Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,21

at him curiously. “Beg pardon? What—”

“What’s that you say? He ain’t here?” Lord Monweithe expostulated, again looking around the church as if to repudiate Freddy’s statement. “What’s the meaning of this?” He turned to glare at Freddy. “What do you know about this, Shiperton? I demand an explanation.”

Freddy spread his hands helplessly, his fair complexion flushed with embarrassment. He slid a worried glance in Elizabeth’s direction.

Elizabeth found herself exceedingly thankful for the veil she wore for she discovered to her dismay that her eyes were stinging with tears threatening to overflow. She drew every inch of her tiny frame erect and bit her lip to maintain her composure. Around her she heard whisperings, the snap of fans, and the rustle of material as the guests turned to one another. The whisperings increased in volume with each passing moment of the Viscount’s absence. The whisperings became louder until they seemed to shout and reverberate in her head.

“Perhaps—” her father coughed, running his hand nervously through his hair. “Perhaps, Elizabeth, we should return to Rasthough House.”

Elizabeth snapped her head around.

“Or-or mayhap retire to our carriage and await Viscount St. Ryne’s arrival there,” he finished quickly.

Mutely, Elizabeth shook her head, her pride not allowing her to make such a telling move. Her eyes were now so blurred that she could scarcely see, but she refused to raise the handkerchief she clutched in her nerveless hand to her eyes to blot away the tears.

It was nearly one hour after the appointed time for the ceremony when the first party of guests rose to leave. Elizabeth grimaced at the pitying glances cast in her direction but held her ground. Her tears had long since dried, to be replaced with a simmering anger bearing a stiffness of posture and high color to her cheeks. Suddenly there was an uproar at the great door leading into the narthex and the guests who had been on the verge of departing milled un-certainly. A young boy burst into the church, his sides heaving as he panted to catch his breath. He bent over, hands on his knees, as he gulped air.

“He’s coming!” he gasped out. “His lordship’s coming!” the child cried when at last he recovered his voice.

Lord Monweithe pushed through the crowd to grab the boy by a thin shoulder, spinning him around to face him. “What’s that you say? Speak up, lad,” he said, giving the child a slight shake. “You’ve seen the Viscount St. Ryne? Make no mistake about this. Where is he?”

“He’s coming, sir, down the road.” The boy trembled at the ferocious expression on the Earl's face. “I saw him riding his horse this way,” he explained, throwing up a bony arm to shield himself from the backhanded blow he expected.

Lord Monweithe, however, had no thought of punishment or reward for the lad. Stunned, he walked into the narthex, wishing to see for himself if St. Ryne approached. Uncertainty kept him staring at the closed doors.

Sir James Branstoke approached the fidgety and frightened boy, quietly placed a coin in his palm and pushed him toward a side entrance. Clenching the coin tightly in his fist, the lad muttered his thanks and ducked out the door.

Suddenly the great carved doors burst open letting in a whoosh of air and bright light, silhouetting the Viscount against the sky.

St. Ryne was indeed in riding attire and as he stepped into the church it became obvious to all that the Viscount had come to his wedding in all his dirt. An uproar rippled through the church. His top boots were thick with dust and his buckskin breeches sported a dark stain on one thigh. His jacket, while admirably fitting his form, showed signs of sweat and dust while his Inexpressibles bore a distinct gray cast. About his neck, in a very casual manner, was knotted a kerchief.

Elizabeth felt sure she would feint from mortification. She forced herself to stand calm, as if it were no concern of hers.

St. Ryne glanced about the church, a bland smile on his face, before focusing on those guests standing by the entrance. He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you all not found seats yet? Freddy, be a good, chap and assist them, please.”

Freddy, who stood transfixed and gawking at St. Ryne’s appearance, roused himself. “Certainly—ah, right you are. This way.”

With a soft murmur of voices, guests scurried to resume their seats. One affronted gentleman moved to leave altogether only to be stopped and remonstrated by his lively mate that they would do no such