Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,7

though I think Lady Wisgart’s got her eye on him for herself.”

“That seems apropos,” St. Ryne murmured.

“Ain’t it just,” Freddy agreed, rocking back on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

Dismissing the play before him from his mind, St. Ryne looked about for the woman he presumed to be Lady Elizabeth. She continued to stand by the vase, as still as a statue, her eyes wide.

“Freddy,” St. Ryne said softly, dragging him away from La Belle Helene, “is that young woman standing there Lady Elizabeth Monweithe?”

Freddy looked in the direction St. Ryne indicated and shuddered slightly.

“Yes, but do come over here and I’ll introduce you to the sweetest woman in the world.”

St. Ryne looked at the group surrounding Freddy’s paragon with a jaundiced eye then shook his head. “I’d rather meet Lady Elizabeth.”

“Not by me!” Freddy said, shaking his head and backing up a step. “I don’t go near that hellcat!”

St. Ryne’s face became dark and shuttered as he raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend. Without a word he bowed stiffly and turned on his heel to walk away, leaving behind a bewildered Freddy.

Sir James Branstoke, standing a step apart from those surrounding the sought after beauty, noted the exchange through his raised quizzing glass and smiled. He watched St. Ryne make his way to the punch table, procure two glasses, and turn to approach the shrew. He rubbed the rim of his quizzing glass thoughtfully against his cheek, and then turned to the crowd surrounding La Belle. As entertaining as the Viscount may be, he did have other sport, particularly as it appeared the Viscount was determined to take up the bet and spoil the game. It was as well. He stood to win a hefty sum of money and only lose a dalliance. But for the nonce, the dalliance would suffice. He smiled and held out his hand to Lady Helene. Her eyelashes fluttered down as she placed her hand demurely in his. A murmured uproar rose from her coterie at such effrontery.

St. Ryne stood behind the screen of white roses and studied the profile of his chosen wife. The messages his eyes were receiving warred with his knowledge of Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. This fragile, delicate woman must draw her strength from her shrewishness, he decided. That was a strength he wanted to see and tap. He found within himself a desire to rouse the golden fire in her eyes of which Freddy spoke so eloquently and discover if they would sear his soul. He approached her silently.

“Excuse me, my lady, but I have brought you a glass of punch. I thought it thirsty work to be standing alone in a corner,” he said softly in her ear.

Lady Elizabeth Monweithe turned toward him, startled. No one other than her father, aunt, or sister dared approach her at an affair. Bright color flew up to stain her cheeks. She stood speechless as she gathered her wits and continued to stare at the stranger standing before her. He was tall with strong unforgettable features, yet she had no idea who he could be. In the sea of brightly colored fish, he stood out for his austerity of attire. Though no one talked to her she was a constant watcher of society, liking the obscureness of her side-stage existence. She thought she knew by sight every member of society. It occurred to her he might be a younger son recently sold out of the military. She did not know how she should treat him or, indeed, how or what he may know of her.

The Viscount smiled at the startled expression on her face, placed the punch cup in her automatically outstretched hand and continued: “I know we have not been properly introduced, and therefore it is the height of impertinence for me to approach you, but I had a problem. No one would approach you to avail me of the introduction I so devoutly desired. I was in a quandary; however, as such dictates of society bore me, I felt, my lady, at least your reputation would save us from interruption.” He smiled broadly as he watched the gathering storm of emotions play upon her face and saw the fires Freddy mentioned light her eyes.

Egad but she's beautiful! He thought as he studied her high color. Perhaps he should be careful how he played his role. Still, Petruchio won the day with abrasive handling of his Kate. Once begun, he would go on.

Swiftly a shuttered expression descended over Lady Elizabeth’s