Elizabeth made an inarticulate cry and grabbed his arm to stop him, but was too late. She stared into the flames for a moment longer before becoming aware she still held his arm. She backed away swiftly, or would have, had not St. Ryne caught her around the waist. She struggled to get away from him, yet he held her firm. She knew his strength was superior to hers, and knew the futility of trying to break away, so she abruptly stopped and looked coldly up at him, hoping he did not notice her rapidly beating heart.
St. Ryne loosened his hold when he felt her struggles cease, and to her surprise, let her go. With one long finger, he tipped her chin up to him and smiled down into her rigid features.
“Don’t fight me, Bess,” he said softly, then dropped his hand and turned away toward his chair.
A knock at the door startled both of them. It was Atheridge, come to announce dinner.
“My lady,” St. Ryne said, offering Elizabeth his arm. Elizabeth looked at it scornfully and moved to walk past him, but he caught her and draped her arm over his, chuckling as he did so. “You have a lot to learn, my spoiled darling.”
Elizabeth chose to ignore him, knowing she had not found a way to get under his skin at all and also knowing he had gotten under hers.
The dining room was in the back of the house with windows on three sides, all heavily draped in a dark velvet material, so old and discolored that Elizabeth wondered at its original color. A burgundy, she surmised by the silk tassels that still retainedsome of that hue. It was a large room with a rococo-style ceiling and a large marble fireplace. But if the two rooms she had seen thus far had perturbed her with their layers of dust, the dining room was revolting. The thought of eating any food in such filth was nauseating. Cobwebs covered the ornate chandelier and the delicate designs in the ceiling. The table had obviously been given only a cursory swipe with a dust cloth in anticipation of their meals, and Elizabeth, looking at the chairs, was certain the dress she was wearing would be more gray than mauve when she rose again from dinner. To her consternation, St. Ryne appeared not to notice the condition of the room, but blithely conducted her to a chair to his right while he took the chair at the head of the table.
“We will dine informally tonight, all right, my love?”
Elizabeth glared at him but did not deign to respond. If she could not get the best of him verbally, she would try silence and see how he liked that.
Atheridge served dinner, and it was a meal to further depress Elizabeth’s appetite. The soup was thick and floury, but the lamb was revoltingly swimming in its own juice and was cold. St. Ryne reacted to that, demanding to know why he must serve them cold meat.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but it being so far from the kitchen—” the man whined in return.
“Remove it, man! If that is your best, we’ll fast tonight, and mend matters tomorrow. Come, Bess.” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulling her out of her chair, propelled her before him, stopping long enough for the port bottle and his glass before guiding her into the library once again.
“Sit down,” he said, pushing her into a chair across from his. Without a word she sat stiffly, looking everywhere save at her husband. She was very tired, and felt her shoulders long to droop and relax, but she forced herself to remain rigid. She would haveloved to go to bed, but was afraid to suggest it, fearing what actions he would take then.
She did not feel ready to deal with the intimacies of marriage, particularly to this stranger who was her husband. The day had been a mockery. Would he also make a mockery of the marriage bed? She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back a freshening of tears. Glancing over at him, she noted him drinking steadily, and dimly hoped he would drink himself to sleep as her father was wont to do.
She was surprised when sometime later she felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and looked up to find the Viscount’s eyes inches away from hers. With a start she realized she’d fallen asleep and was leaning back against the cushions, her cheek pillowed against the chair wing.
“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand.
Without thought, Elizabeth placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. His free arm swept around her waist to guide her toward the door. At his touch, all realization returned to Elizabeth and the color fled her face. St. Ryne dropped his arm as he opened the door for her and followed her out. Elizabeth walked slowly toward the stairs, her heart in her throat. She was surprised when St. Ryne did not take her arm again. She hurried slightly ahead of him up the stairs to avoid contact. He laughed softly and followed her into the bedchamber.
“Are you so impatient for my caresses, my love?”
Elizabeth froze. She began to tremble and crossed the room to the fireplace to warm her hands, though she knew full well she was not trembling from the cold.
Behind her she heard St. Ryne breath in sharply. She closed her eyes, trembling once again while she tried to will her body to stop, to be cold and aloof. She concentrated so hard, she did not hear St. Ryne cross the room, and was only snappedinto awareness by the click of a closing door. Startled, she straightened and looked around the room. St. Ryne was gone.
Swiftly she crossed to the connecting door then the main door to lock them, only to find there were no keys. She eyed the furniture, but unfortunately, they were all solid, heavy pieces—too big for her to move in front of a door.
A little uncertainly, she removed the mauve dress, then swiftly donned her new white lawn nightgown. She looked about the room again, half expecting St. Ryne to appear. Bewildered, Elizabeth picked up her brush from the vanity and sat before the fire, waiting and listening as she brushed her hair with long even strokes. Eventually she heard St. Ryne moving about in his dressing room. She froze, expecting him to enter. She closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand to the neckline of her nightgown, drawing it more closely about her. She winced as first one boot then the other was heard to hit the floor, followed by a muffled rustling. She opened her eyes and rose slowly to face the door. She strained her hearing to catch the first signs of the door opening. Instead she heard the narrow bed she had seen in St. Ryne’s dressing room creak as it received his weight, then the house was silent. Confused, Elizabeth tentatively crossed to the big empty bed on the dais. Crawling in, she pulled the blankets snugly about her as she huddled on one side. She was exhausted and her stomach churned in hunger. Sleep, however, was a long way away.
CHAPTER 6
‘Where is the life that late I led?’
Act III, Scene 3
It was a feather faintly brushing her nose, a grain of pepper floating in the air. Sleepily Elizabeth twitched her nose, then turned her head to bury her face deep into the pillow. The irritating tickle remained. After squirming uselessly under the covers for a moment, she raised her head. There appeared to be no stopping it. Her eyes clenched shut, almost tearing from the plaguing irritant.
Ah-ahchoo!
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open in horrified dismay. Quickly she looked about, her befuddled mind wondering if anyone had been witness to her very unladylike sneeze. Dazedly she surveyed her surroundings. This was not her room. This was not Rasthough (Ah-ah-ahchoo!)House. Then she remembered—with sickening clarity—St. Ryne, the wedding, the house. She bolted upright in bed, flinging off the bed covers, sending a cloud of silver motes into the air.
Ahchoo! Ahchoo!Sneezes racked her body, her eyes watering, her nose turning red. Elizabeth fumbled for the reticule she had discarded so casually the day before, searching frantically for the square of linen it contained. How could she ever have forgotten all the dust?Ahch—She jammed the handkerchief tightly to her face, closing her eyes thankfully when the sneezing stopped. As quietly as possible, she blew her nose until the tickle subsided, then slumped down in relief on the edge of the bed.
Dust. Even in the morning dimness of a room shut off from the outside, dust was evident everywhere. Only her fatigued state, shattered nerves, and the flickering shadows cast in the candlelit room the evening before had prevented her from noting how thick the bedchamber was with dust. Reluctantly she rose and crossed to the terrace windows, dragging the heavy curtains back to let strands of pale autumn sun into the room. For a moment she just stood, her face turned up to the sun, feeling the warmth seep into her body. She looked out the windows onto the grounds of the park below.
