Freddy snorted. “Tretherford’s a toady, though I think Lady Wisgart’s got her eye on him for herself.”
“That seems apropos,” St. Ryne murmured.
“Ain’t it just,” Freddy agreed, rocking back on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.
Dismissing the play before him from his mind, St. Ryne looked about for the woman he presumed to be Lady Elizabeth. She continued to stand by the vase, as still as a statue, her eyes wide.
“Freddy,” St. Ryne saidsotto voce,dragging him away from La Belle Helene, “is that young woman standing there Lady Elizabeth Monweithe?”
Freddy looked in the direction St. Ryne indicated, and shuddered slightly.
“Yes, but do come over here and I’ll introduce you to the sweetest woman in the world.”
St. Ryne looked at the group surrounding Freddy’s paragon with a jaundiced eye, then shook his head. “I’d rather meet Lady Elizabeth.”
“Not by me!” Freddy said, shaking his head and backing up a step. “I don’t go near that hellcat!”
St. Ryne’s face became dark and shuttered as he raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend. Without a word, he bowed stiffly and turned on his heel to walk away, leaving poor Freddy very bewildered.
Sir James Branstoke, standing a step apart from those surrounding the sought-after beauty, noted the exchange through his raised quizzing glass and smiled. He watched St. Ryne make his way to the punch table, procure two glasses, andturn to approach the shrew. He rubbed the rim of his quizzing glass thoughtfully against his cheek, then turned to the crowd surrounding La Belle. As entertaining as the Viscount may be, he did have other sport, particularly as it appeared the Viscount was determined to take up the bet and spoil the game. It was as well. He stood to win a hefty sum of money and only lose a dalliance. But for the nonce, the dalliance would suffice. He smiled and held out his hand to Lady Helene. Her eyelashes fluttered down as she placed her hand demurely in his. A murmured uproar rose from her coterie at such effrontery.
St. Ryne stood behind the screen of white roses and studied the profile of his chosen wife. The messages his eyes were receiving warred with his knowledge of Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. This fragile, delicate woman must draw her strength from her shrewishness, he decided. That was a strength he wanted to see and tap. He found within himself a desire to rouse the golden fire in her eyes, of which Freddy spoke so eloquently, and discover if they would sear his soul. He approached her silently.
“Excuse me, my lady, but I have brought you a glass of punch. I thought it thirsty work to be standing alone in a corner,” he said softly in her ear.
Lady Elizabeth Monweithe turned toward him, startled. No one other than her father, aunt, or sister dared approach her at a social affair. Bright color flew up to stain her cheeks. She was speechless as she gathered her wits and continued to stare at the stranger standing before her. He was tall with strong, unforgettable features, yet she had no idea who he could be. In the sea of brightly colored fish, he stood out for his austerity of attire. Though no one talked to her, she was a constant watcher of society, liking the obscurity of her side-stage existence. She thought she knew by sight every member of society. It occurred to her he might be a younger son recently sold out of themilitary. She did not know how she should treat him, or indeed, how or what he may know of her.
The Viscount smiled at the startled expression on her face, placed the punch cup in her automatically outstretched hand, and continued: “I know we have not been properly introduced, and therefore it is the height of impertinence for me to approach you, but I had a problem. No one would approach you to avail me of the introduction I devoutly desired. I was in a quandary; however, as such dictates of society bore me, I felt, my lady, at least your reputation would save us from interruption.” He smiled broadly as he watched the gathering storm of emotions play upon her face, and saw the fires Freddy mentioned light her eyes.Egad, but she's beautiful!he thought, as he studied her high color. Perhaps he should be careful how he played his role. Still, Petruchio won the day with abrasive handling of his Kate. Once begun, he would go on.
Swiftly, a shuttered expression descended over Lady Elizabeth’s face. “You pompous, conceited, braying ass!” she ground out. Inwardly she mourned. For a moment she had hoped he knew nothing of her wretched reputation. It was all too clear he was aware of theon-dits,and was indeed one to take up the knife and twist it further. “How dare you approach me! You are correct when you say it is the highest piece of impertinence, and I’ll thank you to quit my sight.”
She quivered with anger while the Viscount laughed delightedly. Lady Elizabeth was aware that they had become the subject of many inquisitive eyes and whisperings about the room. She ground her teeth in irritation. Though her reputation had again preceded her, her own wretched tongue gave purchase to the gossip. In all fairness, never had she met a gentleman such as this stranger. She wished she knew his purpose. His laughter made her rage burn hotter. She raised her arm to fling the contents of the punch glass she held into his face.
The stranger was faster than she. He caught her arm, his hand a steel trap, heavily bearing her hand down until the cup emptied its rose-colored contents onto the floor, some splashing to stain the flounce of her gown. She did not say a word as she watched the last drops fall. She raised her eyes to the gentleman before her, trying desperately to still her rapid breathing. There was whispered silence throughout the room.
The Viscount watched her with a strange, twisted smile upon his lips. She was glorious—a seductive blend of fire and ice. It was no wonder the staid and simpering society he knew was appalled, for this woman was no mealy-mouthed miss to follow meekly the dictates of society. To be sure, she was an uncut diamond. The breath in his chest tightened at the thought he was to be her gem cutter. In the background, he was dimly aware of activity by the orchestra where Lord Amblethorp was ordering them to strike up some music, anything to end the awful silence. The orchestra in a flurry played the next piece on their stands. It was a waltz.
“You know, my dear,” St. Ryne began conversationally, “you almost disappointed me by your speechlessness when I first approached. You lived up to my expectations, however—and your reputation I might add—and came through like a storm on the isle of Jamaica with its wind, lightning, and giant raindrops. One may hate the storms, but afterward the world is beautiful— clean and refreshed. They are playing a waltz. Come, let us join.”
Lady Elizabeth was taken aback by his reaction and more than a little ashamed of her actions, but she clenched her teeth and stood rigidly. “I do not waltz. Not now, not ever, and particularly, not with you.”
“I applaud your reticence,” he commended affably. “It is still considered by some to be a fast dance; nevertheless, on this occasion you will, and with me.” So saying, he grabbed her arm, propelling her to the dance floor.
Lady Elizabeth walked like a broken doll, but soon threw up her head in defiance as she heard the whispered gasps about the room. She went readily then into Justin’s arms, though she scowled up at him. St. Ryne laughed, yet did not say anything else as he tightened his grasp on her waist and began to twirl her around the room.
“You dance very prettily,” he remarked some moments later, “for someone who hasn’t had the practice. Which is fine with me, since I do not dance much myself. Only please don’t step on my feet.”
Lady Elizabeth gasped and tried to pull away from him, but he only held her more firmly.
“I do not care to dance,” she declared, glaring her challenge at him as she stopped in the middle of the dance floor, causing other couples to misstep as they tried to dance around them. She was amazed at her own audacity. Such behavior on her part would set the cat among the pigeons for sure. Inwardly she cringed at the possible repercussions this incident might engender; however, she defiantly stood her ground.
St. Ryne, a dangerous glint in his eye, bent over to whisper in her ear “If you knew me better, you would not try such antics, and if you don’t care to be ignominiously carried off the dance floor on my shoulder, you will dance again.”
Looking into his eyes, Lady Elizabeth saw the truth in his statement, and with ill grace allowed herself to rejoin 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!”
