Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,87

learned from sharing the bed with her husband. The difference now was her intention, for she vowed to herself she’d be the Viscountess St. Ryne in more than name even if she had to seduce Justin. A blush, lost in the dark yet warming her skin, crept up her neck and cheeks.

Tomorrow she would return to London to forgive and cry quit to the comedy they played, and perhaps to ask for a drama instead, a drama of their making together without secrets and subplots. She would not repeat the errors of her childhood nor willingly throw away a chance for happiness, no matter how tenuous the chance. How many chances was a person given in life? Too few, to judge by those she saw in society. If she turned her back on St. Ryne in pique, then she was no better than those she would disdain. Worse, she could be called a fool for only the fool denied the heart for hollow pride. It was cold comfort, not a warm bedfellow.

Sighing, she pulled the covers higher then turned on her side, curling to hold in the heat of her body. Her mind clear, her plans made, she drifted to sleep while a small smile hovered on her lips.

An odd, high-pitched creaking woke her. In the night stillness it raked her nerves. She listened, noting that it bore an almost measured cadence.

Puzzled, she rose from her bed and shrugged on a wrapper, pulling it close about her, then slipped on thin slippers. She rounded the bed, stopping again to listen. It was getting louder, and with it could be heard a faint clump; then whispering, indistinct and rapidly hushed. Someone was creeping through the manor.

Elizabeth’s hands reflexively clenched in anger. The Atheridges, she thought with disgust. No telling what manner of mischief they could be about. She grabbed a candlestick from the bedside table, taking it over to light by the fireplace, and then glided to the door. The furtive sounds were getting louder, like they were nearly outside. She yanked open the door.

“Atheridge!” she scolded, spotting his spindly frame by the light of her wildly wavering taper. “What are you doing about?”

He gaped at her then stuttered soundlessly, looking back over his shoulder.

A hulking black shadow, like a feral animal, separated itself from the shadows by the wall to come toward her and the circle of light she held.

“You.” The single word pushed past her lips on an expelled breath. “What do you want? What are you doing here?” Her words were high, strident—and superfluous, for with gut wrenching clarity, she knew why he was here. Her eyes opened wide with knowledge. She turned to flee.

He lunged, knocking her to the ground, the candle spinning out of her grasp, its light dying, plunging them into darkness. But not before she saw his leer, a demon with revenge reflected in his eyes. She twisted wildly under his weight, her nails seeking skin to gouge. A scream died in her throat and she choked and gagged when he stuffed a handkerchief into her open mouth.

She bucked, thrashing at him with her arms. He grunted and grabbed her hands, holding them out from her sides. He lowered his face to within inches of her own.

“I shall enjoy taming you as we wait and see if that fine husband of yours is willing to pay for your return.” His breath was redolent of porter and overripe cheese. Elizabeth turned her head away from the smell. He laughed, pressing the outline of his swollen member tightly against her body.

He looked up at Atheridge. “The rope, you idiot! Help me tie her up. ”

Quaking, Atheridge dropped to his knees, handing him the rope. “D—did you get a carriage?”

He knotted the rope about her wrists, pulling it cruelly tight when she attempted to flail at him. “From the stable,” he answered shortly.

“Here? Her own carriage? If Thomas finds it missing—” he trailed off miserably.

“That’s why you’ll have to come with me to see it’s brought back before he’s about.” Tunning grunted as he deflected a kick.

“Me!”

“Know anyone else whose neck threatens to be stretched if he don’t?” He quickly captured the errant leg and bound the two together. He sat back on his heels and studied her bound figure. “Are you sure you don’t want a tumble?” he asked Atheridge.

He laughed at Atheridge’s choked denial. “Well, help me get her out of here.”

Elizabeth shuddered as they grabbed her, squeezing her eyes shut to close out his