He was eager to find his quarry. Keen as a dog to the chase. He was not pleased by his inexplicable anticipation; nonetheless, the feelings remained. They were also feelings he remembered from his first sight of the wench while she rode the big bay as if she and the horse were one. Almost he would choose to end the game before it began. Almost.
It was then that he saw her. He inhaled sharply. Her face was framed by riotous yellow and pink flowers that accented the red-gold highlights in her hair and the roses in her cream-colored cheeks. When she stepped from behind the flowers, he grimaced at the stark white gown she wore. It showed her creamy skinto hideous disadvantage. The dress was so ill-suited to her, she might as well have been dressed in rags.
“It’s worse than I thought,” grumbled Soothcoor, scanning the full ballroom. “I’m for the card room. How about you, Chilberlain? Stefton?”
“Not yet,” said the Marquis. He turned to look at Soothcoor. “And neither will you. I need you.”
Startled, the Earl looked from Stefton to Chilberlain.
The Captain shrugged. “I don’t know what maggot he has in his brain, but I’m game to humor him."
"Ay, I suppose for a wee bit, but I’ll not stay around to see him dance around some bitch.”
“Have you ever known me to be so obvious?” Stefton drawled lazily, though inwardly he again repressed the eager quivering. “And remember, I cast myself in the role of fairy godfather, not the handsome prince.”
He watched Catherine as she approached the punch table, the animation in her features as she conversed with her cousin giving a lie to her appearance.
“Now, gentlemen, I suggest you mingle about the company while I engage Cinderella in a dance. When we have finished, I shall introduce each of you to her, and you will dance with her in turn.”
“What devilment are you up to, Stefton?” demanded Soothcoor.
“Patience,” floated back his reply as he threaded his way through the assembled company toward their hostess.
“Lady Oakley, forgive my intrusion,” Stefton softly said as he came up beside Lady Oakley
“Stefton!” She grabbed his wrist with long bony fingers. “I know you’ve just arrived. Do not tell me you are leaving already! I refuse to allow you to merely put in an appearance, cause untold maidens’ hearts to flutter, then disappear. I will not allowit!” she said sternly, the swaying feathers in her cap punctuating her words.
“Such was not my intention,” he said.
“Good. Furthermore, you will oblige me by dancing.”
“Certainly.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “And not just with your flirts, or—orcheres amies.”
Stefton’s expression shuttered. “I beg your pardon!” he said stiffly.
“Oh, don’t come all stuffy and cutting with me. I may be old, but I’m not dead. Or blind. Though sometimes I think that may not be so bad. When I look at today’s fashions I shudder. Positively shudder.”
Stefton relaxed, enjoying Lady Oakley’s honesty. “You could remove your glasses,” he suggested.
She grinned, pushing her frames up her nose. “Yes, but I’ve worn them so long I’d feel positively, well, you know what I mean,” she finished primly.
A grin cracked Stefton’s reserve. Lady Oakley was an old friend of his parents, and it was for their sake he made an appearance at her yearly spring ball, held near the beginning of every Season. In truth, he would have done so regardless, for he enjoyed Lady Oakley and her eccentricities. She was a refreshing respite from the staid dowagers and the insipid debutantes that littered Society.
“So, do you dance, my lord?”
“Of a certainty. I have even come to you for an introduction to a candidate.”
Lady Oakley’s pale brows vanished up behind the ruff of red curls that covered her brow. She blinked at him, her lips pursed in surprise. “Well, then, let me think which lovely lady I can bestow your favors upon.” She quickly scanned the room.“There is Miss Halcombie or the blonde Monweithe chit. All the gentlemen seem to favor that one this season. Or. . .”
“No,” he said, interrupting her recital of the Season’s eligibles. “I wish you to introduce me as a dance partner to Miss Shreveton, standing over there by the punch table. Miss Catherine Shreveton.”
She looked in the direction he indicated, her brows again climbing behind the fringe of hair at her brow. “The young woman in that hideous white gown?”
He inclined his head slightly in agreement, while hawk-like he observed Lady Oakley’s thoughts scurry across her transparent features.
“I’ll not pretend to understand you, sir, but neither will I allow you to change your mind, for I’ve not seen that young woman on the floor yet this evening.”
