Susannah pulled on the Captain’s coat sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked over at Kirkson. The man was gloating. The Captain frowned suddenly and swiftly rose from his seat.
“Please, Miss Shreveton, allow us to change places. I am convinced you are in a draft.”
The relief that flooded Catherine was palatable. “Thank you, Captain Chilberlain, that is very kind of you,” she said, hurriedly sliding into his chair.
The malicious smile on Kirkson’s face faded to be replaced by a cold glare. He slumped down in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, as he broodingly watched the play, oblivious to its humor.
Susannah reached over to pat Catherine’s hand reassuringly, then turned shining eyes upon her Captain, silently thanking him.
The Earl of Soothcoor, watching the whole, grunted and looked across at Stefton. The Marquis was no longer watching their box, but he lounged in his chair as he watched the play, satisfaction plainly seen on his usually expressionless visage.
The interval came too swiftly for Catherine. She knew she would be expected to stroll the galleries on Kirkson’s arm. She hoped that in a crowd he would not make any unwarranted comments or actions. She did not know what would be her recourse if he did.
Sensing her discomfort, Captain Chilberlain whispered that he and Susannah would stay near. Catherine smiled then and thanked them, sternly commanding her stampeding pulse to slow down.
“I give you the game, Miss Shreveton,” said Kirkson before he extended his arm to her. He was very much aware of the towering presence of the Captain and ascertained the man’s intentions. He smiled at Catherine.
Gingerly, Catherine placed her hand lightly on his arm, allowing him to draw her forward. “But I have not lost all, for there is plenty of time,” he assured her, still smiling.
Kirkson’s smiles never reached his eyes. Catherine felt a shudder begin to wrack her body. Ruthlessly she controlled it, though her heart continued to hammer loudly. She lifted herhead up, her chin thrust forward. “I would not, if I were you, Sir Philip, waste time on idle chatter.”
He smirked but vouched no other comment.
Catherine pointedly ignored him. Instead, she elicited opinions from others in their party as to the quality of the play production and maintained a lively dialogue with Mr. Dabernathy on the thespian skills of the leading actor.
“Well met, Lady Harth. I trust your party is enjoying the play.”
Catherine turned at the sound of the languid, deep voice. The Marquis and Lady Welville were standing nearby, the lady draped bonelessly over Stefton’s arm.
The countess pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing before she spoke. Finally, she rocked backward on her heels, her breath expelling in a rush. “Very much, thank you,” she said stiffly.
A raffish, thoroughly masculine smile turned up the corners of Stefton’s mouth. “Very wisely done,” he murmured.
Lady Dahlia pushed past Catherine, dragging Mr. Dabernathy behind. “My lord, what an unlooked-for pleasure to see you here,” she simpered, smiling coyly at him.
Catherine exchanged glances with Susannah and rolled her eyes expressively. Her cousin giggled.
“Thank you, Lady Dahlia,” Stefton said gravely.
“Oh, do come away, Oliver. I am quite parched and you did promise me refreshments before the next interval,” Lady Panthea pouted prettily, fanning her deep cleavage.
Lady Harth snorted in disgust. Lady Welville turned to raise one thin, well-defined eyebrow, her gaze finally traveling to take in the group. The superior smile on her face froze when she finally noticed Catherine. Her nostrils flared briefly, her features turning hard.
She tugged on the Marquis’s hand. “Introduce me, Oliver,” she said imperiously.
The Marquis looked at her quizzically but made the introductions before Dahlia reclaimed his attention. Catherine dipped a slight curtsy while Lady Welville stood stiffly, looking down her nose at her.
“Well, did you find what you wanted at Madame Vaussard’s?” she asked archly, certain the seamstress was above Catherine’s touch.
Catherine paused, taking the woman’s measure. “Perhaps,” she returned easily.
“Perhaps, she says,” Lady Welville mimicked to Kirkson as if inviting him to share the joke. “What a little equivocator you are, Miss Shreveton. Personally, I found the woman’s fabrics and styles much too gauche for my taste. Isn’t that right, Oliver?”
The Marquis yawned. “I wouldn’t know. When I left, you were enamored of a certain silver net.”
She laughed shrilly. “Oh, la, I daresay that was before I could see it in decent light. It turned out to be quite tawdry, as you suggested it would. You have such excellent eyesight, Oliver, I find I quite envy you,” she said with a die-away air, turning to Catherine. “Miss Shreveton, I’m sure your country ways have left you unprepared for city fashion. Be guided by me. Have nothing to do with Madame Vaussard lest she truss you up like a tart. Of course,” she purred with a cat’s sleepy-eyed grin at cornering its prey, “it might be an improvement.”
“Panthea,” snapped the Marquis, a slight flush discernible under his tan, “let’s get some oranges before the play resumes.” He dragged her off with curt apologies.
