Honor's Players (9 page)

“Ah, I comprehend the matter,” she said, nodding sagely. “The best for one’s horse, forsake the rest. Or am I to remove there when it is completed? No, forgive me, my tongue runs away with me. I am not a mount you choose to ride.”

Appalled at her words, Elizabeth turned hastily from St. Ryne, missing entirely that gentleman’s wide-eyed surprise and delight. His bride’s words suggested an agitation of spirit and perhaps chagrin as well. He was not ill-pleased. It would appear Petruchio’s formula drew merit.

In a flurry of embarrassment, Elizabeth opened the dining room doors and hurried down the hall to the library where she had assigned Mrs. Atheridge to work. St. Ryne followed at her heels.

“Mrs. Atheridge!” she called out in a cracking, flustered voice. “Mrs. Atheridge, have the villagers all left?”

“Yes, my lady,” she grudgingly acknowledged.

“Will they return tomorrow?”

“Yes, though you should have relayed that request through me, not through that snip of a lad!”

“Mrs. Atheridge,” Elizabeth began quellingly.

St. Ryne laid a hand upon her arm. “She was in conference with me and it was expeditiously done. As we lack proper retainers, form, my dear Mrs. Atheridge, bears no form.”

Mrs. Atheridge sniffed and sketched a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lord.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed upon her. She was incensed at St. Ryne’s drawing her fire. Mrs. Atheridge was well due for a dressing down. Her eye ran over the housekeeper’s figure; her dress hung limply about her stocky frame, the silk petticoats dispensed. A measure of self-satisfaction filled Elizabeth and she found herself speaking with a quiet tongue. “Bring tea to the library, please. Afterward you may begin the dinner preparations.”

Elizabeth continued into the library, without sparing the housekeeper a glance to see if her orders were obeyed. For all her obstructionist tactics of the day, Elizabeth felt sure she would not dare a blatant disregard for a command, particularly with St. Ryne present. She could not say, however, that she envisioned an appetizing dinner. Replacing Mrs. Atheridge in the kitchen would be one of her first concerns.

She moved gracefully into the room to stand by the fireplace and critically scan the room. It would do. All traces of grime had been removed from the wainscoting and furniture and some pieces had already received a fresh coating of wax or oil. Half of the books were cleaned and replaced in their shelves, the rest stood in stacks upon the floor. There remained a musty smell about the room, but with time and care she felt it could be banished. She studied the chairs and drapes, contemplating replacement fabric. She entirely forgot St. Ryne’s presence until the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor roused her from her reverie.

St. Ryne placed one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, gesturing that she should sit. He then drew up the other for himself. A nervous flutter traveled through Elizabeth.

“Am I amiss in setting to rights my settlement?” She spoke coolly, refusing to acknowledge the flutters in her body or to consider their source.

“No-no. Not at all. But, Bess, must you look so-so—”

“Common? Bourgeois?” she asked archly, indicating her attire.

“Common?” St. Ryne laughed. “You, my dear, could never be common. In that attire, though, you appear entirely too menial for a Viscountess.”

“They say pride doth come before a fall. May I be so bold as to remind you that, aside from the coating of dirt and this apron, my appearance is precisely how you framed me when you ordered my, what would you call it? My trousseau?”

St. Ryne had the grace to blush. He clenched his teeth tightly until the muscle in his jaw jumped. There were no quotes or phrases from Shakespeare to cover this encounter. It occurred to St. Ryne that the bard left out a good bit of interchange between Petruchio and his Katharine for brevity’s sake. His bride was sharp-tongued and sharp-witted; this, coupled with her dark beauty, caused his pulse to quicken considerably. There were no rules or guidelines, no lines save of his own invention. So be it. It was no great matter to postulate Petruchio’s reaction under like circumstances and act accordingly.

He pulled his wife to her feet, drew her into his arms, and kissed her.

Elizabeth’s astonishment was lost in a sea of sensation crashing in upon her, crumbling rock hard walls of preconceptions and attitudes. She stood pliant under the pressure of his lips, alive to his breathing, her own heartbeat, his scent of woods and horse, and to a sudden dizzying warmth in the room. Her eyes shut, her senses savoring the kiss as one would sample and savor a well-laid-out feast. She could neither move nor speak; she could merely absorb. For the first time since she was a child in Hattie’s care, she felt tenderness. She responded as a crocus would to winter’s thaw.

St. Ryne slowly raised his head. She opened her eyes to meet his fathomless dark ones intent upon her face. A small sigh, a gentle release of air, escaped her lips, lost in the crack and pop of a log as it broke and fell into the fire sending forth a rain of sparks. A flare of red touched her cheek, blending with the rosy glow cast by the fire. St. Ryne dropped her arms and walked to the desk.

He ran a finger over its polished surface then sat down in the chair behind it. A hooded expression claimed his features, making them as noncommittal as the hands he folded and placed before him on the desk.

“My lady, wife.” He paused. Every ounce of fortitude he possessed was harnessed to maintain his air of calm. The kiss he had bestowed in masculine arrogance as a lesson made him the student. For him, touching Elizabeth was like touching a spark to dry tinder. Yet she remained unmoved.

Egads! How could a cold wench ignite such hot fires within him? There had to be a fiery passion buried within her. How else could her temper flare so? His skin still tingled from touching her while she stood there impassively as if nothing had occurred.

His knuckles whitened as he twisted his fingers together in frustration. Patience. It would take patience. While Shakespeare’s play was over in a matter of hours, he could not expect his rough wooing to have a desired effect in so short a time.

He looked at her steadily, his voice exactingly neutral. “Enough frivolous dalliance for the moment. We have business to discuss.”

“Friv-?” She blinked rapidly in shocked surprise. Her entire world had just turned upside down, and he sat there as if they had just been discussing the weather. A scream of vexation clogged her throat while a shimmering veil of tears blurred her vision. How dare he mock her further! She could stand no more.

Wildly, she looked about. Her eyes lighted upon a china dog placed on a mantel during the day’s cleaning. It was a horrid, hulking beast. She grabbed it up quickly. The thought that it and St. Ryne were a fitting pair came moments before the object left her hand on its way to his head.

He ducked it easily enough and the figurine crashed harmlessly against the bookcase sending slivers of china flying. He glanced at the shattered statue then rose from his chair to come around the desk toward her. Elizabeth backed away from his silent approach. Reaching blindly behind her, she sought for other items to grab, with a desire to ward him off rather than to vent her frustrations. She did not like the implacable look in his eye. It sent a chill of alarm through her body.

Her searching hand met a candlestick. It also fell harmlessly past him. Next she grabbed a heavy tome to hurl at his head only to have him clasp her wrist and wrench the book from her hand.

“No! No! Let me go!” she cried, twisting and turning in his grasp.

He caught her with his other hand and hauled her thrashing body toward him.

“Enough!” he grunted suddenly and an oomph sound whistled through his teeth when she caught him in the stomach with her elbow. “Elizabeth!” he roared, shaking her like a rag doll.

“No! Leave me alone!” Her struggles weakened. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Elizabeth—Bess, love—listen to me!”

“No!” she cried wildly then flung herself on his shoulder, sobbing. He had kept her off balance and confused since their first meeting with his odd fits and starts. Now, all the pent-up emotions she’d gathered came spewing forth. With the tension released, there was no dam to halt the outpouring.

She heard him murmuring, but the words came from a long way off, without coherent meaning.

When she settled down to gulping sobs, she pulled away from him, staring down at the worn carpet. Without a word she turned toward the fireplace. Like the china dog, her pride lay shattered at her feet. She supposed the outburst had been inevitable. She remembered that yesterday she had wished for a new beginning with this wedding. Was it so recently? It seemed forever. A rush of self-pity consumed her, angering her for she would not be its slave.

“My word,” she managed shakily, “I’d heard a new bride was wont to be weepy.” She laughed tightly. “I had not imagined I would as well.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand then turned defiantly to face St. Ryne.

“Mrs. Atheridge should have been here by now,” she said calmly. “I shall go check on tea.”

Her eyes still glistened, and her color ran high but she did not have a blotchy complexion as most women did after a bout of tears. To St. Ryne she looked more gloriously beautiful than ever before.

After she left, he eased himself into one of the winged chairs by the fireplace and stared broodingly into the flames. He didn’t understand the reason for her outburst of temper and tears; however, he was not disgusted by the display as he would have been from another woman. He realized if he could rouse her to such emotional heights in anger, then there was a possibility of doing so in passion as well. Perhaps he needed to squelch the anger avenues as Petruchio had done with his Kate, thereby leaving passion as her solace for release.

He looked up when the door opened, watching through heavily hooded eyes Elizabeth’s fluid movements as she directed the placement of the tea tray. A plan for handling his Kate in this next match slowly jelled in his mind. He smiled at her and murmured a thank you as she handed him a cup and saucer.

“We will need new paint, wallpaper, drapes, and upholstery if we are to put this pile of rubble to rights. I shall have craftsmen and samples sent to Larchside from London when I am in town.”

“Wouldn’t it be faster to write?” she asked coolly, content to follow his conversational gambit. Her outburst of emotion had left her drained and sick with remorse.

“Not at all. I shall be returning to town tomorrow, myself. You may look for the first of the craftsmen and samples to arrive as early as the day after.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I have asked Tom Tunning, the estate agent, to step around after dinner so you may meet him and discuss your household needs and expenses while I am away.” He studied her dispassionately. “You know, you have shown me on two occasions now that you have no appreciation for the value of money.”

“What?” Her cup clattered down on the tray.

“Your penchant for throwing and breaking objects proves your lack of respect for money. Therefore, I have decided that you will have no allowance and all requests for money, no matter what for, must be made before commitments are contracted. There will be no credit extended. I will inform tradesmen to this effect.”

“How dare you? You’re insane!”

He took a sip of his tea before calmly continuing. “While I am away, Tom Tunning will have control of all discretionary funds.”

Elizabeth surged to her feet, her entire body trembling, with anger and her eyes glowing like molten gold. She struggled for words, her lips moving soundlessly. St. Ryne expectantly awaited her entirely justifiable tirade, but she closed her mouth abruptly. When finally she did speak, her voice was low and controlled: “Excuse me, I need to freshen up before dinner.”

Head held high, she regally quitted the room in her frumpish, dirt-streaked frock.

St. Ryne slumped down in his chair. He wished he saw his way clearly. He had hoped to push her to anger and then sweep her into his arms again, channeling her anger to passion. She fooled him by the tight check she maintained on her temper. He sighed and set down his cup. Once again his course was set, and he would see it through. What would be the outcome of this latest turn of events? Surely Petruchio’s way was not so dark and twisting. He rubbed his temples, willing the throbbing there to cease. Wearily he rose to go change for dinner.

Thus have I politicly begun my reign And 'tis my hope to end successfully.

—Act III, Scene 3

A Mona Lisa smile curved Elizabeth’s lips when she viewed her décolletage neckline. The effect was alluring and shockingly fast.

A little more than an hour had passed since she entered her dressing room in an impotent rage, her anger and frustration given vent in a wild frenzy. How could he be so unforgivably rude, so cold-blooded? It was certainly bad enough that she played the unaccommodating shrew in society; however, to quit one’s spouse within days of exchanging vows was an insult difficult to swallow. Duels were fought with far less provocation. Angrily she ripped the dresses St. Ryne had supplied her from the wardrobe and flung them about the room. They fell, scattered, like wilted weeds yanked from a garden. Afterward, her anger spent, Elizabeth sank to the floor.

It was through a veil of tears that she first noted the sliver of white silk. In the candlelight, with tears blurring her sight, the white fabric glowed. Curious, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and crawled to the discarded dress. Picking it up, she shook it out, and then laid it flat. It was a half-mourning gown. Likely it had been a modiste’s model or an unclaimed order, for it was unlike any of the other dresses. Elizabeth wondered at the dressmaker’s reaction to St. Ryne’s wardrobe request and silently applauded the wily merchant who caged an opportunity to sell a readymade dress at a handsome profit.

The white silk was a slip covered by a sheer, gray organza overdress. Extra gathering of the sheer material created a misty cloudlike fall to the fabric. Three bands of gray lace ruffles trimmed the hem and each puffed sleeve. A yoke comprised of gray lace over white silk was attached to a narrow bodice and ended in another three tiers of gray ruffles at the top of the high neck. If one were in black gloves, it would be a modest yet elegant dinner gown; suitable, perhaps, for attending a musicale or card party.

Elizabeth fingered the yoke, noting its attachment. Gathering her skirts about her, she scrambled to her feet to search her portmanteau for scissors and a packet of sewing needles and pins. Quickly she set to work picking out the stitching attaching the yoke, removing it, and hemming under the edges of the material at the neckline. Two judicious tucks tightened the small bodice that now stretched across her breasts, just capturing the tips. She then separated the gray lace on the yoke from its white silk backing and with it fashioned a narrow banding as an inset over the low tight décolletage, tying it in a bow at the center.

Elizabeth studied the effect of her ensemble in the cheval glass. Her color rose, her eyes sparkled; and a pleased little smile lifted the corners of her lips. The gown was scandalous, deliciously so. It appeared if one were to untie the strategically placed bow, her breasts would be released from captivity. She finished her attire with a necklace of milky white pearls and dressed her hair in a Clytie knot with curling dusky tendrils falling across her brow and neck. The overall effect of the gown was as daring as could stare. In the past, she would never have contemplated donning such a gown. It amused her to consider how quickly one’s attitude could change given the proper circumstances, her new outlook, she ruefully admitted, prompted her current course of action. If St. Ryne could now remain unmoved, then his disgust of her was deep and insurmountable, or he was not a true man. Regardless, she vowed to maintain a cool, polite demeanor and further determined, if he should attempt to goad her, she would not fly up into boughs.

The small, secret smile remained in place as she descended the stairs for dinner.

St. Ryne had not been pleased with how his interview with Elizabeth ended. Truly, he didn’t wish to return to London. He’d likely be bored to tears or hounded by his friends. Perhaps all was not lost. Circumstances could still arise that evening that would obviate the necessity for his departure. Yet, he reconsidered; perhaps it would be good for him to leave Larchside. At some point during the interview with Elizabeth he had lost control of the situation. No, not some point, he knew precisely when their relationship had suffered a reversal. It was when he had the fool audacity to kiss her as a punishment. The only person punished was himself. Going to London would allow him to regain control of the play.

He tugged at his neck cloth. He had taken extra care with his attire that evening, as extra care as he could without Cranston’s good offices. He missed that gentleman damnably at the moment for it was his desire to show to advantage.

He paced the library restlessly. At a soft knock on the door her stopped. “Yes?”

“Dinner is served, my lord,” said Atheridge as he opened the door.

“Very good,” he said, coming out of the library. "I shall inform the Lady Elizabeth.”

“No need, I’m here, Justin.” The unusually husky voice came from the shadows on the stairs.

Elizabeth’s silhouette glided down the stairs, slowly taking form as she approached the lighted hall. She stopped on the last step, the elaborate candelabrum on the newel post casting its glow on her. St. Ryne silently extended his hand. Elizabeth, equally silent, placed her hand in his, and he formally conducted her to the dining room.

Elizabeth cast a surreptitious glance in his direction, only to find he had done the same. They looked away from each other quickly, but not before Elizabeth noted where his eyes rested. Overwhelming relief flooded Elizabeth. At least he was not indifferent to her as a woman. It was a start, a small start perhaps, but a start.

St. Ryne did not release her arm until they stood by her chair and even then he did not quit her side. He held out her chair and saw her seated, his fingertips grazing her bare shoulders.

Elizabeth looked up inquiringly, only to note with satisfaction the direction of his gaze. His eyes were fixed on her shadowed cleavage.

“Is something the matter, Justin? You seem quiet this evening.”

“No, no, nothing at all.” He cleared his throat and went to pull out his own chair. “Sorry to be wool-gathering, just estate matters and my instructions for Tunning. Nothing to bother yourself about.”

“I see.” A slow smile curved her lips as her lashes lowered to hide the brilliant light of satisfaction in her eyes. “So, how long do you plan to be gone?”

“I don’t know. A week at the most, I imagine.”

Elizabeth nodded her understanding as Atheridge entered. “I trust you will find this evening’s menu to your liking,” she stated politely. "I will own it is simple, but the food is fresh from the village this day. By her own admission, Mrs. Atheridge is no cook so I instructed her to forego any attempt at saucing the food.”

St. Ryne glanced down at the boiled and roasted unadorned food set before him. A wry half smile touched his lips. It appeared no more appetizing than the meal set before him the evening before and only slightly more edible. It piqued him to be following Petruchio’s lead continually, without intervention.

A strange disquiet settled over him and he looked up to study Elizabeth intently. He knew he was truly no Petruchio though he now seemed thoroughly caught in the role. Could it be his Bess was no Katharine? She sat there quietly and gracefully erect, her attention centered on cutting her meat into small bits. The light from the candelabra on the table flickered in her hair. In daylight her hair was so dark it almost looked black. Only under the proper conditions could one note it was a rich earthen brown. When light struck it properly, it cast off warm red and gold, encasing her head in a halo aura. Her skin was like alabaster save for the delicate rose tones flaring across her cheeks. It was her eyes, however, that never failed to shake him to the core. The color of old guineas, they flamed like a torch when her ire rose. A tigress, his tigress. What was that poem he once read? Something by Blake.

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The rest slipped his mind, but the imagery remained. He clenched his fist around a knife. He would wake the slumbering passions within her. He had to. He just needed patience and proper planning. He would keep her slightly off balance and make her come to defer to him. A reluctant smile kicked up the corner of his mouth when he realized that again he was to use Petruchio’s tactics.

Elizabeth looked up suddenly, her finely arched brow rising in polite inquiry at his steady regard.

St. Ryne shifted in his chair and turned his attention to his food. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her reach for her wine goblet, her milky-white breasts straining against the gray lace. He cleared his throat.

“I don’t recall that particular gown.”

Elizabeth smiled widely, revealing small, pearly white teeth. “You don’t? Well, I must own I did contrive a few minor alterations.”

“Minor?”

“Yes. I must tell you, and I do hope you will not be too offended,” she said patronizingly, “your knowledge of the niceties of feminine attire is lamentable. I’m sure you had the best of intentions.” She reached over to pat his hand soothingly.

He flushed dark red. She had managed to turn the tables on him, and now what had seemed like clever maneuvering came across decidedly flat.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “Your own trunks should be arriving in the next day or so. I shall not repeat my error.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” she returned smugly.

He eyed the décolletage again. “Isn’t that a trifle, ahem, too, too—”

"Too what?” she asked serenely.

“Perhaps I should have Atheridge fetch a shawl for you.”

“To what purpose?”

St. Ryne ground his teeth in frustration and would have spoken had Atheridge not entered just then.

“Excuse me, my lord, but Mr. Tunning is here.”

“Ah, yes, we were expecting him.” He glanced askance at Elizabeth. She merely smiled. “Have him conducted to the library. We will join him there shortly.” He watched Atheridge bow himself out of the room before turning back to Elizabeth. Then, scowling blackly, he scraped his chair back from the table, rose, and stiffly offered his arm.

A triumphant light shone in Elizabeth’s eyes. Success! She had finally managed to break down his guard and score a hit. It was a practice she intended to continue. The Honorable Viscount St. Ryne would rue the day he played fast and loose with her.

Elizabeth heard a drawer hurriedly slide shut as Atheridge opened the library door. She looked around in time to see the estate agent scuttle around the edge of the desk.

“Amazing, I never knew as how this old desk would clean up so good.” The man forced a small laugh, his voice tinged with a country accent. He moved his hand uncertainly from the polished surface of the desk to fiddle with his gold watch chain.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. A slight sheen of perspiration showed above the man’s lips. He was nervous! The realization surprised her. What manner of man was this?

“You wished to see me, my lord?” he affected primly, losing his country accent. He had himself well in hand now, Elizabeth noted, even going so far as to maintain a slight swagger as he approached.

“Yes, Tunning. First, allow me to make you known to my wife, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He guided her toward him.

Elizabeth was put to mind of a reptile by Tunning. A fat toad, she decided, and a strangely frightening one. He made her skin crawl, and she couldn’t help raising her chin haughtily.

St. Ryne witnessed her reaction and frowned. He did not hold with being unreasonably snobbish to the lower classes and her reaction struck him forcefully as unwarranted. The words to rebuke her subtly were on his lips when his glance slid down from her face to her chest and the profusion of exposed creamy flesh. He ground his teeth and owned her expression might be needful as he noted a wide smile spread across Tunning's face. It was just shy of being lascivious.

Tunning bowed; though his head stayed level enough for his eyes to remain upon Elizabeth. He licked his lips. “I am charmed, my lady,” he said smoothly.

Charmed, what an odd word for an employee to use. A chill passed over Elizabeth, and she wished she hadn’t teased St. Ryne so and had availed herself of a shawl.

St. Ryne witnessed Tunning's crude reaction to his wife’s near exposure. Damn the woman, was she lost to all sense of propriety? A curious possessive jealousy flared within his chest igniting a flame of craftiness.

“Here, my dear, you have been on your feet all this day overseeing the cleaning, please sit down.” He grabbed her elbow and propelled her to one of the chairs by the fireplace. With his free hand, he angled the chair away from the light of the fire then gently seated her. Her face was now in shadows, but to his chagrin he noted the light from the single small taper on the table by her elbow cast a glow upon her chest.

There was nothing for it but to emulate his mother. The Countess of Seaverness was the clumsiest woman of his acquaintance, probably in all England, yet through unbounded arrogance she ignored any destruction left in her wake.