“Now, Catherine, while we are on the subject of suitors, why have we not seen Sir Philip in two days? I quite depended upon you to affix his interest. He would be quite a feather in your cap.”
“I just do not like Sir Philip, and I would refuse any offer of his making, though I very much doubt he would offer matrimony."
“I am reluctant to remind you that you are not in a position of having the luxury of turning down offers. If you dream of securing the Marquis of Stefton’s hand because he showed you a few kindnesses, I beg you to awaken. I do not mean to be cruel, but you are hardly his style. Iris or Dahlia would be much more suited to being the next Marchioness of Stefton and Duchess of Vauden. After all, they were raised to it.”
Catherine laughed. “No, Aunt, I do not look to the Marquis to make me an offer. Far from it. I think you should know, for it is what I told my family before they sent me here, I long ago settled on the intention of remaining a spinster--”
“Rubbish!” interpolated Lady Harth.
Catherine continued without pausing: “—just as I long ago settled on the knowledge that I will never be an accomplished needlewoman.” She stuck the needle in the fabric crosswise and folded the entire project up, placing it in the workbasket she shared with Susannah.
Pennymore entered the parlor, his manner more agitated than was his wont. “The Marquis of Stefton is below. When I informed him you were not at home, he begged me to take his card up.”
Susannah and Catherine exchanged startled glances.
“Did you tell him that Iris and Dahlia were not really at home?”
“Yes, milady. But he advised me he is not here to see them. He’s come to see Miss Catherine,” the butler said apologetically.
“Send him up, then,” Lady Harth said waspishly while casting her niece a sharp glance. “What could he want?”
Catherine could only shrug, but she sat straighter on the sofa, her feet primly positioned flat on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap.
“Excuse me, Lady Harth,” the Marquis said, breezing into the room without ceremony. “I’ve come to take Miss Catherine Shreveton riding.”
Lady Harth smiled haughtily. “I’m afraid you’re under some misapprehension, my lord. My niece Catherine does not ride. If you’d care to wait, my nieces, Iris and Dahlia, will return shortly, and they would be most gratified for the opportunity for a nice?—”
“Lady Harth,” interrupted the Marquis, “your niece Catherine not only rides, but she is also the possessor of a beautiful black mare that is in dreadful want of exercise.”
The countess turned to look at Catherine, her face white. “Is this true?” she asked in awful accents.
Catherine looked daggers at the Marquis, then compressed her lips tightly for a moment and nodded. Aunt Alicia gasped, her mouth working furiously as if she would speak, but no words would come.
The Marquis of Stefton turned to Catherine, his face and voice stern. “I have just collected Gwyneth from Raymond Dawes and she is restless. Don your riding habit and come exercise your horse.”
“Ah!” Lady Harth cried triumphantly, “I can assure my lord that my niece does not possess a habit.”
Catherine sighed and exchanged glances with Susannah. “I’m sorry, Aunt Alicia, but I recently ordered one. It was delivered yesterday,” she admitted.
The Marquis smiled and crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels.
“And how did you expect to pay for this extravagance? I trust you were not thinking of coming to me for payment!"
"It has already been paid for by money my uncle gave me,” Catherine said apologetically.
“Now that that’s settled, run upstairs and put in on. And be quick about it,” Stefton ordered, holding the parlor door open for her. “I will await you in the hall.”
Catherine glared at him as she passed, hurrying up the stairs. This was not what she had in mind when she planned to ride Gwyneth. But perhaps it was just as well. Ever since the habit had arrived, she’d been looking for an opportunity to put it on. She had hoped that when she turned down Mrs. Howlitch, she would have time to sneak away for a short ride. Unfortunately,Lady Harth kept her close by her side, insisting that she ply her needle.
She burst into her room, calling out for Bethie, and crossed to the wardrobe to drag out the large box hidden there, a stylish box bearing a label proclaiming it to be from Madame Vaussard’s. From a drawer, she pulled out boots, hat, and crop. Feverishly she worried the lacings of her skirt, inadvertently knotting them. She cried out in frustration and searched for her scissors.
“Miss Catherine! What are you about?” exclaimed Bethie, entering the room.
“Thank heavens you’re here. Help me get this off. I fear I’ve knotted it dreadfully.”
“Just a minute. Stand still. There, now slip it off,” Bethie directed. “So, you’re going ridin’. Finally! You’ve been as restless as a stalled colt. How did you manage it?"
“I didn’t,” came the muffled response as Bethie tossed the habit over her head. “The Marquis of Stefton got Raymond to give him Gwyneth, and then he came here demanding I ride.”
