Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,36

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