Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,37

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