Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,9
the dance. As she did so, she dug her nails into the back of his coat.
St. Ryne laughed down at her. “If you wish to scratch me, you had best wait until we are married and you will have real flesh to touch there.”
Lady Elizabeth blushed, her mind in a whirl. “Marry you!” she fairly shrieked, then glanced around swiftly to see if any had heard. “Nothing would prevail upon me to marry you!”
“Your father will.”
She bit her lip in exasperation for there was no denying the truth of his comment. She had been a thorn in the side of her father ever since the death of her mother. She was also painfully aware of the buzzing speculation in the ballroom. She lifted her head high and assumed her haughtiest manner.
St. Ryne was entranced. “Good girl!”
As the music ended, he led her back to her corner, amused that people gave them a wide berth.
“I shall wait upon you on the morrow, my lady,” he promised, bowing over her hand. He was well pleased with his encounter with Lady Elizabeth, and schemes and stratagems for her taming and wooing were beginning to formulate in his mind.
She jerked her hand away. “Weil, you can wait all you want for you won’t find me available,” she ground out waspishly.
St. Ryne merely laughed again and turned to take his leave. He made his way over to Lady Amblethorp, thanked that flustered lady for her invitation, saying he had enjoyed himself immensely, and quickly departed.
Lady Elizabeth Monweithe sullenly watched him leave. She saw him nod, shake hands, and speak nonchalantly with various people in the room as if he were totally unaware of having created one of the biggest stirs of the season, even going so far as to laugh when Lady Jersey wagged a finger at him. As Elizabeth watched him, she was crushingly aware of the fact that she still did not know who he was. When her father came up some moments later demanding an explanation, for once she refused to cut up her sire and only glared at him in cold-eyed silence.
“Speak, gal! Never had trouble with that cutting tongue of yours before. What happened between you and St. Ryne? Don’t you know, you foolish wretch, he is one of the biggest matrimonial prizes in London! You’ve embarrassed me and your dear little sister by your antics tonight,” he blustered. “Bad enough you’re only welcome anywhere for the scenes you create, but this was the outside of enough! Don’t know why he spent such an unconscionable amount of time with the likes of you, but they say he’s been out of the country for a year.” His face was flushed and perspired profusely. He drew a large handkerchief from his pocket to blot his brow as he dragged her into a small antechamber.
Lady Elizabeth was shocked at hearing the identity of the stranger. She had heard of him. All London had buzzed for the past week about his return, and Helene had vowed to make him another of her admirers.
Elizabeth drew every inch of her tiny frame erect as she stared coldly at her father. “What we talked of is none of your concern,” she said austerely. Inwardly, however, a surge of excitement pulsed through her, a surge she could not dampen.
Lord Monweithe stared hard at his daughter, knowing there was no threatening this one into submission. Throwing up his hands, he turned to stalk out of the room, mopping his brow again as he left.
Lady Elizabeth stood stiffly until he departed then sank wearily into a large, red brocade chair. As she did she caught sight of the stain on the flounce of her dress. She stared at it mistily, her eyes filling with unshed tears. She gulped and sniffed loudly, angry at herself. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes as one lone tear spilled, sliding slowly down her cheek.
... And where two raging fires meet together
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
—Act II, Scene 1
During the next four days, Lady Elizabeth Monweithe made a concerted effort to be absent from her home for the greater part of the day. She shopped at Harding, Howell and Company in Schomberg House, resting to partake of tea and sweetmeats in their first floor restaurant; patronized the new Soho Square shopping bazaar where the stalls were run by female relatives of soldiers lost in the Napoleonic wars as a means of income; browsed through Hatchard’s bookshop in Piccadilly;