Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,65

it. Suddenly, closing his fist over it, he rose from his chair. “Will you excuse me, Bess? My curiosity is aroused.”

St. Ryne tapped the letter against his hand then went in search of Elizabeth. The letter was franked by her father and appeared to be in his strong hand. Given what Bess had told him of her relationship with her parent, he could not help but wonder at its content. It was a splendid excuse to search her out, something he now tried to do at odd moments of the day.

Their open conversation over the apple flummery was not repeated; however, as they spent more and more time together at tea, over dinner, and in the evening, or at chance encounters during the day, the formality between them began to fade. Elizabeth smiled and laughed more, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy. She began to enjoy St. Ryne’s company, his humor, and his solicitous nature. At times it made her wonder if the early days of her marriage weren’t some nightmare from which she awoke. They still maintained separate bedrooms and nothing seemed to be occurring to change that circumstance. St. Ryne was very careful not to do anything untoward that would upset their fragile budding relationship.

For her part, Elizabeth wondered if St. Ryne would ever be interested in her. She craved his touch but was too afraid of his coldness and disgust if she demonstrated passion.

He found her in the drawing room, working on the chair cover. The new drapes had not yet arrived from London, and consequently the pale sunlight streamed in through the tall bare windows. Elizabeth sat with the sun pouring over her shoulders, shining on the brilliant colors of the canvas in her lap and casting the red-gold aura he had become so familiar with on her hair.

“This just came for you.”

“A letter, for me?” She took the letter from him. “It’s from my father!”

“You act surprised.”

“In truth, I am. I thought he’d washed his hands of me.”

“Well, obviously not. Aren’t you going to read it?”

She stared at the letter. “I suppose I must,” she said ruefully. She broke open the wafer and spread the closely written sheet open on her needlework. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents, then she looked up at St. Ryne. “Oh, come read this, too. ’Tis rich, I vow!”

St. Ryne leaned over the back of her chair, her hair tickling his chin and smelling of jasmine. The letter, in very stilted words, was to inform them of Helene’s betrothal to Frederick Shiperton, Esq.

“Poor Freddy,” they muttered simultaneously then began to laugh until their eyes watered. St. Ryne, his hands resting on her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her head. Elizabeth stilled at his touch then slowly turned her head to look up at him. Silently they stared at each other.

Elizabeth nervously licked her lips. “They want us to come to London for a betrothal ball. It’s to be the last society event before the Christmas season,” she said faintly.

“All right,” he breathed, his head coming inexorably closer. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” yelped Elizabeth. She turned her head away and with nervous fingers rolled her needlework up and replaced it in the tapestry bag. “Then I must get busy, there are a thousand things to do.”

St. Ryne sighed and stood upright. “Yes, of course, my dear. Let me know if I may be of any service to you.”

“Thank you, Justin, I will. I must find Mrs. Atheridge to supervise the packing and check on the laundry, and then I’ll go see Mary and tell her not to get any more perishables. I’ll need to wash my hair this evening, as well.”

St. Ryne laughed, holding his hands before him as if to ward off a blow. “Enough! I can see I have much to learn about traveling with a household,” he said humorously.

Elizabeth grinned saucily at him. “It’s not so bad as long as one remembers to deal a whip and chain.”

“Baggage!”

Elizabeth merely laughed and skipped out of the room. St. Ryne stared after her, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “Just you wait, my love,” he said to the empty room. “Your time is coming.”

Come on, a God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

—Act IV, Scene 3

“Justin, it is not necessary for you to accompany me!” Elizabeth expostulated, drawing on yellow kid gloves.

“Indulge me, Bess. It is my intention to make amends for that questionable trousseau I gave you.” He drew her arm through his and led her down the steps before