Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,78

and the orchestra screeched wrong notes then fell silent. A shocked hush filled the ballroom.

“Elizabeth, no!” shouted St. Ryne, then his head swung around to pin Freddy where he stood, his face black as thunder. Slowly he took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face, and then he stalked over to Freddy.

“What did you say to her?” he gritted.

“Easy, St. Ryne,” Sir James Branstoke murmured, coming up to lay a hand on his arm.

He shook the hand off, continuing to glare at Freddy. “Damn it, man, what did you say?”

Freddy gaped at him a moment before words could tumble out of his mouth. “Nothing! I—I mean we were just discussing bets.”

“What?!”

“She-she acted like she knew, commiserated with me on my losses and just asked what type bets they were.”

“And?”

“I—I said they were bets on taming the Shrew of London.”

St. Ryne clenched his fists to his side and closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

“I warned you, St. Ryne,” reminded Branstoke. “What are you going to do?”

St. Ryne turned empty eyes on him. “Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness,” he said simply. His face was bleak as he crossed the ballroom. The guests, catching sight of his face, slid out of his way without a word. At the doorway Lord Monweithe stopped him. St. Ryne looked into the tortured expression of the other man and laid a hand upon his shoulder for some small measure of reassurance. “I know,” he murmured, “I love her, too.”

In the hall Jovis confirmed his fears. She had demanded her cloak and had fled without waiting for her carriage to be called. Grimly he set off after her, praying the cold weather kept those who would prey on the unwary off the streets. He remained alert, his eyes darting down alleys and streets, his ears sensitive to sounds of struggle, though his mind continually recited a litany of self-condemnation. It was with relief he saw his town house. The door opened before he could mount the steps and a white-faced Predmore stood in the lighted opening.

“Oh, my lord, I’m so relieved to see you. Her ladyship, she’s in a dreadful temper,” he said, hurriedly closing the door after he entered. “She near cuffed poor Willy here senseless when he reached to take her cloak.” He waved his hand toward the unfortunate footman who stood in the hall nursing a sore jaw. “Then she tore up the stairs shouting for her maid. They’re up there now, sir, and I don’t like to think how that little maid is faring for we’ve heard two crashes.”

“Fear not, she won’t hurt the maid. Her anger is well directed,” he said wryly. “I will talk to her.” He slowly mounted the stairs, his steps measured and apprehensive. From her room he heard sharp murmurings, rending of fabric, thumps, and small crashes. He winced, then tentatively raised his hand to knock on the door.

“Go away, I do not want anything,” came her voice sternly through the closed door

“Bess, I have to talk to you.” He inclined his head toward the door listening for her response.

“You! What happened, did I cause you to lose a bet, or are you upset I failed to know my lines?”

“Listen to me. It’s true, at first I was enacting Petruchio’s role and thought to treat you like Katharine. I studied the play carefully and even went so far as to make notes.”

“You have done a masterful work. I’m sure someone will commend you for it,” she ground out.

“My family had been importuning me for the past year to marry and fulfill my obligations yet all they would recommend for wives were meek little paragons while I desired a woman of personality. If I wanted a meek wife to mouth words of duty to her husband and would call him lord and master, I would have married one of the women my family put forth.”

“There would be no sport in that and no monetary gain save for a dowry,” she snapped back.

He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I would have done it without the bets. Please let me in so I can explain and won’t have to stand here baring my soul to the entire household.”

“It will do you good, perhaps even give you a bit of character, if you’re lucky.”

“Bess!”

“No!” Her voice turned low and harsh. “I have played the fool and thought to grab a chance at love. Love, ha! A cat’s satisfaction at catching its prey.