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Miss Wesleyan descended the steps and extended one black-gloved hand toward the duke. Evan obligingly kissed her hand. “Miss Wesleyan. I look forward to an invigoratin’ afternoon.”

“As do I, Your Grace.” She practically purred in feline satisfaction as she snagged his arm and sidled up to him. She took Sophronie’s measure from her borrowed hat to her halfboots before gravitating her arctic regard to Evan’s sisters and other female relatives.

There was no love lost between them, and in fact, Sophronie detected a distinct glint of animosity in Miss Wesleyan’s cold blue eyes. A shudder scuttled from Sophronie’s waist to her nape when the woman turned her shrewd gaze upon her once more.

The dislike was instant, powerful, and wholly mutual.

Sophronie couldn’t fathom Evan marrying a woman who so blatantly disliked his family. He’d always be caught in the middle, trying to pacify his wife and appease his mother, aunts, sisters, and the rest. He’d never know a moment’s peace or contentment.

“I swear if Evan marries that she-cat, I’m off to live in a crofter’s cottage, roofless or no’,” grumbled Rosalind.

Her expression troubled, Sarah rolled a shoulder. “If he does wed her, she’ll make our lives hell, but Evan mustn’t know we feel this way. He carries enough burden. We’ll just have to pray harder that the Good Lord brings him a kind wife. Someone who fits in with our family.”

She took in her sisters’ grim features and Sophronie’s dubious look.

“It’s possible,” Sarah defended.

“Let me introduce ye to George and Sophronie Slater, Miss Wesleyan,” Evan said.

At once, Sophronie sought out her father. He was already nearly upon them, and as if sensing Sophronie’s unease, gave her a reassuring smile. Strain etched fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes. She had the unsettling feeling he’d pushed himself too early.

A brittle smile curving her rouged lips, Miss Wesleyan glided across the courtyard. Evan made the introductions, to which Miss Wesleyan responded with a glacial nod. In short order, everyone headed toward the festivities, Evan and their hosts’ daughter in the lead.

As they strolled toward the green and tents, Miss Wesleyan kept up a steady stream of conversation with Evan and pointedly ignored everyone else.

“Miss Slater?” the Dowager Duchess of Waycross called as she leaned upon her cane.

Sophronie slowed her pace and waited for the lady. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Please do tell me that ye are to attempt the hunter’s course today.” She slid Miss Wesleyan a sly, not entirely friendly glance. “Evan assures me ye are capable of winnin’.”

Had he indeed?

Precisely when had that fascinating conversation taken place?

Sophronie followed the dowager’s stare to find Miss Wesleyan and Evan had stopped. The young woman studied Sophronie with disturbing, spine-tingling intent.

Rarely did Sophronie have a forceful aversion to someone on sight. In truth, she couldn’t recall the phenomenon having ever happened before. But as God was her witness, her very spirit rebelled at being near Miss Wesleyan.

“I ken ye are an accomplished horsewoman and have won many a race.” The dowager bobbed her head toward Lady Larimore. “What say ye, Canne? Can our Miss Slater take the prize today?”

Lady Larimore swung her gaze between the dowager, Miss Wesleyan, and Sophronie twice before a slow grin spread across her wrinkled face.

Oh, you wicked, wicked tabbies.

Sophronie knew precisely what they were up to. They were making a May game of Miss Wesleyan and having a bit of fun at Sophronie’s expense too.

“Why, Lizabeth, I dinna ken. Evan, is yer American competin’?” Lady Larimore asked with false guilelessness. “I may break my own rule and wager on the outcome if she is.”

“Aye, me as well, Canne.” A smile wreathed the dowager’s wrinkled face, pleating it like the folds of a fan. “Sure things are so rare, I’d be a numpty no’ to, ye ken.”

Miss Wesleyan’s eyes shrank into shrewd slits as she raked her antagonistic gaze over Sophronie.

“You race, Miss Slater?” she asked with such haughty disdain and exaggerated disbelief, she might’ve asked if Sophronie bathed regularly.

“I do.” Let the banshee make of that what she would.

“Odd.” Miss Wesleyan puzzled her brow in exaggerated confusion. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the entry form. Or perhaps hunter’s courses in America are not as taxing as those in Scotland, and you were afraid to give it a go?” Her curved lips slid into a serpent’s deceitful smile. “Completely understandable.”