Free Dangerous to Hold by Elizabeth Thornton

against her abdomen.
Flat
, she told her reflection. And what difference did it make if he’d summed her up as an aging dowd? All she wanted was to look as different from Catalina as possible, as
English
as possible.
    She tried not to think about Aunt Bea when she slipped her new high-heeled satin slippers over the white silk stockings that had cost her ten shillings. Ten shillings for a pair of silk stockings! That shocked her more than the cost of the gown. A gown could be made over and could last for years. She’d be lucky if the silk stockings lasted the night. All this finery just to throw Wrotham off the scent? She must be out of her mind.
    She was out of her mind in more ways than one. Everybody would take one look at her and think that she was setting her cap for the earl. Before she could decide whether to change, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. McNally entered.
    “It’s as good as new,” said Mrs. McNally, indicating the newly pressed cloak she carried over one arm. She’d found it when she was cleaning out the attics, in a trunk of old clothes that had once belonged to Catherine’s mother. The trunk had been deposited in the attic duringAunt Bea’s regime, and Mrs. McNally had a fair idea why.
    From all Mrs. McNally could gather, Beatrice Courtnay had been a relic of a former era, a Puritan who had damned vanity in all its manifestations. There had been no pretty clothes for her nieces, no parties, no dancing or trips to the theater. Religion, hard work, and book-learning had taken their place. She’d had no use for the pretty things Catherine’s mother had kept about her. The attics had told an interesting story. When she and McNally had arrived on the scene, they’d found them choked with pictures, mirrors, ornaments, and boxes of “unsuitable books” as well as trunks of old clothes, pretty clothes, such as the green satin cloak she had just pressed.
    Without fuss or bother, she and McNally had gradually distributed the pictures, mirrors, and ornaments throughout the house. Catherine had been pleased; the house, she’d said, was more like it was in her mother’s day. After that, Mrs. McNally had decided to make over some of the clothes she’d found in the trunk, and Catherine had been happy to wear them.
    As she looked at Catherine now, a lump formed in her throat. She was a beautiful, vibrant young woman and it was no thanks to the aunt who had raised her. Beatrice Courtnay had a lot to answer for, and so had Catherine’s father. When his wife had died, he’d turned his daughters over to the care of a woman who had no notion of how to be a mother to them. She’d driven off one girl and tried to make the other into a replica of herself. Fortunately, Catherine’s character had been formed long before the straitlaced maiden aunt had come into her life. And now that Aunt Bea was gone, Catherine—the real Catherine—had come into her own again.
    There was only one thing that would make Mrs. McNally’s joy complete. She wanted Catherine to meet the right man, a gentleman who would appreciate Catherine’s fine mind and, at the same time, put his foot down and stop her reckless visits to places no lady should even know about.
    She held the cloak as Catherine
slipped
into it, then turned her around and did up the buttons. Taking a step back, she assessed the girl from head to toe. In her broad Scottish brogue she said, “Ah, lass, ye’re a bonny sight for these old eyes. Ye sly puss, with never a word to McNally or me. Go on with ye. He’s waiting downstairs.”
    Catherine was still turning this little speech over in her mind as she descended the stairs. Halfway down, she almost lost her footing. It wasn’t McNally who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, but Marcus.
    “I thought I’d surprise you,” he said, grinning up at her. She looked flustered, and that pleased him. He’d only just had time to recover his own balance. When he’d first caught sight of her, he’d