Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,17
around to glare at him and move away from his disturbing nearness only to find she had backed herself into a corner. She tried to push him aside, but his arms were like iron and resisted her.
“You already make me sick.”
“Ah—see? We progress.”
“Get out of my way.”
“I am not in your way, I am your way,” he said softly, leaning toward her.
Just then Lord Monweithe slowly opened the door, his curiosity getting the best of him since he had not heard much yelling. St. Ryne turned his head toward the door with an easy smile on his lips, still keeping Elizabeth pinned in her corner. He took one of her arms and lightly twisted it behind her back.
“We shall be wed next week at St. George’s in Hanover Square by special license. I leave it to you to make all the arrangements. By the by, I find the stories of your daughter’s temper all a hum. We shall do very well together, won’t we, my sweet?” he said, glancing down at her to be met by a look of pure venom in return. “Oh, I know you must continue to rant and rail against me for appearances’ sake, and dig in your heels against the wedding because you are such a playful puss.” He looked back to the Earl. “But she knows, sir, that will ye, nil ye, I’ll have her. But come, we have much to discuss downstairs and all of us have much to do before next week.”
St. Ryne let go of the Lady Elizabeth’s arm, backing away quickly before he could be slapped again. Elizabeth merely rubbed her abused arm, her mind in a turmoil, her tongue cloying to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes blazed at him but she knew she had no way of dinting his armor. As he went to close the parlor door, some of her normal energies returned. Glancing around quickly, her eyes lighted on a vase on the table next to her. She picked it up, throwing it at his head. The vase sailed past him, crashing into the door. She trembled at her own audacity when St. Ryne turned to look back, and then down at the vase on the floor.
He grinned. “Practice, my dear, practice,” he suggested, and closed the door.
... this is the ’pointed day ...
—Act III, Scene 2
“Elizabeth!” Lord Monweithe’s voice bellowed up the stairs. “Elizabeth! Confound it, girl, hurry up! We’ll be late!”
Elizabeth returned no comment but continued to move very slowly. It was agony to move so slowly. Her tense muscles screamed at the discipline; however, she persevered. She wanted to be late to the wedding, to force that arrogant Viscount to cool his heels while he waited upon her!
The previous week had been a nightmare. All society seemed to come to Rasthough House to offer felicitations, ogle, raise eyebrows, and whisper behind open fans and sheltering hands. Elizabeth had refused to come down when she could and sat stoically quiet through those visits she could not avoid. Only once had she openly responded to the many arch questions and innuendos cast in her direction and that had been to smile triumphantly at one particularly vicious matron with two marriageable daughters and remark graciously: “While I feel it is beneath one to bandy words and frowns,” a feeling she certainly did not feel but rather did with a certain amount of relish, “I feel compelled to remind you that I, at least, have ended this season betrothed.”
Affronted, the matron promptly quitted Rasthough House with a harrumph and dark mutterings of future comeuppance. So relieved were all with her departure, that even Lady Romella did not frown for long at Elizabeth.
Save for her small victory, she felt she was riding in a poorly sprung runaway carriage. When the household was not besieged with visitors, Lady Romella and Helene towed her from one dressmaker and milliner to another, shopping for her trousseau. Her father had been adamant that she should have a large and rich trousseau. Whether that gesture was out of guilt or sincerity, Elizabeth did not venture to guess. During these enforced shopping excursions she followed apathetically along, merely grimacing as more and more frivolous pastel colors were purchased. For Lady Romella and Helene, surprised by Elizabeth’s perceived docility, were soon emboldened to choose anything they themselves admired without querying her at all.
On solely two occasions did Elizabeth voice her opinion—once again quite in her old spirit—and that was in the choice of nightgowns