“In front of Lady Harth?”
“Unfortunately. Though, in a way, I’m relieved to have it put forward so. I was beginning to think our grand plans for me to sneak out and ride were never going to be a possibility."
"Stand still while I finish with these hooks.”
When Bethie finished, Catherine flopped down on the edge of the bed and pulled on her black boots. Bethie then shoved her into a chair and pulled down her hair, brushing it furiously then redressing it in a style suitable for her hat. Catherine jammed the hat on her head, secured the layers of veiling, and then twitched the ends over her shoulder. She did not spare a glance at the mirror but picked up her crop and headed for the door. Less than fifteen minutes had passed, but Catherine doubted that even that short of time would meet with the insufferable Marquis’sapproval. She picked up the long train of her skirts and clattered down the stairs.
Halfway down, she saw the Marquis watching her. Self-consciously she slowed her pace and continued down at a more decorous gait, though her heart hammered loudly in her chest.
The Marquis’s face was impassive as he regarded her with hooded eyes. Internally, however, he was pleased with what he saw.
This was Catherine Shreveton as she should appear. The russet wool habit fitted her form to perfection. The bodice, amply trimmed with black silk braiding, rose to her neck and conformed to every curve. The skirt was cut on the bias and allowed to drape her figure with soft folds. The hem and train featured a rouleau of black silk held in place by crisscrossing black silk braid. The hat sitting jauntily on her head was of black-dyed beaver. It was small-brimmed and trimmed with russet-and-black-dyed ostrich feathers. Across her face, obscuring her features, were layers of russet veiling, caught up in the back of the hat and allowed to drape like a train.
The Marquis’s eyes narrowed as he studied the veil, for he’d rather see her face. He decided not to press the issue. He should be glad she did not refuse to ride. It might have placed him in a most uncomfortable position of forcing her to if she had. He would not have liked to resort to such measures.
He curtly nodded his approval of her attire and gestured her to proceed him to the door.
Catherine didn’t know whether to be angry or glad at the Marquis’s lack of response. She was certain he was bound to rail at her for the veil and was strangely discomposed when he did not. She slid a sideways glance at him as she passed, searching for something, though she didn’t know what. Her pulse was racing, and the tingling touched all her nerve endings. Warning signs, but warning her of what? He was a most enigmaticgentleman, fluctuating in his attentions, alternating between teasing, lecturing, and ignoring. He was quite unlike any other gentleman of Catherine’s acquaintance. To even begin to ponder his motivations was sufficient to leave one dizzy or with a headache. However, the one thing she was sure of was that it would be ill-advised to develop affection, let alone a tendre for the man, and disastrous to let him know one’s feelings. Not that she entertained any warm feelings for him, she told herself briskly. Her feelings were anything but warm, unless one considered anger and disgust warm, which she did not. All in all, he was an arrogant, insufferable, odious creature.
Except that he brought her Gwyneth.
A small cry escaped Catherine’s lips on seeing her beloved horse. She ran down the front steps of Harth House, grabbed the reins from the surprised Marquis’s man, and threw her arms around Gwyneth’s neck, happily stroking and cooing to her.
Gwyneth nudged her, nuzzling Catherine’s neck.
“Stop that! Stop that, Gwyn! You’ll tear the veil! Did you miss me, love? Have I been very bad?” she asked her horse, scratching her head.
“If I were you, Gwyneth,” came the deep, amused tones of the Marquis, “I wouldn’t be so quick to forgive.”
Gwyneth tossed her head, then lowered it to nudge Catherine again.
The Marquis sighed. “What do horses know, anyway?”
A rippling laugh came from Catherine. “She knows I love her, don’t you, old girl?”
The Marquis feigned disgust and offered to give Catherine a leg up.
“Today, Friarly,” the Marquis said as he took his reins from the groom and mounted his horse, “be here when we return, or you’ll swap positions with young Stephen.”
Friarly blanched. “You wouldn’t, milord! Stephen! B—but he’s nothing but a stable boy!”
“Precisely,” the Marquis said sternly, wheeling his horse about.
Gwyneth danced on the cobbled pavement as Catherine held her in, waiting for the Marquis. “She is a bit restive,” Catherine observed with affection. She cooed to her to calm her down.
Stefton eyed Gwyneth. “Can you hold her through the city traffic?” He drew nearer to her, ready to grab the mare’s bridle.
“That won’t be necessary!” Catherine snapped, angry at his presumption.
“I beg your pardon.”
“And so you should,” Catherine returned bitingly, urging Gwyneth through the press of carts and carriages.
Stefton followed, cursing himself for his damned interference. It was not his desire to set her back up. Nevertheless, by unthinkingly casting impunity upon her riding ability, he had inadvertently chosen the fastest way to do so!
They continued in silence toward Hyde Park.
Ultimately, it was Bugden Hill that was her undoing. It spread out before her so invitingly—nay, daringly.
