Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,35

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