Catherine studied the other carriages bowling along the way. She spotted a few people on foot braving the cold and threading their way through bushes to secluded benches placed under the spreading branches of majestic old trees just tinged with the pale green of budding leaves. By summer, those benches would be almost lost from sight, providing private rendezvous for lovers and hiding places for rapscallion children running from their governesses. Now the benches, nestled among bushes and trees, provided a haven from the cold wind that blew through the park, reminding everyone that though it was a clear sunny day, winter was not yet finished.
As they drove down its wide concourses, more and more carriages entered the spacious park, and several peoplerecognized the Marquis of Stefton and waved or inclined their heads in a token bow.
“Miss Shreveton,” the Marquis said suddenly, pulling his horses up, “would you care to take the ribbons?”
Catherine’s eyes began to glow. “Do you mean it?”
He laughed, a handsome smile replacing the satyr expression he usually wore and giving him a more boyish appearance. “Yes, of course I mean it.” He handed her the reins and whip, then leaned back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest like a groom.
Catherine expertly flicked the whip, letting the thong slide down the handle and catching it with her little finger. The team responded beautifully to her commands, and soon she was unconsciously cooing to them words of endearment.
Stefton watched her handle the pair and revel in the experience. Her exuberance pleased him, and her murmured words of endearment to the team touched his soul. This woman truly loved horses. She was probably more comfortable in their company than in the company of her own two-legged species. Possibly he was wrong to bring her into fashion. This was a woman who could turn the epithet ‘a rustic’ into a compliment.
The sight of the Marquis of Stefton allowing himself to be driven about the park was cause for comment. The fact that a woman was driving him and that the woman was driving his precious grays drew gasps and fervent speculation as to the meaning behind the sight. The park fairly sizzled with the hisses of whispered conjecture. Most people failed to recognize the young woman as the niece of the Countess of Seaverness and guesses abounded as to her identity.
Catherine, enchanted with driving the graceful pair, failed to see the fervor she was creating. She felt suddenly happier than she’d been in a month, and it showed in her vivid countenance.
When she pulled up the team some fifteen minutes later to return the reins to the Marquis, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with excitement. “They’re wonderful! Such light mouths, so perfectly matched in pace,” she looked back toward the horses then up at Stefton again. “I don’t know what to say! Has my uncle seen them?”
The Marquis smiled. “Yes, many times. He, too, was impressed, though his words lacked your enthusiasm,” he finished drily, guiding his grays back onto the roadway and into a brisk trot.
“Ah, yes, ever the horse trader,” she said with affectionate indulgence. “Did he make you an offer for the pair?"
"No, just for their breeder,” he returned blandly, his eyes intent on the carriageway.
A gurgle of laughter came from beside him. “That sounds just like Uncle Gene!”
Stefton was gratified to hear her laughter for it indicated a comfortableness in his company that he’d been at pains to create. She was a prickly one, very much like the nettles growing on the hillside, a stroke the wrong way easily sending her into high dudgeon. He guessed she was uncomfortable in the role she chose to play but did not know how to extricate herself from the folly of her own actions, let alone admit to folly. He was enjoying his role as fairy godfather to a reluctant Cinderella. The novelty of the game held at bay the habitual ennui he felt every Season when the new crop of debutantes descended upon London. He didn’t know why he stayed in town every year. Mostly habit, he surmised, and the entertainment provided in observing the intricate movements of the matchmaking contredanse.
Catherine Shreveton was a reluctant dancer. The irony was that with her beauty, wit, and wealth, she should have been leading the set. But she chose not to. That fascinated him. Women of his acquaintance were typically too ready to flaunttheir advantages. Catherine denied their existence. He chose to look for and cultivate her advantages, dredge them out of hiding and place them in the light, then stand back and observe Society’s reaction. He’d been gratified by the attentions she received at Lady Oakley’s after she’d been seen dancing with himself, Chilberlain, and Soothcoor. Now he desired to see those attentions continued. He would, he decided, see her married off before the Season ended.
He frowned suddenly. The trick would be to see that the gentleman claiming her attention was suitable for her and the Burke stables she would one day inherit. It wouldn’t do for her to become leg-shackled to a man who was a ham-fisted rider!
The harsh lines etched into his face relaxed. He doubted Catherine would even consider a man who didn’t ride well. Then again, unless she rode beside him, how was she to know? His next goal must be to get her back in the saddle. A lady’s saddle, he mentally amended when the memory of her in boys’ clothes astride a big bay horse came to mind.
Dark clouds began to clutter the wide expanse of blue sky and the wind kicked up, sending oak leaves scurrying across the carriage road. Catherine pulled the lap robe closer and wrapped her arms about herself. Unconsciously she shifted closer to the Marquis.
Stefton’s eyebrow rose at her action. Then he frowned as he noted her huddled form. “I had best take you back before the weather turns damp and you take a chill,” he said, his voice unusually harsh. He turned the equipage down a path that led back to Hyde Park Corner.
“Oh, please, no need to hurry on my account. There is a bit more of a nip in the air now, but I’m used to such weather. Truthfully, it reminds me of home. It is too bad that I did not bring my cloak with me from Yorkshire. Grandmother thoughtit a great deal too shabby and country for London. I daresay I could use its voluminous folds for warmth!”
‘‘It might be a bit cumbersome to wear while riding, though. Do you have a warm habit, or is male attire your only riding dress?”
“I beg your pardon!” Two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks.
“My lord,” she continued repressively, “male attire is among the subjects I requested that your lamentable memory forget.”
“Did you indeed? And here I thought to place your male attire among my most treasured memories, for you said you would no more request I forget anything,” he said in faintly mournful accents.
“Odious creature,” she said without heat, though she did turn to glower at him. Catherine swore she saw his lips twitch, but he suppressed his inclination to smile, his attention ostensibly on the road.
“Perhaps we should stick to the subject of horses,” he offered. “In my stables I’m not so concerned with breeding hunters or carriage horses. I’m primarily interested in racehorses. I haven’t done too badly at Newmarket. Quite well, in fact. Well enough that I’ve begun to consider expanding my stable. Unfortunately, my main problem, it turns out, is finding good jockeys.”
“That I can believe. It has always been my contention that a good jockey must be one with his horse. It is not enough to be small and light.”
“I agree. But such a man is hard to find, and if you do spot one, odds are the fellow is content at his current employer, or there are other problems precluding availability. It’s dashed frustrating. Just last month I wanted to hire a certain boy I saw riding.”
“Oh?” Catherine warily questioned, suddenly afraid the direction of his conversation had changed.
