Chapter Five
 . . .five golden rings. . .

Kathy L Wheeler

      Bartholomew Dixon, Viscount Weston, future Earl of Hartley, leaned a shoulder against the wall, one ankle crossing the other. Hand in his pocket, he fingered the four golden rings he’d already garnered by way of seduction. All he required was the fifth to win the bloody asinine wager one of the leaping lords of Boodles had challenged him to. Victory was but a hairsbreadth away.
    He glanced about the elaborately decorated hall with its myriad candles and greenery that covered every post, archway, and tabletop, searching out his final quarry. Lady Evelyn Powell. It shouldn’t be difficult. Her flaxen hair would be piled high, and those cool blue eyes would flash their mocking humor.  But cared naught, all he required was the ring.
      Evelyn was a lovely enough widow. Though he knew she was uninterested, he was in need of a mistress and she was the perfect solution. The perfect solution in keeping his wayward thoughts from a certain Swann God seemed fit to punish him with since he'd set eyes on her at her come-out last season.
     He preferred experience, not innocence. Evelyn was not so young as to speak only about the weather and current fashions. Lord Powell was rumored to have been somewhat less than skillful in the bedchamber, and Bartholomew could offer her satisfaction in that area.
     Unfortunately, it was Philipa Swann's enticing purity that kept him awake at night. Had him tempted to throw aside all caution to make her his. The noose about his neck tightened when he thought of wedding and bedding that bewitching chit. Because a wedding is what it would take to bed her. He was not ready to make that leap.
     Evelyn's  ice cold demeanor, she wore a coat of armor, was but a small hurdle. One little kiss as he took possession of the fifth golden ring might change her mind in taking him for a lover. The ring would satisfy the terms of that blasted wager. He scowled. One he’d had no business making in that inebriated state two weeks past. By acquiring five golden rings and escaping the confines of marriage he would become two hundred pounds richer by midnight this Christmas night.
     Not surprisingly, it had taken less than ten days to collect the first four rings. He’d called on each of the previous four birds separately, spent an hour or thereabouts charming her. A few caresses later—sometimes more—brought him one ring closer to his goal. But it was that fifth ring that remained so elusive, trumping up the idea in dashing off a missive to Lady Powell flat out requesting it.
     Her response returned quickly enough.

My dearest Bartie, Whatever have you gotten yourself into now? But of course you are welcome to  my golden ring. I have no use for it. But as I am leaving for Pemberton Manor, in moments, actually, I shall just bring it along. Their annual Christmas Ball, you know. Surely, you’ve been invited. Not to worry, my friend. 

I remain forever, your devoted friend,
E.

     “I say, Weston, what are you about? Practically hiding behind the potted trees, are you?” Lord Griffith was more bumbling than the rogue he’d been since their days at Cambridge, his large frame having already morphed into a rounded middle. A bushy mustache compensated for the receding hairline. Lady Griffith’s early demise left Griffith without an heir and his friend in dire need of a new wife.
     Bartholomew covered his shudder with a smirk. “I’m just awaiting my prey. Sooner or later all the ladies must make their way to the retiring room.”
     “Ah, you expect Lady Powell will just hand over the fifth golden ring?”
     “That’s exactly what he expects,” Nathaniel Huntington, Duke of Hastings said, walking up. “Have you spotted the merry widow yet, Weston? You’ve only another two hours to fulfill the terms of your bet, you know.”
     “I caught a glimpse of her with the dowager Rowland, the old crow.” He scowled. “Her silver gown is quite fetching.”
     “Egads,” Griffith said. “There is Cockswood. Bah, I knew him before he was titled and just John Henry Edward Swann, now he struts as though he owns the place with his seven ducklings in tow.”
     Bartholomew chuckled even as something in his chest squeezed constricting the air to his lungs. The procession of light pastels meandering by was a fascinating sight. All seven chits were dressed in a veritable rainbow of soft shades except for Lady Theodosia. She was pushing the unseemly age of thirty, and permitted to wear a more becoming shade of forest green. As the eldest, she led the pack beside her father, the Earl of Cockswood.
     The twins, dressed identically in pale rose, were the Ladies Georgette and Edwina. It was impossible to tell one from the other even close up. Each flanked another sister, whose name escaped him. And yet another trio of Swanns followed just behind. One looked as if trouble were her middle name and still belonged in the schoolroom. Catherine, he thought. The girl was known as a hoyden, though she’d dressed up to snuff this eve in a modest lavender. Charlotte looked a gentle soul. Too sweet for the likes of him, however, with that expression that appeared so awed by her surroundings. But for his cynical nature he thought he detected a hidden depth of pluck.
     But then his eyes settled on Lady Philipa, along with the familiar rush of longing. He savored the sight as she stood between her two younger sisters. His glance slid over her lithe form. Bartholomew straightened from the wall and pulled his hand from his pocket. Silvery blond locks arranged in an elaborately high coif framed a pert nose and slightly pointed chin. She had a stubborn air about her that did not spell ladylike compliance. She would keep a man on his toes or he would pay a hefty price. A challenge he planned on taking up once he'd taken care of this blasted wager business.
     Her gown, though still considered pastel in its soft blue, shimmered like spun silk. Hell, it probably was spun silk. With each step she took the color seemed to shift from blue to gray, almost silver, in the glow of candlelight. He frowned at the daringly low cut that showed a creamy bosom that beckoned him.
    A wave of disgust went through him at the onslaught of lust firing his blood, and he said somewhat harshly, “Mind you don’t get caught alone with one. It’s no secret Cockswood is set to rid himself of that flock. Every one of those seven Swanns is a potential trap.”
     Hastings shook his head in mock sympathy. “And, not a single male in the bunch.”
     A sudden need for air attacked Bartholomew. “Excuse me gentlemen, whilst I locate Lady Powell. She has the one thing I require this eve,” he muttered.

                                                                           ****

     “Quit gawking, Lottie. You act as if you’d never set foot in a ballroom before.” Lady Philipa Swann was sandwiched between her sisters, Catherine and Charlotte, the two closest to her in age. She brushed fingers over another boring blue-hued gown. She abhorred the light colors. Marriage was tempting if only to allow one to don more flattering colors.
     “For heaven’s sake, Pippa,” Cat said. “You’re just angry because you’re sick of blue. Don’t take it out on poor Lottie. Besides you look lovely. The light on that silk makes it almost appear pewter.”
     “That, of course, is so much better,” she returned. “What kind of name is pewter, besides?”
     Eleanor, their next eldest sister, disengaged her arms from the twins, turned, and whispered from behind her fan, “Good heavens, was Papa aware of all the scoundrels invited to Pemberton’s this year?”
     “Scoundrels?” Lottie squeaked. “Where?” Her breathless fascination was another worry entirely. Though Pippa had trouble believing in the wide-eyed innocence Lottie always managed to convey.
     “Lower your voice, Lottie,” Pippa snapped.
     “What on earth do you suppose the Pembertons were thinking?” Nora said. “Mind what Pippa says, Lottie.” A light shudder touched her shoulders.
     “Perhaps Papa was in on the planning,” Pippa said to Nora. “He has seven daughters to mete out after all. I suppose he and Mama are quite worn out with the lot of us.”
     “Don’t look now, but I do believe the Duke of Hastings has shifted his attention our way,” Cat whispered.
     “The man is nearing forty if he’s a day,” Pippa said crossly. “I have no desire to marry an old man.”
     “Forty!” Lottie exclaimed.
     Cat had the nerve to giggle. “He’s thirty-six, you silly goose. Very attractive too,” she murmured.
     Pippa rolled her eyes, though it was the one thing that peeved Papa beyond endurance. That, and tapping one’s slipper with any show of impatience.
     “Philipa,” he barked.
     “Sorry, Papa,” she said with the appropriate contriteness. Sometimes she thought he had eyes in the back of his head.
     Unable to resist, Pippa glanced over her shoulder at the Duke of Hastings. She did not find the duke so attractive as the man beside him, whose firm lips held a trace of mockery.
     She turned back to Nora.“Who is the duke’s friend?” Ha! She knew exactly who he was. Viscount Weston. It wouldn't do in letting her sisters know, however. She'd danced with him before. Once. Her lower back still burned with the imprint of his hand from her one allotted waltz. Or perhaps she was just a romanticizing, idealistic fool. His dark hair was pulled back at the nape, his eyes a stormy gray. They bore right through her. A shiver of stark awareness skittered down her spine.
     “That’s Lord Griffith,” Nora said.
     Before she could stop herself, Pippa’s eyes rose upward again. “Not him.” She looked quickly at Lottie. “Do not get trapped by Lord Griffith, Lottie. The man’s on the prowl for a new wife. And he cares little of her age, beauty, or health. Well, perhaps, health is taking it a step far. He needs an heir.”
     Lottie nodded, wide-eyed.
     Stifling the urge to roll her eyes again, Pippa turned back to Nora. “Well?”
     “That’s Viscount Weston. He’s regularly banned from polite society.” It was Cat who answered softly. “He’s a rake of the worst sort. It’s said he seduced four golden rings from four different women in the past ten days. The wager supposedly requires five.”
     Pippa gaped at her younger sister. “Good heavens, Cat, how came you to know such things? It’s most unladylike.” Pippa tapped her foot, thinking.
     “Philipa!”
     Her foot stilled. “Sorry, Papa.” She glanced back over her shoulder. The viscount was gone.
     A solid hour of dancing, and not a single step with the notorious Weston, to Pippa's profound dismay. Her slippered feet were killing her to the point where she was forced to escape the watchful eyes of her six siblings and over protective sire. She snuck away to the retiring room located atop the stairs.
    Blessed quiet met her as there was only one other occupant. Pippa recognized her as one of the French hens (known for their lovely fashion, not pastels). She was beautiful in her lovely silver gown and blond hair, similar in shade to Pippa’s own. She stood before the mirror staring intently at something in her hand.
     “It’s quite stifling, is it not?” Pippa said, dropping down onto a luxurious settee. She slipped off her shoes and let out a rush of breath.
     So lovely she was, Pippa noted from beneath her lashes. Her arranged hair resembled Pippa’s too, the difference only being the twinkling of articulately placed jewels.
     She turned to Pippa. “It is indeed,” she said. “You are one of Lord Cockswood’s duck—daughters?”
     Pippa narrowed her gaze at the near slip. “Yes, I’m Philipa.”
     “I am Lady Powell. I am thrilled to make your acquaintance.”
     “Likewise.” Pippa’s eyes were drawn to Lady Powell’s fingers that moved to and fro over on some small object she held.
     A slight smiled hovered on Lady Powell’s lips. She looked from her hand back to Pippa.
     Warmth infused Pippa’s cheeks to be caught staring so. “I’m sorry, Lady Powell,” she stammered.
     A strange light came into her cool blue eyes that raised the hair at Pippa’s nape. “That’s quite all right, my dear.” She opened her hand, displaying a golden band.
     Pippa swallowed and looked up at Lady Powell confused. “Your wedding band?” The fifth golden ring?
She lifted one shoulder. “At one time.” Lady Powell stared at her hand. “Do you wish to marry, Lady Philipa?”
     “Well, yes, of course,” she answered slowly. A vision of Weston filled her muddled brain.
     “I do believe this ring shall bring you wondrous luck.” She reached for Pippa’s hand and dropped the small gold band. She then closed Pippa’s fingers over it with her own. It was hot to the touch.
     “I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift.” Pippa said, shocked.
     “Of course, you can, my dear. As I said, I no longer need, nor want it.” And before Pippa could blink Lady Powell swept through the door and out of sight.

                                                                           ****

     The crisp, chilled night air was just what Bartholomew required. He breathed in deep; reveled in the biting sting that helped settle the rush of lust that had blindsided him when he set eyes on Lady Philipa. She was a child! But, oh how he wanted her.
     Beastly it was that Griffith happened to know each and every one of those seven Swanns by name, age, and prospect. Griffith's soul was as black as his own, and Bartholomew had to clench his fist to keep from planting it in his friend’s bulbous nose.
     With renewed resolve, he vowed to get Evelyn’s gold ring, present all five to the ten leaping lords—as annoying a group of men as he’d ever known—collect his winnings and disappear before need overpowered common sense.
     He took one last piercing breath and propelled his way back into the stuffy ballroom, carefully adhering to the shadows.
     He scrutinized the crush of couples crowding the dance floor. He spotted several of the Swann siblings, not Philipa, before shifting his gaze to the French hens. Evelyn was absent, damn it. He’d missed her.
     The retiring room was atop the staircase, and he edged his way that direction. The lighting was sparse, but then he saw her descending slowly. Grinning, he decided her inattentiveness would serve him nicely, indeed. He caught the glint of gold in her slender hand and heightened desire gripped him. The silver gown she wore shimmered like molten moonlight against a snow covered ground.
     Something deep within tightened. He’d always thought her lovely, but enchanted? Yet, that was exactly his sentiment. He reached the foot of the stairs just as she did, and before she touched the last step, he wrapped her by the waist and had her ensconced within the nearest alcove.
     Her quick gasp was muffled by his lips covering hers. He groaned. Evelyn was very tasty, the ideal anecdote for quenching his lust for Lady Philipa. Hot, damp heat enveloped him with sweetness a man could only dream. Though she’d been married for long on seven years, if memory served, her mouth felt untried. Her resistance was short-lived, and to his greatest relief, her arms twined about his neck, her body pressing into his.
     Bartholomew traced plum-plumped lips with his tongue, and when she gasped in shock, he seized the  advantage. His pulse raced with the unexpected vulnerability he sensed in her. Mayhap it was time he considered marriage and his own future lineage. In concerted effort, because that was what it took, he finally tore his mouth from hers.
     Her forehead fell against his chest, her body heaving with rapid breaths. Soft scented lilacs assaulted his senses. She seemed more slight in build than he remembered, but he'd never held her this close. A sudden desperation for her surged through his blood. He was ready, he realized, for more than a quick tumble in the bedchamber. An unsettling predilection. “I wish to marry you,” he whispered.
     She stilled. The heated air he’d felt against his chest stalled.
     “Darling, you brought the ring?”
     After a long harrowing pause, she nodded hesitantly. Her arms fell from his neck, and a sharp coolness replaced the warmth. Head down, she distanced herself from his embrace. His eyes fastened on the fisted fingers she raised. In agonizing slowness, she opened her hand. There, gleaming like fire, rested the fifth golden ring. He was now two hundred pounds richer.
     “I suppose I shall have to marry you now,” she whispered, lifting her head.
     And just like that, the money slipped from his grasp, but somehow it ceased to matter. He still wanted her. Forever.
     Heat prickled his skin. Her voice sounded different—warm, trusting. He raised his gaze from her palm,  meeting the shocked mien of—Lady Philipa Swann.
     She couldn't be more shocked than him, Or thrilled. He lost himself in those blue eyes and pulled her back into his arms, a wild reckless grin consuming him. “Yes, I suppose you shall,” he whispered, and kissed her again.


http://kathylwheeler.com
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Editor: Ally Roberts

Look for the sixth installment of My True Love Gave To Me tomorrow
...six geese a laying...

My True Love Gave to Me… …four calling birds

Chapter Four
... four calling birds ...

Christy Gronlund and Heidi Vanlandingham

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Lady Catherine Swann sighed. The elegant young lady staring back at her would make her family proud. There was one problem, however. She was the youngest of Lord and Lady Cockswoods’ seven daughters—and most definitely not elegant nor a lady. Only eighteen, she had no wish to find a suitable husband. She wanted to see the world, not raise babies. She picked up her small, satin reticule, and wrapped it around her wrist then turned to face her sister. "I guess it will have to do."

Pippa frowned. "What are you talking about? You look quite proper. While I..."

Cat ignored her sister, knowing she only wanted to hear how pretty she was. “My dress is the problem.”

Pippa frowned. “I see nothing amiss. You are just being silly. Well? How do I look?"

"You know very well you look beautiful. Stop fishing for compliments, Pippa dear, it is unbecoming." She laughed at Pippa's quick scowl and walked over to her older sibling to give her cheek a quick buss.

“Catherine Swann—now look what you've done! One cheek has more color so I will be forever pinching so they look the same," Pippa wailed.

A sharp knock at the door stopped Cat's low, throaty chuckle. Turning, she found the dour-faced maid assigned for their stay filling the doorway. "Yes, Mrs. White?"

The woman thrust her thick arm toward Cat and handed her several folded pieces of thick vellum. “Your mother wants you to have these before you arrive downstairs, and she insists you transfer them to your dance card this time.” Message delivered, Mrs. White turned on her heel and clomped back down the hallway.

Cat stared at the cards, her mouth drawn into a small moue.

Pippa glanced at her. "What is it? You look as if you bit into sour fruit."

Cat held out the cards. "Here, you can have these."

Pippa rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "No, I have my own right here." She patted the small purse tied at her wrist then pointedly gazed at the items in Cat’s white-knuckled grip. “Those are for your dance card."

"That's what I was afraid of." Cat sighed. "Who must I suffer through tonight?" She flipped the cards open and stared. "This is horrible! How could Mother do this to me?" She stomped her slippered foot on the thick rug-covered mahogany floor. "I will not dance with these men. I want to have some fun, not fight my way through the evening," she wailed.

"For shame, Cat," Pippa reprimanded. “A lady doesn’t fight her way through anything. We simply make the best of a bad situation.”

Cat looked back down at the now trembling card. “The first four names are the Marquess of Finch, Lord Starling, the Earl of Kingfisher, and Lord Swift.” She moaned. “The evening is ruined.”

Her sister bit her bottom lip. “Oh dear. Well, that is bad.” She wrapped an arm around Cat and walked her out of their room. “As Father would say at a time like this, ‘Where’s that spirit I’m so fond of, little kitten?’ Never understood it myself, but for some reason, you always laugh then conquer whatever problem arises.”

Cat halted at the bottom of the stairs and shoved back her shoulders. “I have decided my pale lavender gown isn’t so awful anymore. Under the candlelight of the ballroom, it will actually look like a ghastly grey, which suits my mood perfectly.” With her nose flared and lips pressed into a thin line, she marched into the crowded ballroom. “Time to deal with those four calling birds.”

*  *  *

Lord Richard Sefton, Earl of Saxonhurst regarded the men sitting at the faro table. He couldn’t help but think of his older brother, dead this past year because of London’s notorious gaming tables. What a shambles he’d left their father’s estate in—almost bankrupt. The Lord Chancellor had given him one year to return their lands to solvency. The task had not been easy but he had worked hard, finally paying off the final creditor two weeks ago today.

Raucous laughter accompanied the placing of new wagers. He turned away in disgust.

“Saxonhurst!”

Richard groaned. He had forgotten Thomas Worthington would be in attendance. Taking a small sip of port, he watched his old military acquaintance shuffle across the room.

“About time you showed your face at one of these things!” With a wide grin, Thomas accepted a glass of port from a beetle-browed butler then clapped Richard on the shoulder, almost spilling the remaining liquid in his own small cup.  “Missed you at the Abbey. Been a dreadful bore this past year. Hell-Fire Club hasn’t been the same without you. ” Thomas took a large swig of port and wiped the remaining liquid from his thin lips with the back of one hand. The man’s manners were positively dreadful.

Hoping to escape, Richard ambled from the card room toward the ballroom. With luck, he’d lose Thomas amidst the crush of people. To his dismay, the man remained unshakable. He listened with half an ear to the other’s incessant chatter. Richard glanced about the dimly lit room, taking in the decorations—dark green garland-wound banister and columns. The room was draped to resemble a bloody forest. Heavy sprigs of mistletoe tied with elegant gold ribbons hung above the room’s two arched doorways and he made note to avoid those spots.

“So who has stolen your attention from our little club?” Thomas’s voice boomed at his ear.

“Not who but what. I’ve had to settle my brother’s estate, which took longer than I expected.” After a quick sip of port, he continued. “Believe me when I say I have sorely missed the light-hearted fun our little Hell-Fire Club offers. I was actually at the club a fortnight ago. Happened to be on hand to stop a young trespasser.” He rubbed the sore area on his thigh at the memory.

“Were you injured, Saxonhurst?” Thomas asked.

Richard forced his hand away from the aching bruise. “Not really. The lad put up quite a fight. Ended up giving my leg a good kick with his boot. It’s nothing really.”

Candlelit shadows danced among the patrons milling around the ballroom. He watched as a rather long procession of women made their way through the crowd toward the ball’s hosts. He spared only a quick glance as each girl passed—until his gaze fell on the last. A slip of a girl, thin and willowy in her light silvery gown. Tiny diamonds woven into her dark brown braid sparkled brilliantly in the room’s flickering light. Her dark eyes were large and wide-set, giving her an elvish air. He nudged Thomas, who was still babbling about some military skirmish. “Do you know her?”

“Know who?”

Richard gestured toward the beautiful girl. “That one—in the silver gown. Do you know her?”

Thomas followed the direction of his finger then shrugged. “That’s one of Lord Cockswood’s brood. The youngest. Catherine, I think her name is. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. Is this her first season?”

Thomas chuckled. “No. If I remember correctly, she came of age last season. Are you sure there’s no interest?”

He shook his head, ignoring the quickened beat of his heart. “No, just curiosity. Which of the lot belongs to Cockswood?”

Thomas snickered. “All of them. The poor man has seven daughters.”

Richard choked. “Damn! Poor sap. One woman in the family is bad enough but seven?”

He swigged the last of his port and set the empty glass on a passing butler’s tray. Turning, he found himself staring into the decadent brown gaze of Lady Catherine Swann. He pressed the palm of one hand across his waist and gave her a slight bow then forced himself to walk away.

*  *  *

Cat watched the gentleman walk way, noticing his slight limp as he made his way toward a group of ladies. His brilliant blue eyes, although hidden under a bored scowl, had taken her breath away. His thick, blond hair defied fashion, curling underneath the bottom of his upright collar. She could just make out the gold and cream-striped waistcoat layered underneath his black woolen tailcoat. The firm muscles of his thighs tightened and relaxed as he moved, giving him a fine figure—a very fine figure indeed—and distinctly reminiscent of a swashbuckler. She perused his full magnificence and then a queasy sensation rumbled in her stomach. She had met him before tonight. A slight frown touched his face and she was now certain of where she had met him.

“He is the scoundrel who tossed me out of the Abbey.”

“What Abbey?” Lady Cecile Barrington peered around her then laughed as she glimpsed Cat’s expression. “You look as if you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t.”

Cat grabbed her friend and pulled her over to stand beside one of the room’s four massive pillars. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course!” Ceely fluttered her fan to hide her mouth as she spoke.

“I did something quite daring.”

Wide-eyed, Ceely leaned in closer. “What? Oh Cat, what did you do?”

“I went to Medmenham Abbey disguised as a boy.”

“You. Did. Not!” She snapped her fan closed. “Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours, Catherine Swann. Why would you do something so scandalous?”

“I couldn’t help myself. During a ball at Almack’s, I overheard my sister Georgie talking with a group of her friends about the Abbey. It’s supposedly the meeting place of the notorious Hell-Fire Club.”

Ceely let out a small squeal then clamped her hand over her mouth, her words jumbling together until Cat removed her hand. “…They are rapscallions and blackguards. Terrible things go on during their meetings. I overheard my brother one time saying they carried on with doxies and light skirts all the time.” She slapped at Cat’s hand. “How could you? Without even telling me you were going.”

“My endeavor wasn’t as fruitful as I hoped. Before I even got inside the Abbey, a man caught me and threw me out.”

“Who threw you out?” Ceely’s delicate brows drew together.

“He did.” Cat pointed toward the blond miscreant. “Ceely, you know everyone. Tell me who he is.”

“Why, that is Lord Richard Sefton, Earl of Saxonhurst." Ceely sighed. “Is he not one of the finest men here? He has the most striking blue eyes.”

Cat watched as Lord Saxonhurst led a pretty brunette into the fray of dancers. Not wanting to watch anymore, she turned and ran into a very thick, mushy chest.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, but I do believe my name has been written down for the first dance.” He attempted a wobbly bow then just stood staring at her somewhat slack jawed. Cat rolled her eyes at Ceely then let The Marquess of Finch lead her onto the dance floor.  She pasted a smile on her face but her cheeks soon began to twitch. He took her hand and turned her around under his arm. Cat scrambled for something witty to say but her brain seemed frozen. The Marquess’s hand felt absolutely disgusting wrapped around hers, slick with sweat and he smelled like a horse. It was the smell that did her in.  Her stomach rebelled and she swallowed, desperately trying not to embarrass herself by losing her supper on his shoes.

"I say, are you well, Lady Catherine?" She heard the concern in his voice but could only shake her head slowly from side to side as her vision wavered. Nausea rose as his fetid breath washed over her face, filling her nose with the stench of garlic and the bitter smell of wine. Did the man never wash his mouth? Just as she was about to pass out, a strong hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her a few steps from the marquess. She gulped in her rescuer’s wonderful woodsy scent.  

“I believe I have the next dance,” a deep baritone interrupted and before she could catch a glimpse of his face, he had whirled her away from the repulsive man.

“Are you… You are not Lord Starling, sir.”

“I believe a thank you is in order for my rescuing you.” The man smiled and some of her indignation melted away. What a lovely smile, she thought then mentally slapped herself.

“If you will excuse me, Lord Saxonhurst. I am in need of the retiring room.” She whirled around and made her way through the crush toward the stairwell leading to the upstairs retiring room. No sooner had she placed one foot on the first step than an unfamiliar male voice addressed her from behind.

“Lady Catherine Swann? My name is Lord Starling. I believe we are scheduled for the next dance?”

Sighing, she turned and felt like laughing. Lord Starling was toothpick thin and almost a head shorter than she was. “I am sorry, Lord Starling, but I am a bit overcome from my last dance.”

His head bobbed up and down like a speckled hen in the farmyard. He took hold of her hand, patting it with his bony one until she wanted to scream. “I understand. I understand. Quite taxing really, dancing.” He led her to a doorway she had not noticed before. “I believe a bit of a rest in the drawing room would be just the thing.”

She tightly pressed her lips together and followed him inside the room, dimly lit with only one wall lamp. Lord Starling placed her on the dark-colored mahogany sofa then practically sat down in her lap. With her arms and hands protecting her face and upper body from his lecherous hands, she let out a squeal and tried to push him off her, quickly realizing he had her at a disadvantage.

“I believe you have overstayed your welcome, my good man.” a familiar voice growled above her, lifting the offensive man off her. She heard a solid thud and then she was hustled back through the door almost as fast as she had entered.

“What is the matter with people tonight!” Cat exclaimed.

“Do you always bring out the best in people like this?”

Cat glanced up at his face and caught the minute hardening of his features as if some errant thought had angered him. “How is it you keep appearing to rescue me? Are you following me?” She stood her ground, her foot tapping restlessly.

“I believe it’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Will I receive your thanks this time?” He had the audacity to grin at her, the rogue.

Cat squinted, not quite sure if she should trust him. After the last two male encounters, she wasn’t sure she could trust any man. Shaking her head, she backed away. Returning to the ballroom to find Ceely or one of her sisters, she instead found her third dance partner.

“You received my calling card, I presume? I am Albert Aldin, the Earl of Kingfisher.” He made a wide flourish with his arm and bowed, kissing the back of her hand. So far, so good. Well mannered is positive.

“Yes, thank…” she began.

He took his arm and urged her toward the stairs. “I find dancing intolerable. My private rooms are much preferable."

Cat’s jaw dropped. Had this dreadful man truly asked her to his room? Horrified, she fled across the room and was caught by her fourth caller, to whom her mother had already introduced her—the Baron of Swift. With a hand pressed against her rapidly beating heart, she retreated into the warm solarium, taking no heed of the many perfumed plants and trees filling the room. A hand grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her to a quick stop. Adrenalin took over and she fought back, kicking and hitting. Sensing his withdrawal, she gave him one last kick in the groin, which dropped him to the ground in a dead faint.

Thinking only of escape, she raced through the maze of fauna in her frantic bid for freedom. Somehow, she had once again found herself in a completely unacceptable situation. 

“Cat! Slow down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

 She glanced over her shoulder and stopped, staring in amazement at the cool demeanor of the man strolling toward her. Her handsome rescuer. She frowned at his smiling face. “What are you doing here? Again, I might add!”

He chuckled and her insides danced. “Again no thank you for rescuing you?” He raised his hand and moved a wayward strand of hair off her nose, tucking it behind one ear. “This is becoming quite a habit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

He quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t like the smirk slowly curling one side of his mouth. “Yes, I can see that, judging by Kingfisher’s moans. However, I think it would be much better, and definitely safer, if I took care of you. Unless you prefer your four calling birds?”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Good heavens, no!” She tilted her head as if studying him. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you want take care of me?”

He leaned closer, cupping her cheek with his hand. “Because I do, sweet Catherine.”

“But…” He covered her lips with his finger.

“I have been drawn to your side all evening and couldn’t figure out why. I came to this ball tonight at the request of my mother who couldn’t make the trip. I stayed for you. The moment I saw your well-placed kick I counted myself a lucky man as you were the one who kicked me at the Abbey.” He chuckled again. The slow, caressing motion of his thumb across her lips caused her tummy to tumble. “You need a strong man to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Cat arched one brow. “I will never walk the straight and narrow.” Her breath whispered across his thumb.

 He grinned wickedly, “I know.”

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Please join us tomorrow for the next chapter of My True Love Gave to Me ~ Five Golden Rings.