Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,48

the masses lack the poetic soul.”

St. Ryne laughed. Damn if he didn’t like this gentleman. There was an unaccounted depth to him and a wry sense of the absurd few would see.

“I must tell you I have a grievance with you, my friend.” Branstoke’s manner was conversational.

“Oh?”

“I’ll have you know you have spiked my game. I must say I knew it was your intention three weeks ago; however, you moved faster than I had accounted.”

“Really? Was it your intention to make a play for Lady Elizabeth?”

“Hardly.” Branstoke waved his quizzing glass casually before him. “I make it a habit to join only the entourages of unattainables. Since La Belle Helene is now removed from that category, I find I must retire from the ranks of her suitors. I considered remaining one of their number a while longer; however, I have noticed her eyes resting on me, weighing my suitability.” He shuddered slightly allowing the quizzing glass to fall back to rest against his chest. “I can think of few worse fates.”

A look of mock surprise crossed St. Ryne’s face. “Is not La Belle Helene a paragon?”

Sir James Branstoke shrugged. “So few are,” he murmured. He slid a glance at St. Ryne. “Totally unlike your own bride,” he continued blandly.

St. Ryne’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline in inquiry, but Branstoke only bowed slightly in his direction and wandered away. The Viscount stood in the doorway watching the enigmatic gentleman enter into conversation with others in the room until Freddy Shiperton, spying him standing there, hurried to his side.

“Justin, what are you doing here?” Freddy inquired sotto voce, glancing around furtively to see if any were near enough to hear.

“Really, Freddy, why do any of us come here? For cards, wine, and good company, of course.” He tucked his arm in Freddy’s and led him into the room. “Shall we start a game?”

“Dash it, Justin, you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

“Yes, I know. What makes you believe I am not?” he returned affably, as he looked about the room, inclining his head in recognition of various acquaintances. “Do not look askance, old fellow,” he said, turning back to Freddy. “A honeymoon is merely a state of mind.”

A slightly slurred, unrecognizable voice came from a crowded table: “He must have killed her.” It was rapidly shushed by others.

Freddy scowled briefly before pulling his friend toward a slightly less populated corner of the room. “Dashed if I understand you, Justin. You were never taken to such queer turns.”

St. Ryne laughed. “Do not vex yourself. Come, let’s order a glass and we’ll toast my sweet, gentle bride.”

A look of startled horror captured poor Freddy’s face, causing St. Ryne to laugh louder as he signaled for a passing waiter.

The Viscount St. Ryne accepted with fortitude the plethora of jibes thrown his way when he came to collect his portion of the winnings he gained at his club as a result of his marriage to Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. Unfortunately, that fortitude began wearing thin and in the days that followed St. Ryne was alternately amused and irritated by the sly glances, innuendos, and jokes cast in his direction. Often he found himself wishing he could share with Elizabeth a passing joke or comment he overheard, his mind conjuring up the panoply of emotions that could cross her face along with her answering snubs and witticisms.

Such thoughts of her invariably brought to mind the kiss he’d stolen that rocked his senses while leaving her completely unmoved. Each time he remembered that scene, a niggling question pushed at a corner of his mind for more and more space. Had she truly been unmoved? Would it not, perhaps, been more in keeping for her to struggle against the kiss and rant and rave, calling down abuse upon his head? Instead, she’d played the role of ice maiden, out of keeping with her personality as it was known in the polite world. Yet how much of the picture presented to society was real and how much dissimulation? He had often noted a vulnerability unseen by others yet he persisted in acting like it did not exist.

He began to wonder if he had played the game differently, would he be in London now, a virtual exile from his own home and hearth? It slowly occurred to him that perhaps Elizabeth’s lack of response to his kiss stemmed from lack of experience. What occasion had any man to kiss her? He swore to himself as the idea loomed larger and larger