The beautiful Lilith Shelton would grace any man's table. And her father was to settle ten thousand on her.

Margaret Stockton had crooked teeth, but she'd bring eight thousand to her marriage bed, and she sang well, a pretty quality in a wife.

Elsbeth Woodward was only worth five thousand at the outside, but she was sweet-natured and most pleasant to look at, the sort of wife who wouldn't give a man a moment's trouble. Definitely a favorite.

Fanny Jennings was out of the running. The youngest Vandervelt boy had already spoken with her father. A pity, since she was worth eighteen thousand.

On and on it went, one girl after another. As the conversation began to drift to the latest boxing match, a Bostonian visitor interrupted. "Isn't there another I've heard talk about? A Southern girl? Older than the rest?" Twenty-one, he'd heard.

The men of New York avoided each other's eyes. Finally one of them cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. That would be Miss Weston."

Just then the orchestra began to play a selection from the newly popular Tales from the Vienna Woods, a signal that the members of the graduating class were about to be announced. The men fell silent as the debutantes appeared.

Dressed in white ball gowns, they came through the gazebo one by one, paused, and sank into a graceful curtsy. Following the appropriate applause, they glided down steps strewn with rose petals onto the ballroom floor and took the arm of their father or brother.

Elsbeth smiled so prettily that her brother's best friend, who until that moment had thought of her only as a nuisance, began to think again. Lilith Shelton tripped ever so slightly on the hem of her skirt and wanted to die, but she was a Templeton Girl, so she didn't let her mortification show. Margaret Stockton, even with her crooked teeth, looked fetching enough to garner the attention of a member of the less prosperous branch of the Jay family.

"Katharine Louise Weston."

There was an almost imperceptible movement among the gentlemen of New York City, a slight tilting of heads, a vague shifting of positions. The gentlemen of Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore sensed that something special was about to happen and fixed their attention more closely.

She came toward them from the shadows of the gazebo, then stopped at the top of the steps. They saw at once that she wasn't like the others. This was no tame tabby cat to curl up by a man's hearth and keep his slippers warm. This was a woman to make a man's blood surge, a wildcat with lustrous black hair caught back from her face with silver combs, then falling in a riotous tangle of thick dark curls down her neck. This was an exotic cat with widely spaced violet eyes so heavily fringed, the very weight of her lashes should have held them closed. This was a jungle cat with a mouth too bold for fashion but so ripe and moist that a man could only think of drinking from it.

Her gown was fashioned of white satin with a billowing overskirt caught up by bows the same shade of violet as her eyes. The neckline was heart-shaped, softly outlining the contours of her breasts, and the bell-shaped sleeves ended in a wide cuff of Alençon lace. The gown was beautiful and expensive, but she wore it almost carelessly. One of the lavender bows had come undone at the side, and the sleeves must have gotten in her way, because she'd pushed them a bit too high on her delicate wrists.

Hamilton Woodward's youngest son stepped forward as her escort for the promenade. The more critical guests observed that her stride was a shade too long-not long enough to reflect badly on the Academy, just long enough to be noted. Woodward's son whispered something to her. She tilted her head and laughed, showing small, white teeth. Each man who watched wanted that laugh to be his alone, even as he told himself that a more delicate young lady would perhaps not laugh quite so boldly. Only Elsbeth's father, Hamilton Woodward, refused to look at her.

Under cover of the music, the gentlemen from Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore demanded to know more about this Miss Weston.

The gentlemen from New York were vague at first.

Some talk that Elvira Templeton shouldn't have let a Southerner into the Academy so soon after the war, but she was the ward of the Hero of Missionary Ridge.

Their comments grew more personal. Quite something to look at. Hard to keep your eyes off her, in fact. But a dangerous sort of wife, don't you think? Older. A bit wild. Wager she wouldn't take the bit well at all. And how could a man hope to keep his mind on business with a woman like that waiting for him at home?

If she waited.

Gradually the gentlemen from Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore learned the rest of it. In the past six weeks Miss Weston had captured the interest of a dozen of New York's most eligible bachelors, only to reject them. These were men from the wealthiest families-men who would one day run the city, even the country-but she didn't seem to care.

As for those she did seem to favor… That was what galled the most. She picked the least likely men. Bertrand Mayhew, for example, who came from a good family but was virtually penniless and hadn't been able to make a decision on his own since his mother died. Then there was Hobart Cheney, a man with neither money nor looks, only an unfortunate stammer. The delicious Miss Weston's preferences were incomprehensible. She was passing over Van Rensselaers, Livingstons, and Jays for Bertrand Mayhew and Hobart Cheney.

The mothers were relieved. They very much enjoyed Miss Weston's company-she made them laugh and was sympathetic to their ailments. But she wasn't quite up to scratch as a daughter-in-law, was she? Forever tearing a flounce or losing a glove. Her hair was never entirely neat, always a lock tumbling about at her ears or curling at her temples. As for the bold way she looked one in the eye… refreshing, but at the same time discomposing. No, Miss Weston wouldn't make the right sort of wife for their sons at all.

Kit was aware of the opinion the society matrons had of her, and she didn't blame them for it. As a Templeton Girl, she even understood. At the same time, she didn't let it distract her from entertaining her partners with the breathless Southern conversation she'd perfected by calling up memories of the women in Rutherford. Now, however, her partner was poor Hobart Cheney, who was barely capable of maintaining a conversation under the best of circumstances, let alone when he was counting dance steps so vigorously under his breath, so she remained silent.

Mr. Cheney stumbled, but Elsbeth had coached her well for the past three years, and Kit led him back into the steps before anyone noticed. She also gave him her brightest smile so he wouldn't realize he was actually following her. Poor Mr. Cheney would never know how close he'd come to being her chosen husband. If he'd been a trifle less intelligent, she might have picked him because he was a sweet man. As it was, Bertrand Mayhew presented the better choice.

She glimpsed Mr. Mayhew standing off by himself, waiting for the first of two dances that she had promised him. She felt the familiar heaviness that settled over her whenever she looked at him, spoke with him, or even thought of him.

He wasn't much taller than she, and his belly protruded below the waistband of his trousers like a woman's. At forty, he'd lived his life in the shadow of his mother, and now that she was dead, he desperately needed a woman to take her place. Kit had decided she would be that woman.

Elsbeth was upset, pointing out that Kit could have any of a dozen eligible men who were both richer than Bertrand Mayhew and less distasteful. But Elsbeth understood. To get Risen Glory back, Kit needed power from her marriage, not riches, and a husband who expected her to behave like a properly submissive wife was of no use to her at all.

Kit knew it wouldn't be difficult to persuade Bertrand to use the money in her trust fund to buy back Risen Glory, nor would she have trouble convincing him to live there permanently. Because of that, she suppressed the part of her that wished she could have found a husband who was less repugnant. After the midnight supper, she would take him to the reception room to see the newest collection of stereoscopic views of Niagara Falls, and then she would lead him to the question. It wouldn't be difficult. Dealing with men had proved to be surprisingly easy. Within a month she would be on her way to Risen Glory. Unfortunately, she'd be married to Bertrand Mayhew.

She wasted no thought on the letter she'd received from Baron Cain the day before. She seldom heard from him, and then only to reprimand her over one of the quarterly reports he received from Mrs. Templeton. His letters were always formal and so dictatorial that she couldn't risk reading them in front of Elsbeth because they made her fall back on her old habits of profanity.

After three years, the mental ledger of her grievances against him had grown thick with entries. His latest letter ordered her without explanation to remain in New York until further notice. She intended to ignore it. Her life was about to become her own, and she'd never again let him stand in her way.

The music ended with a flourish, and instantly Bertrand Mayhew appeared at her side. "Miss-Miss Weston? I was wondering-that is to say, did you remember-"

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Mayhew." Kit tilted her head and gazed at him through her lashes, a gesture she had practiced for so long under Elsbeth's tutelage that it had become second nature. "My dear, dear Mr. Mayhew. I was afraid-terrified, in fact-that you'd forgotten me and gone off with one of the other young ladies."

"Oh, my, no! Oh, Miss Weston, how could you ever imagine I would do something so ungentlemanly? Oh, my stars, no. My dear mother would never have-"

"I'm sure she wouldn't." She excused herself prettily from Hobart Cheney, then linked her arm through Mr. Mayhew's, well aware that the gesture was overly familiar. "Now, now. No long face, you hear? I was only teasing."

"Teasing?" He looked as baffled as if she'd just announced she was going to ride naked down Fifth Avenue.

Kit repressed a sigh. The orchestra began to play a lively gallop, and she let him lead her into the dance. At the same time, she tried to shake off her depression, but a glimpse of Elsbeth's father made that difficult.

What a pompous fool! Over Easter, one of the lawyers at Hamilton Woodward's firm had drunk too much and accosted Kit in the Woodwards' music room. One touch of those slobbery lips, and she'd planted her fist in his belly. That would have been the end of it, but Mr. Woodward happened to come into the room just then. His business partner had lied and said Kit had been the aggressor. Kit had angrily denied it, but Mr. Woodward hadn't believed her. Ever since, he'd tried unsuccessfully to break up her friendship with Elsbeth, and all evening he'd been shooting her scalding glances.

She forgot about Mr. Woodward as she spotted a new couple entering the ballroom. Something familiar about the man caught her attention, and as the couple made their way to Mrs. Templeton to pay their respects, she recognized him. Oh, my…

"Mr. Mayhew, would you escort me over to Mrs. Templeton? She's speaking with someone I know. Someone I haven't seen for years."

The gentlemen from New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore noticed that Miss Weston had stopped dancing and looked to see what had caught her attention. With no small amount of envy, they studied the man who'd just entered the ballroom. What was it about the pale, thin stranger that had brought such an attractive flush to the cheeks of the elusive Miss Weston?

Brandon Parsell, former cavalry officer in South Carolina's famous "Hampton's Legion," had something of the look of an artist about him, even though he was a planter by birth and knew nothing about art beyond the fact that he liked that fellow who painted horses. His hair was brown and straight, combed from a side part over a fine, well-molded brow. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and conservative side whiskers.

It wasn't the kind of face that inspired easy camaraderie with members of his own sex. It was, instead, a face that women liked, as it brought to mind novels about chivalry and called up memories of sonnets, nightingales, and Grecian urns.

The woman at his side was Eleanora Baird, the plain, somewhat overdressed daughter of his employer. He acknowledged her introduction to Mrs. Templeton with a courtly bow and a well-chosen compliment. Listening to his easy Southern drawl, no one would have guessed the loathing he felt for all of them: the glittering guests, the imposing hostess, even the Northern spinster whom duty required he escort that evening.