Mrs. Atheridge sniffed and sketched a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lord.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed upon her. She was incensed at St. Ryne’s drawing her fire. Mrs. Atheridge was well due for a dressing down. Her eye ran over the housekeeper’s figure; her dress hung limply about her stocky frame, the silk petticoats dispensed. A measure of self-satisfaction filled Elizabeth and she found herself speaking with a quiet tongue. “Bring tea to the library, please. Afterward you may begin the dinner preparations.”
Elizabeth continued into the library, without sparing the housekeeper a glance to see if her orders were obeyed. For all her obstructionist tactics of the day, Elizabeth felt sure she would not dare such a blatant disregard for a command, particularly with St. Ryne present. She could not say, however, that she envisioned an appetizing dinner. Replacing Mrs. Atheridge in the kitchen would be one of her first concerns.
She moved gracefully into the room to stand by the fireplace, and critically scanned the room. It would do. All traces of grime had been removed from the wainscoting and furniture, and some pieces had already received a fresh coating of wax or oil. Half of the books were cleaned and replaced in their shelves; the rest stood in stacks upon the floor. There was still a musty smell about the room, but with time and care she felt it could be banished. She studied the chairs and drapes, contemplating replacement fabric. She entirely forgot St. Ryne’s presence until the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor roused her from her reverie.
St. Ryne placed one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, gesturing that she should sit. He then drew up the other for himself. A nervous flutter traveled through Elizabeth.
“Am I amiss in setting to rights my settlement?” She spoke coolly, refusing to acknowledge the flutters in her body or to consider their source.
“No-no. Not at all. But, Bess, must you look so-so?—”
“Common? Bourgeois?” she asked archly, indicating her attire.
“Common?” St. Ryne laughed. “You, my dear, could never be common. In that attire, though, you appear entirely too menial for a Viscountess.”
“They say pride doth come before a fall. May I be so bold as to remind you that, aside from the coating of dirt and thisapron, my appearance is precisely how you framed me when you ordered my—what would you have it?—my trousseau.”
St. Ryne had the grace to blush. He clenched his teeth tightly until the muscle in his jaw jumped. There were no quotes or phrases from Shakespeare to cover this encounter. It occurred to St. Ryne that the bard left out a good bit of interchange between Petruchio and his Katharine for brevity’s sake. His bride was sharp-tongued and sharp-witted; this, coupled with her dark beauty, caused his pulse to quicken considerably. There were no rules or guidelines, no lines save of his own invention. So be it. It was no great matter to postulate Petruchio’s reaction under like circumstances and act accordingly.
He pulled his wife to her feet, drew her into his arms, and kissed her.
Elizabeth’s astonishment was lost in a sea of sensation crashing in upon her, crumbling rock-hard walls of preconceptions and attitudes. She stood pliant under the pressure of his lips, alive to his breathing, her own heartbeat, his scent of woods and horse, and to a sudden dizzying warmth in the room. Her eyes drifted shut, her senses savoring the kiss as one would sample and savor a well-laid-out feast. She could not move or speak; she could merely absorb. For the first time since she was a child in Hattie’s care, she felt tenderness. She responded as a crocus would to winter’s thaw.
St. Ryne slowly raised his head. She opened her eyes to meet his fathomless dark ones intent upon her face. A small sigh, a gentle release of air, escaped her lips, lost in the crack and pop of a log as it broke and fell into the fire sending forth a rain of sparks. A flare of red touched her cheek, blending with the rosy glow cast by the fire. St. Ryne dropped her arms and walked to the desk.
He ran a finger over its polished surface then sat down in the chair behind it. A hooded expression claimed his features,making them as noncommittal as the hands he folded and placed before him on the desk.
“My lady, wife.” He paused. Every ounce of fortitude he possessed was harnessed to maintain his air of calm. The kiss he had bestowed in masculine arrogance as a lesson made him the student. For him, touching Elizabeth was like touching a spark to dry tinder. Yet she remained unmoved.
Egads!How could a cold wench ignite such hot fires within him? There had to be a fiery passion buried within her. How else could her temper flare so? His skin still tingled from touching her, while she stood there impassively as if nothing had occurred.
His knuckles whitened as he twisted his fingers together in frustration. Patience. It would take patience. While Shakespeare’s play was over in a matter of hours, he could not expect his rough wooing to have a desired effect in so short a time.
He looked at her steadily, his voice exactingly neutral. “Enough frivolous dalliance for the moment. We have business to discuss.”
“Friv-?” She blinked rapidly in shocked surprise. Her entire world had just turned upside down, and he sat there as if they had just been discussing the weather. A scream of vexation clogged her throat, while a shimmering veil of tears blurred her vision. How dare he mock her further! She could stand no more.
Wildly, she looked about. Her eyes lighted upon a china dog placed on a mantel during the day’s cleaning. It was a horrid, hulking beast. She grabbed it up quickly. The thought that it and St. Ryne were a fitting pair came moments before the object left her hand on its way to his head.
He ducked it easily enough and the figurine crashed harmlessly against the bookcase sending slivers of china flying. He glanced at the shattered statue then rose from his chair tocome around the desk toward her. Elizabeth backed away from his silent approach. Reaching blindly behind her, she sought for other items to grab, with a desire now to ward him off rather than to vent her frustrations. She did not like the implacable look in his eye. It sent a chill of alarm through her body.
Her searching hand met a candlestick. It also fell harmlessly past him. Next she grabbed a heavy tome to hurl at his head, only to have him clasp her wrist and wrench the book from her hand.
“No! No! Let me go!” she cried, twisting and turning in his grasp.
He caught her with his other hand and hauled her thrashing body toward him.
“Enough!” he grunted suddenly, and anoomphsound whistled through his teeth when she caught him in the stomach with her elbow. “Elizabeth!” he roared, shaking her like a rag doll.
“No! Leave me alone!” Her struggles weakened. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Elizabeth—Bess, love—listen to me!”
“No!” she cried wildly then flung herself on his shoulder, sobbing. He had kept her off balance and confused since their first meeting with his odd fits and starts. Now, all the pent-up emotions she’d gathered came spewing forth. With the tension released, there was no dam to halt the outpouring.
She heard him murmuring, but the words came from a long way off, without coherent meaning.
