Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,55

than rail at her icy formality, it would do well to get over this rough ground lightly by accepting it without question. Her carefully controlled neutral demeanor had slipped once, so perhaps it wasn’t an easy attitude to maintain. If that were the case, he would do nothing to antagonize her into insuring its continued maintenance.

He listened to Elizabeth instruct Atheridge, her tones measured and correct yet lacking emotion. Perhaps he should first discover what had occurred at Larchside in his absence, for with his wife’s London reputation, there may be bellows to mend with the locals. She had already spoken of difficulty in engaging servants. Some diplomatic maneuvering might be in order.

St. Ryne’s thoughts were pensive as he followed the butler. The meaning behind Elizabeth’s care for his room was not lost on him. He had not joined her in bed on their wedding night or the night after, therefore she did not expect him to in the future, and most likely would vehemently protest any attempt on his part. He could demand his conjugal rights, although that was definitely not what he wanted from his Bess. He wanted her to want him as much as he was discovering he wanted her. In retrospect, it amazed him what a mull he’d managed to make of his marriage. His actions were those of a man puffed up by his own conceit. It would take time to rectify his many errors. Time, he grimly decided, he would take.

“Your chambers, my lord.”

Atheridge’s rusty voice interrupted his reverie. “Thank you.” He looked about with interest at the room Elizabeth had assigned him. It was decorated in bilious green. St. Ryne thought wryly that its current color scheme probably figured in her selection. He’d wager it was also scheduled to be the last room she redecorated. Actually he was pleased; such a choice was calculated with vengeance in mind, tempered with black humor. If she was as bloodless as she was attempting to portray, it was more likely she wouldn’t have cared where he slept or else would have taken the simple expedient of choosing a room that was the farthest from her own.

“Atheridge,” he said suddenly before the man could leave, “how has life been here at Larchside since I left?”

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

St. Ryne frowned, forming his words carefully in his mind. “I left before my wife had the opportunity to properly acquaint herself with Larchside.”

“Yes, my lord”

“I trust there have been no problems?”

“None, though Mr. Tunning and the mistress do not see eye to eye.”

“In what way?”

“Well, not that it’s for me to say, but it did seem she completely disregarded his personnel suggestions and, forgive me my lord, she has sometimes gone so far as to forget her position with the tenants, if you know my meaning,” he explained austerely.

St. Ryne’s brow descended and he nodded his understanding. “Thank you, Atheridge, that will be all. Oh, you can expect my man to arrive shortly, so please see him situated then conduct him here.”

“Very good, my lord.” Atheridge bowed himself out, pleased with his accomplishment. He’d show Tunning he was not the only one who could be needle-witted. Soon that Viscountess would be property tethered, and Larchside would be her gilded perch. Then they could go about feathering their nests as they’d done for years. There was a fair amount of money put away; he’d once asked Tunning if it weren’t time to cut their losses and retire the scene. But the wily estate agent had been confident there were still funds to be milked from the estate and the people serving it.

Alone, St. Ryne shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, shivering slightly in the cool air. The fire laid when he arrived had not caught sufficiently to heat the room. Absently he picked up the poker to stoke the flames, his mind on Atheridge’s words.

It appeared his fears were well founded; Elizabeth had been up to her London tricks and had already managed to terrorize the neighborhood. He should not have left her in so uncertain a temper. She was bound to take some misguided action. He pitied his tenants, especially those whose life looked unnaturally harsh. He wondered what actions he would have to take to sooth ruffled feathers and hurt feelings. It was no surprise that she was having difficulty engaging servants; she probably terrorized all applicants. Tunning must be tearing his hair out, he mused, with her ranting and raving.

A soft knock on his door