“Yes. The lad was the best rider I’d seen in many a day. Seemed at one with the horse, light as a feather, too,” he remarked, casting her a sideways glance from under drooping eyelids.
“How interesting,” she managed to comment in a strangled voice.
“Sad thing about that rider. Doesn’t ride at all now. Shocking waste and unfair to his horse. I saw it once. A magnificent animal. A high-stepping coal-black mare with the most luxuriously long mane and tail I’ve ever seen. Do you know the horse I’m speaking about?
“I’m familiar with her, yes,” Catherine said tightly, anger seething through her.
How dare he refer to her with veiled innuendos? To say nothing of again alluding to her male attire, a subject she told him was closed.Who is he to judge my actions?Her thoughts screamed, though in her heart, a twinge of conscience pulled at her. Angrily she dusted the twinge away. She was determined not to allow one more person to attempt to manage her life.
“Too beautiful an animal to keep cooped up in a stall. Anyone who rode a horse like that in Hyde Park would cause comment and envy, I daresay,” he said conversationally as he pulled into the traffic on Park Lane.
“You may say or think whatever you like!” she said sharply.
“Have I said something amiss?”
“That horse you so subtly refer to is mine, as you well know. Her name is Gwyneth. Whether I ride her or not is none of your concern,” she ground out. She turned away from him to sit stiffly erect, her eyes on the road ahead.
“What would Sir Eugene say to the way you are abusing—yes, I said abusing, and well you know it, so don’t look daggers at me, my girl—what would he say to the way you are abusing that horse?”
“I am not abusing Gwyneth,” she denied hotly.
“If you are going to continue in this ridiculous role you have chosen, send the animal back to Yorkshire, or let me take her to one of my estates that are closer. At least there she can run in the fields and be exercised.”
“What do you mean, ‘role’?” she asked, her tone dangerously soft and even.
“The role of beggar maid,” he snapped, drawing up before Harth House. “Friarly! Friarly! Where is that confounded fellow?”
“Probably at a local ale house for a bit of respite from dealing with such a boorish employer.”
“Don’t sound so pleased. Without him to help you down, or to hold these nags’ heads so that I may help you down, you’ll have to do for yourself.”
“That suits me fine, my lord,” she retorted, her eyes flashing. She turned to back down out of the phaeton, quietly thankful it was not one with a high perch. She moved swiftly to demonstrate to the Marquis she was no bread-and-water miss and perfectly able to care for herself. If she was a bit disconcerted by the penetrating steady regard of his gray eyes, silvered in anger, she gave no outward sign. When her left foot touched the cobbled pavement she flashed him a superior smile.
Then she felt a tug on her gown. It was caught on a decorative curlicue of wood and was pulled up, amply displaying her shapely ankles and calves. She pulled angrily on the material, but it stuck fast, almost overbalancing her.
Stefton raised an eyebrow at her difficulties, a slight smile playing upon his lips as he observed the generous portion of leg she displayed to advantage. Catherine saw the direction of his gaze and a dark red blush surged up her neck into her face. She yanked on the fabric again until it gave a rending sound and fell away from the carriage. Angrily, she twitched her skirts intoplace, pretending unconcern for the tear in the side. Nodding her head perfunctorily in the Marquis of Stefton’s direction, she regally turned to cross the pavement and climb the stairs before Harth House.
The Marquis of Stefton silently watched her progress, keeping his team still without a glance in their direction. Inexplicably, he still found himself angry with her, and the anger was a churning heaviness coupled with frustration inside him. What bothered him the most was that he didn’t know if he was angrier with her for the horse, for her role-playing, or just because she defied him? It was a novelty to discover a woman who did not attempt to placate him and defer to his every wish or make endless demands. It was a novelty that, despite the anger, he rather enjoyed.
CHAPTER 8
Catherine fairly marched up the steps before Harth House and let herself in before the footman could move from his position by the door. She did not look back. She dared not, for she knew Stefton was watching her.
How dare he? How dare he try to lecture her on the care of her horse! It was no business of his whether she rode, walked, or stayed indoors! And talk about role-playing, hah! The pot was calling the kettle black. The insufferable arrogance of the man. How could Uncle Gene suffer him to be his friend?
No, she knew the answer to that.
In her uncle’s eyes, Stefton’s superb horsemanship would compensate for any deficiencies of character the man possessed. Well, it wouldn’t with her. Her intuition worked well, sending those warning tingles through her. Her physical reaction to the man was entirely understandable. He was surely a—a Jack Sharp! A man to be avoided at all costs. She would not allow herself to become one of his flirts, even if it did increase her credit with Society. Society was blind not to see him for what he really was. Well, she did and . . .
Abruptly she halted her internal ravings and the set frown on her face relaxed into a chagrined smile.
She was not being fair. That niggling knowledge had been there since she first opened her mouth to refute his words. In all her plans and schemes, she had signally failed to remember Gwyneth. Her beloved horse became the innocent victim of her machinations.
Catherine had raised Gwyneth, touching her, feeding her, getting her used to her presence since the day she first stood upon wobbly legs splayed awkwardly, her knees too big for her slender black legs, and her dark eyes large and wide as she blinked and looked about her new world. Gwyneth was the first horse she schooled on her own, and she was the only rider ever to mount Gwyneth.
Now it was over two weeks since Gwyneth had been ridden and Catherine felt guilty for ignoring her.
Still, she railed at the Marquis for his presumption in the matter. It was none of his business. She was glad she had not told him of her plans to ride her horse as soon as she received her new habit from Madame Vaussard. He might think what he wished, but he was not going to ride roughshod over her.
