Page 5 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

She walked restlessly to the wine-velvet–draped window, only half listening to his speech. A red-and-gold cashmere shawl was threaded loosely through her arms. She scarcely needed the warmth of it. Her cheeks were still burning from the lecture Aunt Jane had read her on the carriage ride home.

Kate had erred again, it seemed, not only by reaching out to stroke the head of that poor, wretched mongrel, but by allowing herself to be engaged in a public spectacle.

According to Aunt Jane, it was just the sort of thing the society gossips would latch on to. The kind of tale that would be added to the rapidly growing catalog of other salacious stories about Kate’s wildness that were already circulating through the fashionable ballrooms, drawing rooms, and gentlemen’s clubs of London.

Stories about Kate engaging in an unchaperoned dawn shooting contest with a group of gentlemen on the Heath (true), galloping her horse in Rotten Row in a ramshackle race with the disreputable mistress of a marquess (partially true), and the much-whispered-about encounter Kate had enjoyed in a candlelit library with the youngest son of the Duke of Whitney (completely and utterly false).

As if Kate would ever have deigned to kiss such a tedious, prosing blockhead!

But truth was less interesting than fiction. And society was disposed to believe the worst where a lady’s reputation was concerned, especially if that lady came from a family already notorious for its wildness.

Not that Mr. Catmull cared.

The loathsome man had been awaiting Kate in the drawing room on her return from shopping, determined to force his attentions on her yet again. It didn’t matter that she’d rebuffed him dozens of times. Her own feelings had no bearing on his suit. He never countenanced the opinions of females.

Kate was in no mood for his attentions. “You needn’t have bothered,” she said. “As I recall, you expressed similar sentiments on the last occasion we met.”

“At Lady Billingham’s soiree, yes,” Mr. Catmull said. “I attribute the discouraging words you spoke to me then to the oppressive crush. You were agitated by the heat and not thinking clearly. A common complaint among ladies who become overstimulated.”

“I was perfectly sensible,” Kate replied. “Really, sir, how can I make myself plainer—”

“You’re returning for Lady Chesham’s ball in February, I understand?”

Kate broke off. How on earth had he learned that? She’d only accepted the invitation last week, at the urging of Aunt Jane and Christine.

The Dowager Duchess of Chesham was planning an extravagant celebration ball for her sixtieth birthday. There were whispers that members of the royal family would attend, including, very possibly, the Queen herself. It was an event not to be missed. Certainly not by a young lady whose family was looking for her to make a favorable match.

“I am,” she admitted.

“After which you’ll remain to take part in the season?”

She gritted her teeth. “Presumably.”

Odious man, to make reference to the fact that she must embark on a second season.

“Then I shall preserve hope.” He sketched her a bow. “I’m not a man who gives up easily, my lady. Ask anyone who has done business with me and they will attest. I always prevail, one way or another. You’d be wise to get used to the idea.”

Kate bit her tongue as Mr. Catmull took his leave.

Get used to the idea? The devil she would!

Elias Catmull was everything she despised most in the male sex—overbearing, officious, and disposed to treat her like a porcelain trinket to be acquired for his mantelshelf.

Kate had the suspicion he’d do anything to obtain her hand, even if he must resort to despicable tricks and traps. Indeed, Mr. Catmull didn’t strike her as being a stranger to scheming.

She hated being alone with the man.

He’d no sooner departed than Christine entered the room. She offered Kate an apologetic smile. “I didn’t like to interrupt.”

“I wish you would have done,” Kate said feelingly.

“What did he want?”

“Me.” Kate turned back to the window. “Heaven knows why. I’ve conveyed my dislike for the man by every possible method.”

“He is an odd fish,” Christine allowed, “but one of considerable fortune. I’ve heard he claims a viscount for an uncle.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Kate said. “From him.”