“Atheridge,” he said suddenly before the man could leave, “how has life been here at Larchside since I left?”
“Beg pardon, my lord?”
St. Ryne frowned, forming his words carefully in his mind. “I left before my wife had the opportunity to properly acquaint herself with Larchside.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I trust there have been no problems?”
“None, though Mr. Tunning and the mistress do not see eye to eye.”
“In what way?”
“Well, not that it’s for me to say, but it did seem she completely disregarded his personnel suggestions and—forgive me, my lord—she has sometimes gone so far as to forget her position with the tenants, if you know my meaning,” he explained austerely.
St. Ryne’s brow descended and he nodded his understanding. “Thank you, Atheridge, that will be all. Oh, you can expect my man to arrive shortly, so please see him situated, then conduct him here.”
“Very good, my lord.” Atheridge bowed himself out, pleased with his accomplishment. He’d show Tunning he was not the only one who could be needle-witted. Soon that Viscountess would be property tethered, and Larchside would be her gilded perch. Then they could go about feathering their nests as they’d done for years. There was a fair amount of money put away; he’d once asked Tunning if it weren’t time to cut their losses andretire the scene. But the wily estate agent had been confident there were still funds to be milked from the estate and the people serving it.
Alone, St. Ryne shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, shivering slightly in the cool air. The fire laid when he arrived had not yet caught sufficiently to heat the room. Absently he picked up the poker to stoke the flames, his mind on Atheridge’s words.
It appeared his fears were well founded; Elizabeth had been up to her London tricks and had already managed to terrorize the neighborhood. He should not have left her in so uncertain a temper. She was bound to take some misguided action. He pitied his tenants, especially those whose life looked unnaturally harsh. He wondered what actions he would have to take to soothe ruffled feathers and hurt feelings. It was no surprise that she was having difficulty engaging servants; she probably terrorized all applicants. Tunning must be tearing his hair out, he mused, with her ranting and raving.
A soft knock on his door was met with a distracted command to enter.
Elizabeth hesitated, her hand a hair’s breadth away from the latch. In all honesty, she failed to remember precisely why she stood there, her errand superfluous in her own mind. She steeled herself to resume her cool, withdrawn mien, and briskly opened the door.
“Justin—” His name died on her lips, her breath coming in a ragged gasp. He stood in the flickering glow cast by the fire, naked from the waist up. His smoothly muscled back was to her as he bent forward, stirring the embers.
She had never seen a man without his shirt, save in statues and paintings. She blinked rapidly in surprise.
St. Ryne jerked up at the sound of his name, turning swiftly, poker in hand.
A sensual heat pumped erratically through Elizabeth, suffusing her face, running down through her loins, stirring up a maelstrom of emotions from deep within. She felt unaccountably light-headed. The light and shadows cast by the fire sharply defined the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and glinted off the curling mat of dark hair spread across his chest and descending in a V to his flat stomach. Her hand slowly rose from her side with a mind of its own and a desire to touch his chest, her nails aching to graze his naked shoulders as he’d promised at that fateful Amblethorp rout. Like waking from a drugged sleep, she lifted her eyes from his chest to his face, to find her surprise mirrored in his eyes.
Very slowly he set the poker down by the hearth, moving as if afraid to startle a bird to flight. He glided to her side, his heart pounding in his chest. “Bess,” he whispered, for he recognized the desire and confusion in her eyes. He felt giddy, as if he should be shouting for joy, but he contained himself, for this exotic bird could still take flight. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close to him. Her hands settled tentatively against his chest.
His head bent, slowly closing the distance with hers. In panic she realized he intended to kiss her. “No!” she moaned, all too clearly remembering when last they kissed, fear of her response to him rapidly supplanting the desire in her eyes. Her fingers curled into fists, and weakly her eyelids fluttered shut.
She felt his lips lightly settle on her temple, then withdraw, her hands falling from his chest as he stepped away. She swayed slightly, then her eyes flew open to see him pick up his discarded shirt to slip it on. Two bright spots of color stained her cheeks.
“I—I came to inform you the grooms’ quarters in the stable are quite uninhabitable. Your groom will have to sleep in the servant rooms here in the house. I have directed Mrs. Atheridge to have a room prepared, but I didn’t know how many to expect.I normally wouldn’t bother you with servant details; however, Mrs. Atheridge seems incapable of independent thought.” She was babbling and she knew it. She compressed her lips tightly for her husband was studying her with a thoroughly masculine, arrogant smile slashing across his face.
“Just Grigs and Cranston at the moment. I have already spoken to Grigs on the condition of the stable, and though he sniffed like a superior butler, he is prepared to accommodate himself as necessary.” He answered lightly, but his eyes remained intent upon her.
“Very well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll leave you now to your ablutions and see you at dinner.”
Elizabeth, calmer, appeared to have regained her dignity. St. Ryne watched her leave, pleased with the encounter. He discovered to his delight that his lady wife was not completely the mistress of her emotions for he’d glimpsed the edges of suppressed passion. Patience would come easily now, he decided, for he was sure of success. A sudden frown pulled at the comers of his mouth. There was still the problem of her shrewish temperament with other people. On that problem it would bode well to step carefully.
Once out of the suffocating proximity of St. Ryne, a new iron determination to distance herself emotionally from him swept through Elizabeth. She paced her room restlessly. She hated the realization that he could make her knees weak with a touch or a look, while he felt nothing. He acted the large cat playing with its prey. Why had he come back—to complete her humiliation? For all her shrewish sins of the past, did she deserve such treatment?
The only time she had felt confident dealing with St. Ryne was the evening she came down to dinner in the altered gown. Her eyes widened. Of course—how stupid she was to forget! Justin was not completely immune to her charms, for she’d proven it to herself that night. Poor Hattie told her often enoughthat a body caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, but her words had fallen on deaf ears—until now.
Her wardrobe was stuffed with her gowns from home. Impatiently she sorted through them. The insipid white muslins she should discard. She must remember to ask Mary if there were any young girls in the area in need of such dresses. Unfortunately, the rest of her gowns were not much better. There were perhaps two gowns that offered promise: a red velvet that had been made up for a theater excursion that she had bowed out of at the last moment pleading a headache, and a dark blue watered silk, which, after it was delivered, Lady Romella had decided was too dark a color for an unmarried woman. Though neither neckline was as vulgarly low as the one she’d fashioned for the gray gown, the colors did her better service. She chose the blue silk, deciding the red may yet be too strong a color. Her campaign must start subtly, she thought with a small smile.
“That repast,my dear, was as good as any prepared by a London chef,” St. Ryne praised as he conducted Elizabeth to the library after dinner. “You are to be congratulated.”
“Yes, I believe we are fortunate in Mary.”
