Bluestocking Bride (5 page)

It was herself that she blamed for the stolen kiss in Mr.
Fortescue's
library. She had been teasing
Rutherston
, she knew, but it had not occurred to her that a gentleman would conduct himself in such a forward manner, whatever the provocation. But then, she knew so little about gentlemen. Kisses had been stolen from her before, but those kisses had not been like
Rutherston's
kiss. She cringed inwardly as she remembered how she had responded, and prayed that he had not noticed. In an attempt to put all thoughts of that encounter out of her mind, she picked up a book and set her mind to concentrate.

A shadow fell across her book, and Catherine looked up to see
Rutherston
looking down at her in some amusement.

"Miss Harland," he said softly, taking the book out of her hands and sitting down beside her in an adjacent chair, "this seems to be a habit with you. Do you always forget your surroundings when you pick up a book?"

Catherine's eyes flew to her mother in consternation.

"You must excuse my daughter, Lord
Rutherston
, but like all young women of today, she wastes her time on rubbishy novels." Mrs. Harland frowned at Catherine, conveying all the displeasure she felt that a daughter of hers should be caught out in such a solecism, and at such a time. She hoped fervently that the book that was now in
Rutherston's
hands was just as she had described and not one of Catherine's bluestocking books.

"Oh no, Mrs. Harland, please do not blame Miss Harland, for I see that she and I have much the same taste in books. I am eager to hear Miss Harland's opinion on this,
er
, novel."

He turned back to Catherine, effectively shutting out the rest of the company, and Mrs. Harland, quite reassured by Lord
Rutherston's
gallantry, turned her attention once more to Lady Margaret, animatedly discussing the details of the young ladies' wardrobes as they prepared for their first Season in town.

"Well, Miss Harland?" queried
Rutherston
quizzically. "I am waiting to hear your opinion of the book."

Catherine gave it to him. "I consider it to be the most perfect of all the Greek tragedies; indeed the finest of any play ever written, surpassing even those of Shakespeare."

"Then we are in agreement, Miss Harland. Now me, what think you of
Hippolytus
?"

Catherine looked at him uncertainly. The quizzical tone was still in his voice, but she could not see how a discussion of Euripides's
Hippolytus
could be a matter of sport, unless the marquis thought that she did not know her subject.

"
Hippolytus
is a romantic figure, of course, but so tragic, so high-minded, so far above the common run of young man. His high ideals, his principles . . ."

"Come now, Miss Harland," said
Rutherston
, rudely breaking into her eulogy, "
Hippolytus
is a prig, and so taken with his own high-mindedness that he spares not a thought for the feelings of a woman of passion who is pining away for love of him."

"But she is his stepmother." Catherine's voice rose in indignation. "Her passion outrages every feeling of decency."

"Ah, my dear Miss Harland," he said smoothly, "I had not thought that one of your warm
temperament
would show so little understanding, so little empathy for one of the weaker members of your sex."

He smiled at her in a knowing way, leaving her speechless. There was no mistaking that the Marquis of
Rutherston
was deliberately trying to provoke her, and was relishing her confusion. So that's the way of it, Catherine thought, looking balefully into his lordship's eyes. She was just about to put this outrageous member of the nobility firmly in his place, when they were joined by Norton, and Catherine bit her lip in frustration.

"Ah, Charles, I have just persuaded Miss Harland to allow me to borrow her book," said
Rutherston
affably, lying in his teeth and slipping the slim volume into his coat pocket. "We cannot agree on the merits of the various characters, and I hope to refresh my memory before joining battle with Miss Harland again."

Charles Norton smiled, but he was not deceived. He had no idea what was going on between his cousin and Miss Harland, but he knew his cousin well enough to know that it was not for his sake or for the desire of rustic company that he had consented to dine at
Ardo
House. No, Catherine had either discomfited Richard or piqued his interest, and, either way. Norton felt it incumbent upon himself to protect his friend's sister from
Rutherston's
unwelcome attentions.

"My lord," said Catherine in her most engaging manner, "how ungentlemanly of you to reveal that a mere female would demur in your opinions. Pray do read the play again, and when your memory is refreshed and you have come to know the subject more thoroughly, I am sure that you and I shall be of one mind." She hoped that that had put the insolent lord in his place.

Rutherston
was delighted and wondered if the little chit was aware of how enticing she was. He would have been more than pleased to continue their conversation in such vein, but Charles's presence forbade any further sallies that might lead Miss Harland into dangerous waters, and he reluctantly turned the conversation into channels more suitable for polite society, excusing himself after a time to join Miss Kelvin at the piano.

Catherine determined not to be in
Rutherston's
company for the rest of the evening, but she need not have exerted herself. He paid her no more attention, and divided his time equally among every person present. It was only as he was taking his leave and bowing over her hand that he whispered in her ear, "Ah, Miss Harland, I do hope we may resume our conversation soon. So instructive, I do assure you. Perhaps I may hope to find you in my library sometime soon? In the meantime, may I suggest that you employ your time in reading 'Andromache'? Now there is a woman worthy of your emulation, though the task might prove somewhat beyond your capabilities."

Catherine eyed him in astonishment. "Emulate Andromache? You must be funning!
That spineless pattern card of obedience and passivity?
I would not waste my energies on such a poor-spirited drab. Do you say that you admire her? Well, I am not surprised."

Rutherston
noted the curl of Catherine's lip. "But of course," he returned smoothly, "what man wouldn't? She is the perfection of womanhood." And with a wicked grin, he was gone.

After the last of the guests had departed, the evening was declared to be a resounding success, and Lord
Rutherston
truly the well-bred gentleman. Catherine outwardly concurred in all that was said, for she could not reveal to her family that
Rutherston's
manner to her had been anything but gentlemanly. She surmised that he had tried to engage her interest out of a feeling of boredom, and she was not well pleased with that thought. He had thrown down the gauntlet, daring her to pick it up. Well, she would not. He was ten years her senior and a man of the world, whilst she was just a green girl. Catherine was not at all sure what a man of the world was, but she recognized one when she saw one, and he was a dangerous breed. Her manner would be polite, but distant, she determined, when next they met. She would behave with all the insipidity and propriety that she could command. And on these resolute thoughts, Catherine went to bed, but not to dreamless sleep.

Catherine wheeled the glossy chestnut out of the
Ardo
House stable, and the echo of clattering hooves on the rough cobblestones hung on the still air of daybreak. She set her mount at a brisk canter to follow the well-trod path that led to
Branley
Park, and her spirits soared as she felt the motion of the mare beneath her. She savored the pleasure of her solitary ramble, inhaling the pungent scent of the ground softened with dew after an evening of gentle February rain.

Gypsy needed little guiding, knowing the path well, and the mare turned toward the expanse of woods that marked the boundary of the adjoining estate. Catherine guided her mount along a narrow track that led upward to wide-open meadowland, and as they approached the gap in the trees, she urged Gypsy to a faster pace.

She was now on
Rutherston's
land, but Catherine never gave that a thought. She thumbed her nose at the town-bred ways of the higher ranks of the nobility who, so it seemed to her, spent the better part of their days abed. In the week that the gentlemen had been in residence, she had continued her daily practice of exercising Gypsy before breakfast and had never once so much as caught a glimpse of
Rutherston
or Norton.

Catherine gave Gypsy her head, and with ears flattened, the mare moved at breakneck speed across the rain-softened earth. For the space of half an hour or more they moved as one, wheeling, cantering, and galloping toward higher ground, until they came to an outcrop of rock and Catherine reined in. She turned her mount, patting it affectionately on the neck.

"Good girl, Gypsy," she murmured in the mare's ear. "And now, a sedate trot home, I think."

Catherine sensed his presence before she saw him. She wheeled to her right and in the distance espied a lone rider on a low ridge. He had halted his steed and was surveying the horizon. Shielding her eyes with one hand against the rising sun, she gazed curiously at the figure, and as she watched, he dug his heels into his mount's flanks and shot forward.

She remained immobile, unalarmed, since the rider was not moving in her direction, but in a moment she had guessed his purpose. She brought her crop smartly against Gypsy's rump and spurred the mare forward, hoping to reach the gap before
Rutherston
cut off her retreat.

Horse and rider dashed toward the trees, Catherine leaning low in the saddle, but out of the corner of her eye she saw
Rutherston
on a magnificent black stallion come plunging toward her. He reached the gap well ahead of her and wheeled his steed around to bar her way, almost unseating himself in the process as his stallion reared and stamped its displeasure. Catherine slackened her pace and reined in a few yards in front of him, watching warily from beneath lowered brows.

Rutherston
grinned from ear to ear as he brought his stallion alongside of the chestnut.

"Trespassing again, Miss Harland?" he reproved mildly.

Catherine gave him a look of cold dislike and urged her mare forward. "You are barring my way, sir. I wish to pass, if you please!"
Rutherston
swung his mount round to block her way once more.

"Why so angry, Miss Harland?
Can it be that the intrepid Miss Harland is a poor loser?"

"A poor loser!"
Catherine expostulated in outrage. "When you are mounted on that black fury? If my
mount were
half a match for yours, my lord, and I were not compelled to ride sidesaddle, I would have beaten you easily, and you know it!"

Rutherston's
grin widened. "Do you hear that,
Diaboloa
?" he asked silkily, stroking the snorting stallion's smooth neck. "The lady pays you a
compli
-
ment
, but for your master she displays only contempt."

Catherine sat mute, casting
Rutherston
a black look, but he took no pains to disguise his admiration. The wind had whipped her cheeks to a warm glow, and her russet curls peeped out saucily from a bonnet that was slightly askew. In the bright sunshine, her eyes, glinting like gold, seemed lighter than he had remembered them, and the plain dark green riding habit molded her figure in the most becoming way. He saw that she was watching him with a guarded expression and lie put an end to his idle musings.

"Why such a placid nag, Miss Harland? Does your father not trust you with a more spirited mount?"

Catherine grinned in spite of herself. "It is not Papa who makes these decisions, my lord, but Mama. Cannot you tell that Gypsy's gentle temperament is the ideal for a lady of breeding and gentility?"

"With your obvious equestrian accomplishments, I would have thought you rated higher than this docile beast," he returned gallantly.

It was a prettily turned compliment, Catherine owned silently, but if the marquis expected her to be dazzled by such flattery, he was much mistaken. She had been well schooled by her mother in preparation for her first Season to discount the polished flatteries of dandies and men-about-town, and Catherine knew how insincere such blatant gallantry was on the lips of a man of
Rutherston's
stamp.

Catherine's tone was mocking. "Oh, to be sure I
do
deserve a more spirited mount. But if ladies had the mounts they deserved, think how galling it would be for the gentlemen to be bested in what they consider is a masculine preserve. It would not do. A man's pride must be protected at all costs. If I had beaten you to the gap," she went on more hotly, "do you think that you would be in such high humor? I think not!"

A wicked light gleamed in
Rutherston's
eyes. "Do I detect a note of pique, Miss Harland? Never say that you are one of those females who
believes
that woman is the equal of man?"