“I thought not,” he drawled.
She glanced at him sharply, but his face was unreadable. She shrugged. “Come, then,” she said, hooking her arm in his and leading him toward the punch table.
Susannah saw Lady Oakley approaching arm in arm with the Marquis. She lightly touched her cousin’s hand. “Catherine, be forewarned. I believe the Marquis of Stefton has arranged the formal introduction he promised he would,” she said, a tiny giggle escaping her lips.
Catherine’s head snapped around, her brown eyes catching the intent silver ones of the Marquis. Tingling excitement coiled down her spine. She frowned, damning the feelings as swiftly as they came. Why must this man affect her so? She would not have it, she determined grimly. She would not have it at all!
Stefton saw her tiny frown and smiled rakishly in response. His anticipation for the evening grew. His poor quarry would not have a hole left to duck into when he was through with her this evening.
“Ladies, please allow me to make the Marquis of Stefton known to you. Stefton, may I present to you Miss Shreveton and Miss Shreveton.”
Stefton bowed over one lady’s hand and then the other’s, a giggle escaping from Susannah as he bent over hers. He looked up at her and winked conspiratorially. Next to her, Catherine fumed, her temper rising.
Lady Oakley smiled complacently, her beringed fingers clasped in front of her. “I notice you do not dance, Miss Shreveton,” she said, addressing Catherine. “I cannot have that at one of my balls, you know. It will ruin my reputation as a hostess if my guests fix themselves against a wall. Allow me to offer the Marquis of Stefton as a partner.”
Catherine’s chest rose and fell in suppressed outrage. There was no way she could refuse to dance with the Marquis in the face of Lady Oakley’s solicitation. She glared at the Marquis, incensed to see his smile broaden at her discomfiture.Arrogant, odious man!she thought.
“I am obliged,” she said tightly, certain Stefton understood her double meaning.
“Not so much as I, Miss Shreveton. Shall we join the set just forming?” He gave her his arm.
Stiffly she laid her hand on his, allowing him to lead her into the center of the room.
Stefton looked down at her, his piercing gray eyes nearly hooded beneath coal-black lashes. “You should try for a bit of civility, Miss Shreveton. I am rescuing you from the ignominious distinction of being one of the only women not to dance at a ball.”
“I do not consider it ignominious, my lord,” she replied, keeping her eyes studiously averted from his.
“I know that, Cinderella.”
His sally was rewarded with a quick glance up at his face. “What did you call me?” she asked frostily.
“You heard me.”
“I fail to understand, my lord, why you bother. You know I do not wish for your attentions.”
“Perhaps that is what has me so intrigued,” he murmured, bowing formally to her in the opening movement of the dance.
She curtsied to him and they circled each other.
“Then again,” he said conversationally, “perhaps it is for my friendship to your uncle. You do remember him, don’t you? He’s very proud of you, you know. What would he say if he saw you now?”
Catherine had the grace to blush, glad that the movement of the dance took them momentarily apart, giving her time to recover.
“You do him little honor,” he continued when they met again.
Catherine squirmed inwardly.
“What do you know of honor, my lord?” she ground out as he led her down through the set.
“More than you, little one,” he returned, smiling wolfishly down at her.
Thus silenced, Catherine averted her face, determined not to look at him or speak directly to him again.
Her perseverance was sorely tried, for he kept up a pleasant monologue, seemingly unaffected by her silence. She was further annoyed to note the fawning behavior of other women in the set as they briefly entered into figures with other dancers. Stefton treated them all with cool urbanity, and Catherine didn’t know whether to be glad or indifferent, for whenever she looked at his handsome face, her heart and mind warred.
At the close of the dance, he led her to the side of the room where a gentleman in red regimentals and another in brown and dull gold evening attire stood.
“Miss Shreveton, this is Captain Richard Chilberlain and my lord, the Earl of Soothcoor,” the Marquis said. There was a curious note in his voice that did not go unnoticed by his friends. “Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Shreveton.”
