Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,57

felt confident dealing with St. Ryne was the evening she came down to dinner in the altered gown. Her eyes widened. Of course, how stupid she was to forget! Justin was not completely immune to her charms for she’d proven it to herself that night. Poor Hattie told her often enough that a body caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, but her words had fallen on deaf ears, until now.

Her wardrobe was stuffed with her gowns from home. Impatiently she sorted through them. The insipid white muslins she should discard. She must remember to ask Mary if there were any young girls in the area in need of such dresses. Unfortunately the rest of her gowns were not much better. There were, perhaps, two gowns that offered promise: a red velvet that had been made up for a theater excursion that she had bowed out of at the last moment pleading a headache, and a dark blue watered silk which, after it was delivered, Lady Romella had decided was too dark a color for an unmarried woman. Though neither neckline was as vulgarly low as the one she’d fashioned for the gray gown, the colors did her better service. She chose the blue silk, deciding the red may yet be too strong a color. Her campaign must start subtly, she thought with a small smile.

“That repast, my dear, was as good as any prepared by a London chef,” St. Ryne praised as he conducted Elizabeth to the library after dinner. “You are to be congratulated.”

“Yes, I believe we are fortunate in Mary.”

He guided her to a chair then turned to pour after-dinner drinks. “Where did you find this paragon?”

“At one of the tenant farms.” She pulled some needlework from a tapestry bag by the chair.

“The tenant farms?” He had inferred from what Atheridge said that she did not get along with their tenants.

“Yes. You seem surprised.” She threaded her needle and bent her head to the canvas.

“Oh, no, not at all. What are you about there?”

A faint smile traced her lips. “This is a seat cover for a chair in the hall.”

He set a glass of Madeira on the table at her elbow, staring down at her a moment.

“Justin, please, you’re in my light.”

“I beg your pardon.” He walked away to the other chair then swung around to the mantle to remove the candlestick and place it by her side. “You need more light for that work,” he muttered before taking his seat.

Elizabeth thanked him serenely.

St. Ryne found himself well contented to sit and watch her sew by candlelight. A warm glow surrounded her, and St. Ryne was struck by her exquisite beauty. Perhaps Branstoke was correct and he did indeed hold a pearl beyond price in his hand. She did not seem to be a woman who would rant and rave at innocents, rather the tigress that would defend her cubs. Lamentably, he knew he had much to learn; he hoped it wasn’t too late.

In the distance they heard the sharp rap of the door knocker. They exchanged glances.

“Bess, were you expecting someone?”

“No, unless—” she paused.

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Atheridge, “but Mr. Tunning is outside desirous to see you.”

“Have him come in.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Do you know what Tunning wants?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I have a few ideas.”

Before he could question her further, the man was shown into the room. Tunning coughed deprecatingly, turning his hat round in his hands. He had not expected to see the Viscount and Viscountess so comfortably ensconced together.

“Excuse me, my lord, but seeing as you’ve been away awhile, I just thought you might like to see me on your return, to catch up on our accomplishments as it were.”

Though St. Ryne was annoyed by Tunning's interruption of his first evening with Elizabeth, he had to judge the merit of his words. It rankled to know that Tunning did not trust his wife to apprise him of the improvements. To the estate agent’s mind, however, he was probably acting efficiently. “I concede your point,” he allowed reluctantly.

Tunning shifted nervously, bringing a smile to Elizabeth’s lips at his discomfiture. “Shall we repair to the estate room, as all the books and papers are there?”

St. Ryne sighed and rose from his chair. “Will you forgive me, Bess?”

“Of course,” she acquiesced, nodding her head slightly.

She owned herself disposed to wonder at the success of Tunning's venture and found herself considering the meeting a weather vane for the success of her marriage. Justin did