, “we have been through this before. I have no desire for the frivolities of London."

“But dear, think of the many young gentlemen you will meet,” Mary said.

Catherine blushed and stood up stiffly.

Gwen, cursing her own interference, wished Mary to perdition and wondered again how she ever came to have such a gentle ninnyhammer for a daughter.

“I do not desire to be wed. There is too much to be done here.” Catherine swept an accusing glance around the room. “Now, if you will excuse me. . .”

“Hold!” Sir Eugene said from his place by the window.

His dark face held rare black anger that caused Catherine to blink and take an instinctive step backward as he approached her.

“You are displaying a marked disrespect for your elders, which I do not like,” Sir Eugene said, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look up at him.

He spoke in an even tone, but Catherine knew she had erred badly in her hasty words, and no matter how much he let her wind him around her finger from day to day when he was displeased, it was best to make what amends one could.

“Now sit down and keep a civil tongue in your head,” he ordered.

Deirdre giggled then, and Catherine sank back down to her seat as all eyes were turned from her to Deirdre.

“Oh, really, my love, it is not as bad as that. Now, look what you have done! We will be lucky to get a peep out of her, now.” Deirdre patted Catherine’s hand soothingly, knowing full well that no matter how repressive her dear Gene could be, ultimately Catherine would not stay silent.