Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,73
the fate of the married man,” groaned St. Ryne theatrically. In truth, he did not care where he sat, for this was his wife’s night to shine. He was moved by his father-in-law’s gesture to make her his hostess. It was certain to go far in establishing her credit with society.
Elizabeth was about to twit her husband on his marital fate when the butler announced dinner. The words died on her lips though a mischievous twinkle lurked in her eyes as she allowed her father to conduct her to the dining room.
Dinner was a lively affair as far as formal dinners went. Discourse was loud and freewheeling as the company came to accept Elizabeth. Protocol notwithstanding, she found herself answering questions put to her by people other than those seated to the right and left of her. Even those known to be the highest sticklers were seen conversing volubly with others two or three removed from them.
When the last of the plates was removed, Elizabeth gracefully rose from her chair to lead the ladies back to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port. To her surprise, her aunt walked with her.
“Lovely gown, my dear. You have carried yourself well this evening.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Aunt Romella.”
“I always said you merely suffered from a deplorable want of management. It appears the Viscount is to be commended,” her aunt went on austerely.
“So kind,” Elizabeth murmured though her brows rose at Lady Romella’s effrontery.
“Nonsense. He has done a fine job with you. I trust I shall be equally successful with Carlton.”
“I wish you joy.” The words were nearly strangled in her throat. “Please excuse me now, Aunt. In my duty as hostess I must see to the other guests.”
It amazed Elizabeth to consider how she could have ever been hurt by Lady Romella Wisgart, or the Honorable Mrs. Tretherford, as she must now consider her. The woman was no more than a comedy and as such deserved pity. Elizabeth wished her well in her marriage and gave her credit for realizing she should contrive to ensnare a husband. With both Helene and herself married, her father would have no use for her, and she would most likely be given a small cottage somewhere with a small but adequate pension to add to her widow’s jointure and would thus be thrust out of society.
Nodding and smiling politely to those she passed, Elizabeth made her way to a sofa where a small group was aiding two old harridans in the disposal of their voluminous shawls and the positioning of fire screens. To her amusement she soon learned that the old considered themselves above the conventions of society. There was nothing mealy-mouthed about her two elderly guests for they lighted on her like hawks to their prey, asking questions and making observations that put those around them to blush. As little time as three weeks ago she would have flared white hot and retorted with some remark in kind. That evening she took their words with forbearance, for truthfully her mind was not on the guests or the party, but on the unspoken promise she had seen in St. Ryne’s eyes. She listened to the women with only half an ear to catch the verbal clues that warned her some remark or answer was expected, but blithely took no insult from their callous words.
All her life Elizabeth had felt apart from society, never sure of her existence within its framework. Now she felt beyond society, capable of laughing fondly at its foibles and loving it warts and all. That her new attitude stemmed from her love for her husband and her confidence in his love for her was inconsequential. She felt right with the world and glowed with an inner contentment.
The gentlemen remaining behind in the dining room were also wont to spare no bones with their comments. No sooner had the last skirt swished from sight and the doors closed following the ladies’ exit, than they felt free to loosen their tongues.
It was a circumstance St. Ryne grudgingly accepted in his mind but was uncertain as to his course. Casually he signaled for his glass to be refilled and leaned back in his chair.
“Amazing,” drawled one sprig of fashion, absently dropping the quizzing glass he held up to observe the ladies’ departure. Several gentlemen echoed his sentiments, emboldening him to preen and continue. “St. Ryne, I admit to myself I am nonplussed. Miracles do occur.”
“Ha! With that one, I vow it took