Honor's Players (13 page)

A soft knock on his door was met with a distracted command to enter.

Elizabeth hesitated, her hand a hair’s breadth away from the latch. In all honesty, she failed to remember precisely why she stood there, her errand superfluous in her own mind. She steeled herself to resume her cool, withdrawn mien and briskly opened the door.

“Justin—” His name died on her lips, her breath coming in a ragged gasp. He stood in the flickering glow cast by the fire, naked from the waist up. His smoothly muscled back was to her as he bent forward, stirring the embers.

She had never seen a man without his shirt save in statues and paintings. She blinked rapidly in surprise.

St. Ryne jerked up at the sound of his name, turning swiftly, poker in hand.

A sensual heat pumped erratically through Elizabeth, suffusing her face, running down through her loins, stirring up a maelstrom of emotions from deep within. She felt unaccountably light-headed. The light and shadows cast by the fire sharply defined the muscles in his arms and shoulders and glinted off the curling mat of dark hair spread across his chest and descending in a V to his flat stomach. Her hand slowly rose from her side with a mind of its own and a desire to touch his chest; her nails aching to graze his naked shoulders as he’d promised at that fateful Amblethorp rout. Like waking from a drugged sleep, she lifted her eyes from his chest to his face to find her surprise mirrored in his eyes.

Very slowly he set the poker down by the hearth, moving as if afraid to startle a bird to flight. He glided to her side, his heart pounding in his chest. “Bess,” he whispered, for he recognized the desire and confusion in her eyes. He felt giddy, as if he should be shouting for joy, but he contained himself for this exotic bird could still take flight. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close to him. Her hands settled tentatively against his chest.

His head bent, slowly closing the distance with hers. In panic she realized he intended to kiss her. “No!” she moaned, all too clearly remembering when last they kissed, fear of her response to him rapidly supplanting the desire in her eyes. Her fingers curled into fists and weakly her eyelids fluttered shut.

She felt his lips lightly settle on her temple then withdraw, her hands falling from his chest as he stepped away. She swayed slightly, then her eyes flew open to see him pick up his discarded shirt to slip it on. Two bright spots of color stained her cheeks.

“I—I came to inform you the grooms’ quarters in the stable are quite uninhabitable. Your groom will have to sleep in the servant rooms here in the house. I have directed Mrs. Atheridge to have a room prepared but I didn’t know how many to expect. I normally wouldn’t bother you with servant details; however, Mrs. Atheridge seems incapable of independent thought.” She was babbling and she knew it. She compressed her lips tightly for her husband was studying her with a thoroughly masculine, arrogant smile slashing across his face.

“Just Grigs and Cranston at the moment. I have already spoken to Grigs on the condition of the stable, and though he sniffed like a superior butler, he is prepared to accommodate himself as necessary.” He answered lighty but his eyes remained intent upon her.

“Very well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll leave you now and see you at dinner.”

Elizabeth, calmer, appeared to have regained her dignity. St. Ryne watched her leave, pleased with the encounter. He discovered to his delight that his lady wife was not completely the mistress of her emotions for he’d glimpsed the edges of suppressed passion. Patience would come easily now, he decided, for he was sure of success. A sudden frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. There was still the problem of her shrewish temperament with other people. On that problem it would bode well to step carefully.

Once out of the suffocating proximity of St. Ryne, a new iron determination to distance herself emotionally from him swept through Elizabeth. She paced her room restlessly. She hated the realization that he could make her knees weak with a touch or a look while he felt nothing. He acted the large cat playing with its prey. Why had he come back, to complete her humiliation? For all her shrewish sins of the past, did she deserve such treatment?

The only time she had felt confident dealing with St. Ryne was the evening she came down to dinner in the altered gown. Her eyes widened. Of course, how stupid she was to forget! Justin was not completely immune to her charms for she’d proven it to herself that night. Poor Hattie told her often enough that a body caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, but her words had fallen on deaf ears, until now.

Her wardrobe was stuffed with her gowns from home. Impatiently she sorted through them. The insipid white muslins she should discard. She must remember to ask Mary if there were any young girls in the area in need of such dresses. Unfortunately the rest of her gowns were not much better. There were, perhaps, two gowns that offered promise: a red velvet that had been made up for a theater excursion that she had bowed out of at the last moment pleading a headache, and a dark blue watered silk which, after it was delivered, Lady Romella had decided was too dark a color for an unmarried woman. Though neither neckline was as vulgarly low as the one she’d fashioned for the gray gown, the colors did her better service. She chose the blue silk, deciding the red may yet be too strong a color. Her campaign must start subtly, she thought with a small smile.

“That repast, my dear, was as good as any prepared by a London chef,” St. Ryne praised as he conducted Elizabeth to the library after dinner. “You are to be congratulated.”

“Yes, I believe we are fortunate in Mary.”

He guided her to a chair then turned to pour after-dinner drinks. “Where did you find this paragon?”

“At one of the tenant farms.” She pulled some needlework from a tapestry bag by the chair.

“The tenant farms?” He had inferred from what Atheridge said that she did not get along with their tenants.

“Yes. You seem surprised.” She threaded her needle and bent her head to the canvas.

“Oh, no, not at all. What are you about there?”

A faint smile traced her lips. “This is a seat cover for a chair in the hall.”

He set a glass of Madeira on the table at her elbow, staring down at her a moment.

“Justin, please, you’re in my light.”

“I beg your pardon.” He walked away to the other chair then swung around to the mantle to remove the candlestick and place it by her side. “You need more light for that work,” he muttered before taking his seat.

Elizabeth thanked him serenely.

St. Ryne found himself well contented to sit and watch her sew by candlelight. A warm glow surrounded her, and St. Ryne was struck by her exquisite beauty. Perhaps Branstoke was correct and he did indeed hold a pearl beyond price in his hand. She did not seem to be a woman who would rant and rave at innocents, rather the tigress that would defend her cubs. Lamentably, he knew he had much to learn; he hoped it wasn’t too late.

In the distance they heard the sharp rap of the door knocker. They exchanged glances.

“Bess, were you expecting someone?”

“No, unless—” she paused.

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Atheridge, “but Mr. Tunning is outside desirous to see you.”

“Have him come in.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Do you know what Tunning wants?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I have a few ideas.”

Before he could question her further, the man was shown into the room. Tunning coughed deprecatingly, turning his hat round in his hands. He had not expected to see the Viscount and Viscountess so comfortably ensconced together.

“Excuse me, my lord, but seeing as you’ve been away awhile, I just thought you might like to see me on your return, to catch up on our accomplishments as it were.”

Though St. Ryne was annoyed by Tunning's interruption of his first evening with Elizabeth, he had to judge the merit of his words. It rankled to know that Tunning did not trust his wife to apprise him of the improvements. To the estate agent’s mind, however, he was probably acting efficiently. “I concede your point,” he allowed reluctantly.

Tunning shifted nervously, bringing a smile to Elizabeth’s lips at his discomfiture. “Shall we repair to the estate room, as all the books and papers are there?”

St. Ryne sighed and rose from his chair. “Will you forgive me, Bess?”

“Of course,” she acquiesced, nodding her head slightly.

She owned herself disposed to wonder at the success of Tunning's venture and found herself considering the meeting a weather vane for the success of her marriage. Justin did not appear anxious to quit her side; if such a feeling extended to questioning the veracity of Tunning's word over hers, she would be well content and inclined to bend in her attitude toward her husband in return.

The needle she plied struck her thumb smartly, recalling her to her task at hand.

“It’s good to see you back, my lord,” Tunning said, easing himself ponderously into a plain wooden chair.

“You seem almost relieved. Have there been problems?” St. Ryne rounded the table to sit, irked to realize Tunning sat before him and without permission.

Tunning reached for a port bottle from a nearby tray and poured two glasses. “Oh no—leastwise, not overt like, but it’s building. Them Humphries are bad business. They’re too independent, not following my advice or letting me handle the sales. They’re also disruptive.”

St. Ryne accepted the glass wordlessly, though silently he wondered what a port bottle and glasses were doing in his estate room. Tunning seemed to take it for granted that this was his domain. He took a sip of port before speaking and leaned back in his chair to study the estate agent through lazily hooded eyes. “In what manner?” he finally asked.

“Insolent, my lord.”

St. Ryne thought of his wife’s sharp manner and Atheridge’s comment on the time she spent with the tenants. “To whom have they been insolent? My wife?”

“No, my lord. It’s too busy toad-eating her, they are. She’s always down there and even went so far as to hire that Mary Geddy when I expressly told her the Humphries are a bad lot.”

St. Ryne sat forward in his chair, pushing a stack of ledgers away from the place before him to clear a space for his arms. He suddenly felt his understanding of the situation at Larchside crumbling. “What has Mary Geddy to do with the Humphries?”

“She’s Mrs. Humphries’s mother and a very insinuating woman, she is.”

“Mrs. Humphries’ mother? Does she live with them?”

“Yes, for about five years, now, I’d say.”

“Mrs. Geddy is an excellent cook.” St. Ryne looked steadily at Tunning. “Can you say you know of better?”

Tunning squirmed. “Not precisely, my lord. But it does no good to encourage them,” he returned roundly. “I don’t trust them and I’d watch out for the Viscountess with them, bad influence, that.”

St. Ryne crossed his arms over his chest, sinking his head down in thought, a brooding pout on his face. “I understand none of the servants who have been hired have been of your choosing.”

“No, and that’s a fact I also wanted to discuss with you but didn’t rightly know how to bring up.”

“I’m giving you your opportunity. Speak.”

Tunning coughed and shifted his feet before responding. “I’ll not wrap it up in clean linen, my lord. The Viscountess don’t like me, and that’s a fact.”

“Why?” The question shot out between them, hanging over the table.

“Now, my lord,” he cajoled, mopping his brow, “there’s no pulling the wool over my eyes. I’m up to every rig and row invented.” He leaned toward the Viscount, the look of state secrets to sell upon his face. “I’ve heard stories about the Viscountess, stories that would curl your hair, beggin’ your lordship’s pardon.”

St. Ryne’s hackles rose though he managed to wave his hand dismissingly. “Stories mean nothing. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to remain in our employ,” he slowly replied, pinning him with a quelling stare.

Tunning was disconcerted. “Well, to be sure, to be sure,” he placated quickly. “But it still don’t change the fact that the Viscountess is resistant to my advice.”

“You’ve traded words with her?”

Tunning laughed weakly. “Yes, and that’s a fact, but I’d say we’ve got each other’s measure now, my lord,” he hastily assured St. Ryne.

“Indeed? If that is the case, I wonder who is really being insolent to whom?”

Tunning's smile dimmed and he fidgeted with his watch chain.

“Why don’t we call in Elizabeth to discuss the servant situation?”

“Now that you’re home, my lord, that’s not really necessary.”

“Oh, but I insist.” St. Ryne rang the bell for Atheridge who responded with suspicious alacrity.

“Atheridge, ask the Viscountess to join Mr. Tunning and me in the estate room, please.” St. Ryne did not wait for Atheridge’s bow, but adroitly changed the subject and began speaking to Tunning of a proposed meeting with Grigs to discuss the condition of the stable and whether it could be remodeled or if it needed to be completely rebuilt.

“Are you planning to settle here permanently, my lord?”

“Hardly, I have other properties, some of which are considerably larger than Larchside.” St. Ryne rose and began prowling the small room as he talked. He peered at the dates on the ledgers in the bookcase.