through sweeping dark lashes.
“And sneezes,” St. Ryne responded adroitly, “spreading illness among one and all.”
She laughed softly, enjoying their easy bantering. “Don't forget ill will.”
He inclined his head toward the assemblage behind him “How could I?”
They grinned like children exchanging a secret code, smugly content that their minds were in harmony.
“What are you two nattering about?” Freddy asked looking from one to the other in confusion.
“Pardon, Freddy, a married folk habit,” St. Ryne explained.
“Well, leave done,” he said petulantly.
“What’s the matter, Freddy, feeling bereft? Where’s you lovely bride-to-be?”
“Off somewhere on her father’s arm. Say, what occurred at your town house yesterday? Monweithe’s been deuced silent since his return. Not morose, you know, just quiet."
Elizabeth blushed while St. Ryne laughed easily. “I guess you could say he learned the error of his ways.”
Freddy scratched the back of his neck above his high neck cloth. “Dash it, Justin. Seems like I only understand one word in ten you say these days.”
“I believe only a tenth of what anyone says is worth understanding,” Sir James Branstoke drawled softly, joining them.
“Well met, Branstoke,” St. Ryne said warmly.
“Yes, but I tell you straight out, I have come to pay my respects to the ravishing creature at your side.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in his and bestowed a kiss upon her fingertips. “My lady, you are a star to put stars to shame and I welcome the sight in this firmament.”
Her eyes danced with mischief. “Delightfully said, sir, but I admit to confusion, for I do not know what tenth of your words are worth understanding.”
“Hoisted on my own petard. Very good. St. Ryne, your wife possesses wit, beauty, and assurance. Beware, my friend, she is a woman to be reckoned with.”
“I ain’t as dashed eloquent as Branstoke, but I guess I’ll be happy now to call you sister, even though I lost a bit of blunt.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Freddy!” St. Ryne exclaimed.
A pained expression briefly crossed Sir James Branstoke’s face before he hooked his arm in Freddy’s. “Come, Shiperton, I have yet to pay my respects to your bride-to-be, and as a fallen suitor, it is only proper, wouldn’t you agree? Be a good fellow and conduct me to her side.” Bowing and murmuring polite apologies, Branstoke led Freddy away.
“Justin, what did Freddy mean?”
“Some of the young bucks placed small bets as to our marriage ever taking place,” St. Ryne said off-handedly. “I guess I did not inspire Freddy with confidence.”
Mollified, Elizabeth let the subject drop, though part of her still worried over the idea for Tunning had said much the same thing. If Tunning knew of the bet or bets, could they be small and inconsequential'? And what of St. Ryne’s participation? She shivered slightly. How crass and demeaning to be the object of wager.
St. Ryne noticed his wife’s distracted manner. In light of the promise of intimacy between them, it would have been churlish to fail to remark her disquiet. A stab of remorse for the wild machinations of his wooing cut through him. A play was merely that, a distortion of reality for entertainment and edification. He had treated The Taming of the Shrew like a lady’s household management journal containing a new recipe when he should have known characters in a play were puppets for the playwright. Elizabeth was no puppet; she was a living, breathing, vibrant woman. He was thankful he had the opportunity to repair the damage he caused with his conceit.
He looked about the drawing room. It appeared all eyes were surreptitiously still upon them, and some guests were deciding to beard the lioness. He observed Lady Jersey quitting her circle of cohorts to make her way to their side. He did not think he was ready for Silence and her piercing questions. Adroitly he guided Elizabeth toward the door where her father stood.
“There you are, Elizabeth!” To the surprise of the assemblage, the Earl of Rasthough leaned toward his daughter to bestow a chaste kiss upon her cheek. His bluff heartiness alone was sufficient to raise eyebrows, the public kiss, not often condoned in the best of instances, moved witnesses again to silence. The Earl, grinning complacently, remained oblivious to the company’s reaction.
He tucked her arm in his and drew her close. “As Romella has gone and gotten herself leg-shackled today, I’d like you to be my hostess.”
A delicate pink of pleasure flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks “I’d be honored.”
“Sorry, St. Ryne,” Monweithe said, pointing a finger at St. Ryne’s stomach, “you’re to be sacrificed to the dowagers.”
“Such is