“How dare you!”
He straightened, his pudgy hand fingering his watch chain. “Asides which, you’ve got no proof,” he continued malevolently.
Elizabeth drew a deep breath while her fiery eyes burned through 'liming. “No, I don’t. You saw to that when you locked the estate room and terrorized the local people,” she seethed.“But I’m giving you warning, do not play ducks and drakes with other people’s money again, or I’ll see you on the first ship bound for the penal colony in Australia!”
“Don’t you go threatening me,” he snarled, rocking back on his heels. “I know all about you, now that I’ve done some investigating. They call you the Shrew of London, and it’s rumored St. Ryne won a tidy bundle in the clubs by wedding you.”
“You insolent cur!”
“Same as you. I’ll bide my time for now, but when the Viscount returns, I’ll see that Geddy witch out on her ear, mark my words.”
“You mark mine, Tom Tunning. Stay out of my way, or you may see just how much of a shrew I can be. You’ll rue the day you crossed swords with me.” Her fingers closed around the inkstand, her fingers itching to throw it in his face.
“Oh, I think not, my fine lady, I think not,” he snickered, turning on his heel and slamming the library door shut behind him.
Elizabeth still shuddered when she considered that interview. She should have maintained an icy calmness, but her famous temper had once again betrayed her. The truth was, she did not know whom St. Ryne would believe. His last words to Tunning before he left indicated a faith in her, but how much of that was real and how much pretense to ease the sting of his actions? She might be tilting at windmills and be as helpless as Tunning inferred.
She leaned back in her chair. She was tired, and a replay of that awful interview was not conducive to creating peace of mind. A wry smile twisted her mouth, then crumbled into a tremulous frown. Life had not been fair to her since she was five, why should it change now?Because I wish it to!She loweredher head into her hands as a slow trailing of tears slid down her cheeks, despite her determined silent protest against them.
St. Ryne stopped mid-stride when he saw his Bess. She jumped from her chair, his name a bare breath of air on her lips. She quickly flicked a tear from her cheek, but not before he noted its course and a similar track on the other cheek. He continued forward to grab her hands and guide her around the desk, his warm smile offering humor and friendship. Elizabeth eyed him warily.
“Bess, what is this?” he asked, searching her face carefully.
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. “Nothing, my lord, I assure you. It is merely fatigue’s cruel gesture—womanly nonsense.” She withdrew her hands, a mantle of coldly formal reserve settling over her. She glided past him to sit stiffly erect in a chair by the fire. “We were not expecting you.” Suddenly seeing St. Ryne rocked her senses. She drew a steadying breath. “I’m afraid there is still much to do here. We are not yet prepared to provide all the comforts you would wish.”
St. Ryne looked quizzically at the stiff little marionette Elizabeth had become. “What do I care of comforts? As it is, my dear, you have already wrought miracles.” He took the chair opposite her.
Elizabeth refused to look directly at him, her eyes focused just to the side of his head. “The dining room and hall are complete, save for draperies and upholstery,” she recited colorlessly. “I am assured the drawing room will be completed tomorrow. I had a bedroom for your use prepared in the event of your return, but have not as yet ordered new fabrics for its refurbishment. The grounds have been manicured, though perhaps not perfectly, but this will do until Spring. I took the liberty of cleaning out the stable and laying fresh straw. You are correct, it is a ramshackle structure, but one, I surmise, which must see us through this winter. I have begun the process ofengaging servants; however, it is a slow project. It appears there is considerable hesitation amongst the people here to work at Larchside on other than a contract basis. So far I have engaged the services of a cook, a chambermaid, and a footman?—”
“We don’t have a footman any longer.”
“What?” Elizabeth’s head snapped around in surprise. St. Ryne’s mouth quirked sideways, then he struggled to adopt a tone as formal as her own, though his eyes danced. “At least, I don’t think we do. It does depend on what Grigs says.” That caught her attention quickly enough, he thought. “Who is Grigs? What are you talking about?”
“About Thomas, the young man you engaged as a footman. He’s horse mad, did you know? I’m giving him a chance to be a groom if Grigs, my head groom, approves him for training. Grigs should be here within the hour along with Mr. Cranston.”
“Mr. Cranston?” she returned feebly, knowing somehow she’d lost her advantage.
“My valet. Have you found a suitable lady’s maid yet?”
“No, though tomorrow I interview Ivy Murchison, a young woman who, Mary tells me, is quite clever with her hands and eager to enter the profession,” she said, dazed.
“Who is Mary?”
Elizabeth struggled to recapture her reserve. “Our new cook. It has been through her good offices that I have even been able to hire anyone.”
A mock grimace crossed St. Ryne’s face. “My stomach recalls only too well other meals served here. Can this Mary truly cook?”
“Excellently. That does remind me, I must tell her to expect one more for dinner.” She rose regally from her chair. “You must want to freshen up before dinner. I will have Atheridge conduct you to your chamber.” She glanced at the large clock on the mantel as she pulled the bell. “We keep country hours here. Dinner will be served in one hour.”
Elizabeth’s determined wintry disposition effectively cooled St. Ryne’s homecoming enthusiasm, and convinced him his road would be rougher to travel than he had imagined. Rather than rail at her icy formality, it would do well to get over this rough ground lightly by accepting it without question. Her carefully controlled neutral demeanor had slipped once, so perhaps it wasn’t an easy attitude to maintain. If that were the case, he would do nothing to antagonize her into ensuring its continued maintenance.
He listened to Elizabeth instruct Atheridge, her tones measured and correct, yet lacking emotion. Perhaps he should first discover what had occurred at Larchside in his absence, for with his wife’s London reputation, there may be bellows to mend with the locals. She had already spoken of difficulty in engaging servants. Some diplomatic maneuvering might be in order.
St. Ryne’s thoughts were pensive as he followed the butler. The meaning behind Elizabeth’s care for his room was not lost on him. He had not joined her in bed on their wedding night or the night after, therefore she did not expect him to in the future, and most likely would vehemently protest any attempt on his part. He could demand his conjugal rights, although that was definitely not what he wanted from his Bess. He wanted her to want him as much as he was discovering he wanted her. In retrospect, it amazed him what a mull he’d managed to make of his marriage. His actions were those of a man puffed up by his own conceit. It would take time to rectify his multitudinous errors. Time, he grimly decided, he would take.
“Your chambers, my lord.” Atheridge’s rusty voice interrupted his reverie.
“Thank you.” He looked about with interest at the room Elizabeth had assigned him. It was decorated in bilious green. St. Ryne thought wryly that its current color scheme probably figured in her selection. He’d wager it was also scheduled to bethe last room she redecorated. Actually he was pleased; such a choice was calculated with vengeance in mind, tempered with black humor. If she was as bloodless as she was attempting to portray, it was more likely she wouldn’t have cared where he slept, or else would have taken the simple expedient of choosing a room that was the farthest from her own.
