“What? Oh, yes, I think so.” A puzzled expression captured her features. “Stefton—” she began.
“Soothcoor,” the Marquis barked, turning toward his friend, “do you think you could disentangle yourself from Lady Iris long enough to aid me?”
Iris guiltily dropped her hold on the Earl’s arm, a bright red blush staining her cheeks and neck. She looked daggers at the Marquis, but he ignored her.
“Of course. How can I be of service?” Soothcoor asked smoothly, a faint hint of humor twisting his lips and his Northumbrian accent sounding thicker than usual.
Stefton’s eyes narrowed, but he did not respond to the implied gibe. “I intend to take Miss Shreveton back to Harth House as swiftly as possible. A doctor must see to her injuries.”
“My lord!” protested Catherine.
“I’ll take her before me on the horse. You will help her to mount in front of me.”
“I will not!” Catherine declared.
But as with Kirkson, the crowd defeated her, for they approved of the Marquis’s suggestions and urged him to make haste to see that she was treated by a doctor.
The big bay horse was calm now and did not so much as twitch when Stefton mounted him. Wordlessly, the Marquis sat far back on the saddle and caught Catherine as the Earl threw her up before him. His touch was impersonal, his manner rigid and punctiliously formal.
“I suggest the rest of you return to Harth House immediately,” he said as he gathered the reins. “The Earl of Seaverness is returning today. He may be there already,” he added as he urged the horse toward the gate.
“My lord, this is hardly necessary,” Catherine protested.
“Be quiet,” Stefton returned evenly.
“You are causing undue talk! There is nothing the matter with me, I assure you. I was merely winded for a moment."
“Miss Shreveton, I do not suffer fools gladly. You could have been killed.”
“This horse would never have killed me!”
“I was not speaking of the horse,” he said repressively.
“Oh,” Catherine returned in a small voice.
“You, Catherine Shreveton, are an unprincipled hoyden, a complete ninnyhammer, and a menace to Society.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You may, but you shan’t receive it. No horse, and I mean this without reservation, no horse anywhere is worth risking life and limb. And that is something your uncle would be the first to tell you.”
“You behave as though you’re trying to take the place of my uncle,” Catherine said waspishly.
The Marquis was silent until they reached Harth House. “I shall not waste my breath attempting to disabuse you of that notion,” he finally said. The words were spoken tightly in his throat, their meaning enigmatic. He dismounted and turned to help her down.
Catherine resisted the petty urge to slide from the horse’s back before he could reach for her. In his strange temper, she did not know what would be his reaction and did not trust herself to press him further. She’d been delighted to see him when he walked between her and Kirkson. She relaxed then, confident in his ability to extricate her from the uncomfortable situation. That he should offer to buy the horse from Kirkson made her ecstatic, and the tingling he often aroused in her ran riotously through her body. Only now she knew better than to pretend to herself that the tingling was caused by antipathy. She glowed at his consideration until she realized his manner was not adopted solely for dealing with Kirkson. She soon received quite the opposite impression. It did not take a great leap of intellect to reason that she had something to do with his demeanor.
He was so cold, so removed. What did it mean? Whatever it meant, it frightened her in ways she hadn’t begun to fathom.
She stole a sideways glance at him as he punctiliously escorted her up the steps before Harth House. His featureswere sternly set, his eyes a dull tarnished silver. It was an uncompromising expression, and Catherine’s heart plummeted to her feet. She sighed.
“How is your head?” he asked, leading her into the hall.
“I don’t know,” she said lightly. “I don’t know how anything is now.” The edge of hysteria crept into her voice and over-bright eyes.
The Marquis frowned. “Fetch a doctor for Miss Shreveton. She took a nasty fall in the park and may be concussed,” he instructed the footman at the door.
“Is that you, Stefton?” called a tall man with receding gray hair who came out of the drawing room.
