“Beg pardon, my lord. I was checking on the cost of supplies for the stable. Some of those tradesmen can be real crooks, boosting prices just ’cause they works for gentry. I put them in their place right enough. We’ll not be gulled by any merchants in these parts.”
St. Ryne relaxed a bit at hearing Tunning's explanation. “I sent for you regarding the estate room.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“It’s locked again, damn it! What are you about, locking my own estate room against me?”
“I assure you, my lord, it weren’t done intentionally. I guess locking the estate room has just become habit of late, like I told you when you returned, because of all the strangers about. I assumed you had a key, my lord. I’ll have the smith make up another.”
“Have him make two,” interposed Elizabeth.
Tunning looked from St. Ryne to the Viscountess and back. “Two, my lord?”
“Yes, an excellent idea. You should have one on your ring, my dear.”
“Are you intending to work in the estate room, my lord?” Tunning asked in a strangled voice.
“Yes, about time I acquainted myself with the crops and numbers.”
“I will make myself available to assist you.”
“I think I am capable of reading by myself,” St. Ryne drawled.
“Well, I’ll just be by to answer questions, then.”
“That will not be necessary, as my hours in the estate room will no doubt be erratic. Any questions I have will be brought out later.”
“If you’re sure, my lord?—”
“Yes, Tunning, confound it, there is no need for you to live in my pocket.”
“To be sure, my lord, no offense meant. Will that be all?”
“Yes—No! Give me your key for now. We will deal with the smith later.”
Reluctantly, Tunning removed a large brass key from his pocket.
“Thank you. You may go.”
“Very good, my lord.”
St. Ryne turned the key over in his hand, blindly staring at it. Suddenly, closing his fist over it, he rose from his chair. “Will you excuse me, Bess? My curiosity is aroused.”
St.Ryne tapped the letter against his hand then went in search of Elizabeth. The letter was franked by her father and appeared to be in his strong hand. Given what Bess had told him of her relationship with her parent, he could not help but wonder at its content. It was a splendid excuse to search her out, something he now tried to do at odd moments of the day.
Their open conversation over the apple flummery was not repeated; however, as they spent more and more time together at tea, over dinner, and in the evening, or at chance encounters during the day, the formality between them began to fade. Elizabeth smiled and laughed more, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy. She began to enjoy St. Ryne’s company, his humor, and his solicitous nature. At times it made her wonder if the early days of her marriage weren’t some nightmare from which she awoke. They still maintained separate bedrooms and nothing seemed to be occurring to change that circumstance. St. Ryne was very careful not to do anything untoward that would upset their fragile budding relationship. He wanted her to fall in love with him, and thought his gentle attentions and care would push her to love. For her part, she wondered if St. Ryne would ever be interested in her. She craved his touch, but was too afraid of his coldness and disgust if she demonstrated passion.
He found her in the drawing room, working on the chair cover. The new drapes had not yet arrived from London, and consequently the pale sunlight streamed in through the tall, bare windows. Elizabeth sat with the sun pouring over her shoulders, shining on the brilliant colors of the canvas in her lap, and casting the red-gold aura he had become so familiar with on her hair.
“This just came for you.”
“A letter, for me?” She took the letter from him. “It’s from my father!”
“You act surprised.”
“In truth, I am. I thought he’d washed his hands of me.”
“Well, obviously not. Aren’t you going to read it?”
