“A woman with a sense of promptness. How unique,” he drawled.
Catherine flushed, the embers of the anger she often felt in his presence flaring into flame.
“And what about you, my lord?” Lady Dahlia said coquettishly, interrupting Catherine before she could frame a sharp retort. “You’ll also join us at the theater tonight, won’t you?”
“I’m afraid not,” he told her blandly. He ignored Soothcoor’s scowl. “I have unfinished business to attend to this evening.” He bowed to all and, clasping Catherine’s elbow, escorted her to the door.
Exasperated at the Marquis’s smooth escape, Lady Harth sat back down abruptly, her teacup sliding off the saucer she held, splashing its contents on the hem of Lady Dahlia’s gown as it crashed to the floor.
Catherine maintaineda steadfast silence as they descended the steps before the house and the Marquis handed her into his phaeton, covered her with a warm lap robe, and jumped up beside her. He waved his groom away from his horses’ heads, and they set off at a trot down Upper Grosvenor Street toward Park Lane and Hyde Park Corner. His horses were fresh and apt to be fractious, so for a few moments, his attention concentratedon getting them to work together. They settled down quickly under his firm hand and moved out smoothly, their paces evenly matched.
Catherine found herself admiring his driving skills. She knew herself to be a competent whip but not in his league. The grays he drove were beautifully matched, and she soon found herself querying the Marquis as to their breeding, despite her intention to remain silent unless specifically addressed.
“I bred them myself,” he said, his eyes intent on guiding his team through the traffic near Hyde Park Corner.
“You?”
“Yes. On one of my estates I have established a small breeding program. Nothing in comparison to your uncle’s, but I fancy I have met with a modicum of success."
"Judging by this pair, I’d say you’ve had some splendid success!”
A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and the silver metal glint in his eye softened to pewter. He glanced at Catherine and inclined his head in salute. “Coming from you, I take that as high praise indeed.”
“Oh, come now, I can’t think why you should. You are pitching gammon, my lord.”
“On the contrary, Miss Shreveton. You forget I have seen you put a horse through his paces. A Burke horse, I am to understand, that you schooled.”
Catherine blushed. “That is perhaps a circumstance best forgotten,” she said softly.
“That is what your uncle said. Tell me, Miss Shreveton, am I doomed to be requested to forget every meeting with you?”
Catherine laughed. “No, my lord. You may remember Lady Oakley’s ball, if you wish,” she told him primly, though her eyes still smiled warmly.
“Almost you relieve me, Miss Shreveton.”
‘"Almost?’ ’
“My only problem now is my lamentable memory. I believe we have discussed its existence before?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“With my memory, how am I to contrive to remember what I am supposed to forget and what I am allowed to remember?”
“I can see where that is a problem.”
“I shall rely upon you, Miss Shreveton, to serve as the arbiter of my memories.”
Catherine laughed again. “Have done, my lord, I beg of you. I cry craven. I shall no more ask that you forget anything.”
“Thank you, Miss Shreveton. You have removed a great weight from my mind.”
“Fustian.”
He glanced at her again and smiled. “Friends?”
She pursed her lips and looked at him. Finally, she relented and nodded. “Friends. For the sake of my uncle.”
He accepted her statement without comment, intent on his driving.
