She was too willful, that was the problem. And no gentleman wanted to shackle himself to a difficult wife, no matter how beautiful she might be. A man wanted a wife who was demure and biddable. A wife willing to dim her intellect and ability so that he could shine the brighter.
Kate would die, rather.
And anyway, what kind of man was intimidated by a woman merely because she could rival him in thought and deed? None worth having. Not as far as she was concerned.
“How can you call him handsome when he was so unforgivably unpleasant?” Christine wondered. “Rude, officious, and really quite—”
“Handsome,” Kate said again. “Why haven’t we seen him before?”
“Because he’s no gentleman, clearly.”
“Rubbish. He was well-spoken. And did you see how he carried himself?”
“I’m sorry, no.” Christine resumed walking down Bond Street. “I was rather distracted by his hydrophobic dog biting your hand.”
Kate kept pace with her friend. “It wasn’t his dog.”
“He claimed it was,” Christine said.
“He was lying.”
“I don’t know why he would. If the dog didn’t belong to him, what business had he in defending it? Or in taking it away from here?”
Kate gathered her heavy skirts in her hands as she sidestepped a puddle. “He was rescuing it, of course.”
Christine cast her a dubious glance. “Him?”
“Yes, the very man. Rude, officious, handsome, and…alarmingly tenderhearted, it seems. At least”—Kate smiled—“when it comes to dogs.”
A frown puckered Christine’s brow. “I wonder who he was?”
“I don’t know.” Kate’s shoulders set with determination. “But I intend to find out.”
Chapter Two
Mr. Elias Catmull stood at the center of Lord and Lady Mattingly’s luxuriously appointed drawing room. A slim, angular-faced gentleman with unusually close-set, shrewdly assessing eyes, he was one of Kate’s most relentless admirers.
One of her most aggravating as well.
At only seven and twenty, he possessed the patronizing air—and the thinning pate—of a gentleman a full decade older.
“You must forgive the impetuousness of my visit,” he said, lips twisting in a thin smile. “I couldn’t allow you to leave London without paying my respects once more and bidding you a safe journey.”
Kate’s expression hardened. Impetuous indeed!
The two of them had met at the beginning of the season. A business associate of Christine’s fiancé, Mr. Catmull had inveigled an introduction to Kate at her debut and had made a point of appearing at all of her engagements thereafter. Indeed, he’d crossed her path altogether too frequently. Not only at every ball, musicale, and theatrical, but at the shops and in the park as well.
She’d sometimes suspected he was stalking her. Impoverished rakes often employed such tactics with heiresses, attempting to catch them in a rare moment of vulnerability so they might compromise them. But though Kate was indeed an heiress, Mr. Catmull wasn’t impoverished. Not that she was aware.
Whatever his motives, their acquaintance was of a long enough period for Kate to have formed a fixed opinion of the man. With his devious gaze and encroaching manner, Elias Catmull was as calculating as a poisonous adder in the grass.
And, at the moment, he was the least of Kate’s concerns.
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.