She stared at the letter. “I suppose I must,” she said ruefully. She broke open the wafer and spread the closely written sheet open on her needlework. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents, then she looked up at St. Ryne. “Oh, come read this, too. ’Tis rich, I vow!”
St. Ryne leaned over the back of her chair, her hair tickling his chin and smelling of jasmine. The letter, in very stilted words, was to inform them of Helene’s betrothal to Frederick Shiperton, Esq.
“Poor Freddy,” they muttered simultaneously then began to laugh until their eyes watered. St. Ryne, his hands resting on her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her head. Elizabeth stilled at his touch, then slowly turned her head to look up at him. Silently they stared at each other.
Elizabeth nervously licked her lips. “They want us to come to London for a betrothal ball. It’s to be the last society event before the Christmas season,” she said faintly.
“All right,” he breathed, his head coming inexorably closer. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” yelped Elizabeth. She turned her head away, and with nervous fingers rolled her needlework up and replaced it in the tapestry bag. “Then I must get busy—there are a thousand things to do.”
St. Ryne sighed and stood upright. “Yes, of course, my dear. Let me know if I may be of any service to you.”
“Thank you, Justin, I will. I must find Mrs. Atheridge to supervise the packing and check on the laundry, then I’ll go seeMary and tell her not to get any more perishables. I’ll need to wash my hair this evening, as well?—”
St. Ryne laughed, holding his hands before him as if to ward off a blow. “Enough! I can see I have much to learn about traveling with a household,” he said humorously.
Elizabeth grinned saucily at him. “It’s not so bad as long as one remembers to deal a whip and chain.”
“Baggage!”
Elizabeth merely laughed and skipped out of the room. St. Ryne stared after her, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “Just you wait, my love,” he said to the empty room. “Your time is coming.”
CHAPTER 12
Come on, a God’s name; once more toward our father’s.
Act IV, Scene 3
“Justin, it is not necessary for you to accompany me!” Elizabeth expostulated, drawing on yellow kid gloves.
“Indulge me, Bess. It is my intention to make amends for that questionable trousseau I gave you.” He drew her arm through his and led her down the steps before their London town house.
“So you admit to its unsuitability?”
“It was a quixotic gesture, except perhaps for that gray dress,” he said reminiscently, a hint of a smile curving his lips.
Elizabeth dimpled up at him. “It did have a certain charm, didn’t it?”
“I believe it wasn’t its charms that caught my attention,” St. Ryne said drily. “Why haven’t you worn it since?”
She blushed. “It served its purpose,” was all she would answer in return.
St. Ryne laughed and pressed her arm closer to his side.
“So whose establishment are we to grace with our custom?”
Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled in thought. “In truth, I am still considering. I refuse to visit any of the modistes my aunt frequented. They would likely parade before us fabrics and dresses such as my aunt preferred. I desire something very different.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“You?” she queried archly.
“Aside from my wretched choice for a trousseau, I am aware of the niceties of feminine fashion.”
“Ah, supported the high-flyers, did you?”
His mouth gaped, then snapped shut, his eyes dancing. “Hush, you silly widgeon! No need to broadcast our conversation to all of Bond Street. As to your supposition,” he continued with mock dignity, “may I remind you I have been on the town for ten years now, and since clothing is something women discuss incessantly, a gentleman is bound to pick up a thing or two.” He waved his free hand airily.
