Honor's Players (17 page)

Of late she had been confident he was not indifferent to her. His solicitude on the day of their shopping excursion, his insistence on the best materials, items, and workmanship, all bespoke a caring husband, but most of all, his manner in regard to her father still amazed her.

St. Ryne had known she would be skittish about seeing her parent again, and from what she had revealed in conversation, he knew she had just reason. He felt it advantageous for both to meet privately at least once prior to a public meeting at the ball, so he invited his father-in-law to visit.

Elizabeth, seated in the drawing room with her needlework and laughing over some quip of St. Ryne’s, was surprised when Predmore announced the Earl of Rasthough. Her beautiful golden eyes opened wide, a fine brow arching quizzically in her husband’s direction.

St. Ryne’s calm instructions to show him in were met almost immediately with the Earl’s presence for he had been standing nearly at Predmore’s elbow. Predmore, sniffing superiorly at what he considered a gross lack of manners, bowed his way out of the room, closing the double doors with a decided snap.

“Got your note,” Lord Monweithe said warily. He had heard Elizabeth laughing and found he could not remember hearing that sound before. He slid a look from the Viscount to her and back. She looked in fine fettle and nary a frown marred her brow.

“Please, sit down, Father,” she said smoothly, though as he crossed in front of her to take a chair, she exchanged a saucy glance with her husband. He assumed an air of innocence, forcing her to compress her lips in restraint. “How are things at Rasthough House?”

The Earl grunted. “It’s a madhouse, that’s what. Helene changes her mind ten times a day on the decorations, and that’s only when that fiancé of hers isn’t by. Together, they sit and spout lines of poetry at each other, and it’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. Your Aunt Romella’s no help, either. Daresay you haven’t heard yet, well, stands to reason you haven’t for they’re keeping it all quiet, but Romella’s going to marry Carlton Tretherford tomorrow morning by special license. Intends to hang on the coattails of Helene’s party for her own announcement, penny-pinching female.”

“Tretherford!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“So she got him, did she? When I last left London, bets were being taken in the clubs with odds in her favor,” St. Ryne said.

Elizabeth laughed and shook her head in wonder. “You gentlemen will bet on anything.”

“Much more interesting than a card game,” he drawled, the light of humor in his eyes.

Lord Monweithe looked from one to the other in surprise. It did seem marriage was the making of Elizabeth. He never remembered seeing her look so good or be in such high spirits. He studied her covertly. She had the laughter and manner of his dear departed wife, to say nothing of her startling eyes. Gone was the pale sullen wraith of his memory. “So, how are you, Elizabeth?” he asked tentatively.

She turned her wide, golden eyes to him, her face carefully blank. The expression she saw on his face caused her to falter and relent, a soft smile curving her lips. “I’m fine.”

St. Ryne looked complacently from one to the other. “If you both will excuse me, I have some correspondence to finish which I have put off far too long. I will send Predmore in with some refreshments.” He rose from his chair, aware that two pairs of slightly frightened eyes were turned in his direction. He leaned over to plant a reassuring, feather-light kiss on Elizabeth’s brow then turned to leave the room.

Silence fell between father and daughter. “Fine fellow, your husband,” Lord Monweithe finally said into the void.

“Yes, yes, he is, isn’t he?”

Another silence fell, each looking about the room. A small frown descended over Elizabeth’s features.

“Don’t,” said the Earl.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t frown like that. You have your mother’s beautiful smile. It lights your face just like it did your mother’s.”

“I—I thought you didn’t like it when I resembled Mother.”

The Earl grunted and shifted uneasily in his chair. “That was foolishness. Your mother was a fine woman, and I should have been proud at the resemblance instead of trying to deny it and shoving you away. You were such a taking little tyke, full of the devil and the angels, too.”

“You hated me!”

“No! Don’t say that, child! Please don’t.” He raked his hand through his thin gray hair. “I don’t rightly know how to explain myself. When I lost your mama, I was like a madman, lashing out at the world. I said some awful things, things in my heart I knew were wrong. It weren’t right to blame you for your mama’s death. I know that now, knew that anytime these last ten or twelve years.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “When I came to my senses, it was too late. I’d hurt you badly and didn’t know how to undo what I’d done. I suppose Lady Romella didn’t help matters for she was always jealous of your mother and since you resembled her, it brought to her mind all the perceived inadequacies she felt compared to her. She’s a good woman in her own way.” His voice trailed off just before Predmore knocked on the door.

Elizabeth was silent, contemplating her father’s words as Predmore served them.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?”

“No, thank you, that will be all,” she returned softly, her eyes never leaving her father’s face.

Lord Monweithe took a sip of the sherry the butler handed him then set the glass down on a small table and rested his elbows on his knees, letting his folded hands dangle between his legs. “Look at me, child. I weren’t ever much of a catch, but your mother loved me, little though I deserved it, and I worshiped the ground she walked on. Can you find it in your heart to forgive an old codger like me just a little? I know it’s years too late, years that can’t ever be mended, but I’d like to try to be the parent you never had, and maybe, well, maybe be a doting grandfather,” he suggested tentatively.

Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her hair at his last comment. She would like to give him the opportunity to be that loving grandfather, if she and St. Ryne could ever stop circling each other. She possessed high hopes for the future of her marriage; it was only right she should set her past to rest if she wanted to have a chance for future happiness. She thought that was perhaps what St. Ryne was trying to do by arranging this meeting with her father and clumsily giving his excuses for leaving them alone.

Suddenly her eyes were watering though a broad smile shone on her face. She rose from the couch and crossed to her father, sliding down to the floor to sit by him. The old Earl looked questioningly at her. She grabbed one of his hands and raised it to her face.

“I’d like that, Papa. I’d like that so very, very much.”

“Papa,” he repeated wonderingly. “You haven’t called me that since you were such a little tyke.”

She looked up at him. “Hold me, Papa, please?”

He gathered her up in his arms. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he choked and soon there were tears on both of their cheeks.

Elizabeth’s eyes misted again at the memory of that interview. Suddenly she was filled with anticipation for the ball. She wanted to make her father proud of her and show the beau monde the Earl of Rasthough had an oldest daughter of whom he could be proud.

When her father finally left, she’d sought out Justin, her heart full of love. He knew, without her saying anything, what had occurred. He wanted to draw her into his arms and claim her for his wife in truth, but he held back. He felt she needed time to come to terms with her thoughts and feelings and he wanted her to turn to him for himself, not just because she was feeling happy with life for a change. He had decided, that day they were in Mme. Vaussard’s little shop, that the night of the ball, which he hoped to be a turning point in her life, he would claim his Bess as his own.

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree; And time it is, when raging war is done,
To smile at scrapes and perils overblown.

—Act V, Scene 1

The dinner party before the betrothal ball was purported to be of a select nature, yet by gazing upon the invited people filling the drawing room of Rasthough House awaiting the call to dinner, it bore a striking resemblance in size to one of Prinney’s famous Carlton House banquets. In truth, an invitation to the dinner had become a social necessity to any with pretensions of position and was regarded dearer than an admittance card to Almack’s.

Gentlemen, pressed by their wives and their pockets because of the side bets placed in the clubs on Lady Elizabeth’s comeuppance, jovially importuned the Earl of Rasthough for invitations. Widows flirted shamelessly with him to the same effect or turned to Lady Romella Wisgart, so sweet in their congratulations. Still others sought invitations from the betrothed couple with warm compliments and subtle, or not so subtle, hints that an invite would be welcomed.

Lady Helene Monweithe and her swain, the Honorable Frederick Shiperton, naively took it as their due. They were sadly mistaken, for society’s interest was grounded solely in their knowledge that the
Shrew of London
would be in attendance. Gossip concerning the new Viscountess St Ryne had risen to a fevered pitch since her return to the city. Those who had chanced to see her with her husband on the street or in the park rushed to others to speak of their observations and huddle together over tea or a glass of port to speculate on the exact meaning of their sighting.

It could not be said that the Viscount and Viscountess St Ryne were oblivious to the speculation they raised or that they had not expected it; however, when they entered the drawing room to join the party forming there, they were amazed at the scope of the interest in their actions and the contrivances of society to be present. They exchanged brief stunned glances before they pulled the blank masks they'd practiced so well on each other into place and entered the swarming mass of curiosity.

They, however, were not the only ones stunned. From that collective mass of bon ton there was a momentary sharp hiss of intake of breath, followed by an unnatural silence for a gathering of that size and scope. The universal surprise was not at seeing their prey, but in seeing their prey. The Viscountess St. Ryne was beautiful and almost unrecognizable save for the richness of her antique gold eyes and lustrous dark brown hair. Mme. Vaussard was truly either a witch or a fairy godmother, for the gown she conjured for her new client was gorgeous; it was designed to create the image of a living gold flame, a Phoenix risen from the ashes.

When sound returned to the room, it swelled, softly a first, then gathered momentum and volume until it crashed upon the St. Rynes, buffeting them like an ocean wave. Steadily they entered the sea of humanity, standing all smiling, and nodding to their acquaintances as if nothing untoward had occurred. St. Ryne spied Freddy leaning against the mantle and gently guided Elizabeth in that direction, the sea inexorably parting in their path. The humor of their situation percolated up through Elizabeth, her eyes bubbling with suppressed laughter while her lips thinned over her teeth and curved upward as she strained to contain her mirth. She did, however, retain her regal stature as she glided through the room on her husband’s arm.

With part of her mind Elizabeth conjured up a vision of herself attending such a party before she met Justin. Her eyes drifted to the right. She would most likely be standing there, by the windows and behind the chairs, her expression sullen, daunting and a trifle sad, her gown a ridiculously frilled white muslin creation, and her hair dressed in a tight coronet of braid. From there she would watch the dance of society, glaring at anyone who veered close to her, fearing they would speak and expect some answer in return. But that corner was empty; the imagined ghost of her past fading even as she thought of it.

She turned her face toward her husband, a radiant love shining from her eyes. He must love her, he had to, else how could she love him so much? He was treating her gently, too, like an exotic fragile flower. She had to find a way to show him she was not made of glass but was a flesh and blood woman with, she admitted to herself, flesh and blood passions. She would make him proud this day and then claim her prize by her good intentions for she bore a fierce desire to be the Viscountess St. Ryne in more than just name.

St. Ryne, feeling her luminous gaze upon him, cocked an eyebrow in teasing inquiry while he reached across to squeeze her hand resting on his other arm.

“Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, uncrossing his lanky legs and straightening up to offer St. Ryne a hand in greeting. He gave Elizabeth a perfunctory bow, wary of her despite the rumors in society as to her new docility, then turned back to St. Ryne. “What do you say to all this? Shocking squeeze, ain’t it? Haven’t seen the like since Princess Charlotte’s wedding, but she being royalty and all, that’s expected.”

St. Ryne gave a languid sweeping survey of the party before turning back to Freddy. “You are to be felicitated It appears you have kept half of London in town rather than decamping for the country for the remainder of the season for those intolerable holiday house parties.”

“Talk about shocking squeezes,” Elizabeth murmured slanting a glance in his direction through sweeping dark lashes.

“And sneezes,” St. Ryne responded adroitly, “spreading illness among one and all.”

She laughed softly, enjoying their easy bantering. “Don't forget ill will.”

He inclined his head toward the assemblage behind him “How could I?”

They grinned like children exchanging a secret code, smugly content that their minds were in harmony.

“What are you two nattering about?” Freddy asked looking from one to the other in confusion.

“Pardon, Freddy, a married folk habit,” St. Ryne explained.

“Well, leave done,” he said petulantly.

“What’s the matter, Freddy, feeling bereft? Where’s you lovely bride-to-be?”

“Off somewhere on her father’s arm. Say, what occurred at your town house yesterday? Monweithe’s been deuced silent since his return. Not morose, you know, just quiet."

Elizabeth blushed while St. Ryne laughed easily. “I guess you could say he learned the error of his ways.”

Freddy scratched the back of his neck above his high neck cloth. “Dash it, Justin. Seems like I only understand one word in ten you say these days.”

“I believe only a tenth of what anyone says is worth understanding,” Sir James Branstoke drawled softly, joining them.

“Well met, Branstoke,” St. Ryne said warmly.

“Yes, but I tell you straight out, I have come to pay my respects to the ravishing creature at your side.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in his and bestowed a kiss upon her fingertips. “My lady, you are a star to put stars to shame and I welcome the sight in this firmament.”

Her eyes danced with mischief. “Delightfully said, sir, but I admit to confusion, for I do not know what tenth of your words are worth understanding.”

“Hoisted on my own petard. Very good. St. Ryne, your wife possesses wit, beauty, and assurance. Beware, my friend, she is a woman to be reckoned with.”

“I ain’t as dashed eloquent as Branstoke, but I guess I’ll be happy now to call you sister, even though I lost a bit of blunt.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Freddy!” St. Ryne exclaimed.

A pained expression briefly crossed Sir James Branstoke’s face before he hooked his arm in Freddy’s. “Come, Shiperton, I have yet to pay my respects to your bride-to-be, and as a fallen suitor, it is only proper, wouldn’t you agree? Be a good fellow and conduct me to her side.” Bowing and murmuring polite apologies, Branstoke led Freddy away.

“Justin, what did Freddy mean?”

“Some of the young bucks placed small bets as to our marriage ever taking place,” St. Ryne said off-handedly. “I guess I did not inspire Freddy with confidence.”

Mollified, Elizabeth let the subject drop, though part of her still worried over the idea for Tunning had said much the same thing. If Tunning knew of the bet or bets, could they be small and inconsequential'? And what of St. Ryne’s participation? She shivered slightly. How crass and demeaning to be the object of wager.

St. Ryne noticed his wife’s distracted manner. In light of the promise of intimacy between them, it would have been churlish to fail to remark her disquiet. A stab of remorse for the wild machinations of his wooing cut through him. A play was merely that, a distortion of reality for entertainment and edification. He had treated
The Taming of the Shrew
like a lady’s household management journal containing a new recipe when he should have known characters in a play were puppets for the playwright. Elizabeth was no puppet; she was a living, breathing, vibrant woman. He was thankful he had the opportunity to repair the damage he caused with his conceit.

He looked about the drawing room. It appeared all eyes were surreptitiously still upon them, and some guests were deciding to beard the lioness. He observed Lady Jersey quitting her circle of cohorts to make her way to their side. He did not think he was ready for Silence and her piercing questions. Adroitly he guided Elizabeth toward the door where her father stood.

“There you are, Elizabeth!” To the surprise of the assemblage, the Earl of Rasthough leaned toward his daughter to bestow a chaste kiss upon her cheek. His bluff heartiness alone was sufficient to raise eyebrows, the public kiss, not often condoned in the best of instances, moved witnesses again to silence. The Earl, grinning complacently, remained oblivious to the company’s reaction.

He tucked her arm in his and drew her close. “As Romella has gone and gotten herself leg-shackled today, I’d like you to be my hostess.”

A delicate pink of pleasure flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks “I’d be honored.”

“Sorry, St. Ryne,” Monweithe said, pointing a finger at St. Ryne’s stomach, “you’re to be sacrificed to the dowagers.”

“Such is the fate of the married man,” groaned St. Ryne theatrically. In truth, he did not care where he sat, for this was his wife’s night to shine. He was moved by his father-in-law’s gesture to make her his hostess. It was certain to go far in establishing her credit with society.

Elizabeth was about to twit her husband on his marital fate when the butler announced dinner. The words died on her lips though a mischievous twinkle lurked in her eyes as she allowed her father to conduct her to the dining room.

Dinner was a lively affair as far as formal dinners went. Discourse was loud and freewheeling as the company came to accept Elizabeth. Protocol notwithstanding, she found herself answering questions put to her by people other than those seated to the right and left of her. Even those known to be the highest sticklers were seen conversing volubly with others two or three removed from them.

When the last of the plates was removed, Elizabeth gracefully rose from her chair to lead the ladies back to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port. To her surprise, her aunt walked with her.

“Lovely gown, my dear. You have carried yourself well this evening.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Aunt Romella.”

“I always said you merely suffered from a deplorable want of management. It appears the Viscount is to be commended,” her aunt went on austerely.

“So kind,” Elizabeth murmured though her brows rose at Lady Romella’s effrontery.

“Nonsense. He has done a fine job with you. I trust I shall be equally successful with Carlton.”

“I wish you joy.” The words were nearly strangled in her throat. “Please excuse me now, Aunt. In my duty as hostess I must see to the other guests.”

It amazed Elizabeth to consider how she could have ever been hurt by Lady Romella Wisgart, or the Honorable Mrs. Tretherford, as she must now consider her. The woman was no more than a comedy and as such deserved pity. Elizabeth wished her well in her marriage and gave her credit for realizing she should contrive to ensnare a husband. With both Helene and herself married, her father would have no use for her, and she would most likely be given a small cottage somewhere with a small but adequate pension to add to her widow’s jointure and would thus be thrust out of society.

Nodding and smiling politely to those she passed, Elizabeth made her way to a sofa where a small group was aiding two old harridans in the disposal of their voluminous shawls and the positioning of fire screens. To her amusement she soon learned that the old considered themselves above the conventions of society. There was nothing mealy-mouthed about her two elderly guests for they lighted on her like hawks to their prey, asking questions and making observations that put those around them to blush. As little time as three weeks ago she would have flared white hot and retorted with some remark in kind. That evening she took their words with forbearance, for truthfully her mind was not on the guests or the party, but on the unspoken promise she had seen in St. Ryne’s eyes. She listened to the women with only half an ear to catch the verbal clues that warned her some remark or answer was expected, but blithely took no insult from their callous words.

All her life Elizabeth had felt apart from society, never sure of her existence within its framework. Now she felt beyond society, capable of laughing fondly at its foibles and loving it warts and all. That her new attitude stemmed from her love for her husband and her confidence in his love for her was inconsequential. She felt right with the world and glowed with an inner contentment.