When she settled down to gulping sobs, she pulled away from him, staring down at the worn carpet. Without a word, she turned toward the fireplace. Like the china dog, her pride lay shattered at her feet. She supposed the outburst had been inevitable. She remembered that yesterday she had wished for a new beginning with this wedding. Was it so recently? It seemedforever. A rush of self-pity consumed her, angering her, for she would not be its slave.
“My word,” she managed shakily, “I’d heard a new bride was wont to be weepy.” She laughed tightly. “I had not imagined I would as well.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, then turned defiantly to face St. Ryne.
“Mrs. Atheridge should have been here by now,” she said calmly. “I shall go check on tea.”
Her eyes still glistened, and her color ran high, but she did not have a blotchy complexion as most women did after a bout of tears. To St. Ryne she looked more gloriously beautiful than ever before.
After she left, he eased himself into one of the winged chairs by the fireplace and stared broodingly into the flames. He didn’t understand the reason for her outburst of temper and tears; however, he was not disgusted by the display, as he would have been from another woman. He realized if he could rouse her to such emotional heights in anger, then there was a possibility of doing so in passion as well. Perhaps he needed to squelch the anger avenues as Petruchio had done with his Kate, thereby leaving passion as her solace for release.
He looked up when the door opened, watching through heavily hooded eyes Elizabeth’s fluid movements as she directed the placement of the tea tray. A plan for handling his Kate in this next match slowly jelled in his mind. He smiled at her and murmured a thank you as she handed him a cup and saucer.
“We will need new paint, wallpaper, drapes, and upholstery if we are to put this pile of rubble to rights. I shall have craftsmen and samples sent to Larchside from London when I am in town.”
“Wouldn’t it be faster to write?” she asked coolly, content to follow his conversational gambit. Her outburst of emotion had left her drained and sick with remorse.
“Not at all. I shall be returning to town tomorrow myself. You may look for the first of the craftsmen and samples to arrive as early as the day after.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I have asked Tom Tunning, the estate agent, to step around after dinner so you may meet him and discuss your household needs and expenses while I am away.” He studied her dispassionately. “You know, you have shown me on two occasions now that you have no appreciation for the value of money.”
“What?” Her cup clattered down on the tray.
“Your penchant for throwing and breaking objects proves your lack of respect for money. Therefore, I have decided that you will have no allowance, and all requests for money—no matter what for—must be made before commitments are contracted. There will be no credit extended. I will inform tradesmen to this effect.”
“How dare you? You’re insane!”
He took a sip of his tea before calmly continuing. “While I am away, Tom Tunning will have control of all discretionary funds.”
Elizabeth surged to her feet, her entire body trembling with anger and her eyes glowing like molten gold. She struggled for words, her lips moving soundlessly. St. Ryne expectantly awaited her entirely justifiable tirade, but she closed her mouth abruptly. When finally she did speak, her voice was low and controlled. “Excuse me, I need to freshen up before dinner.”
Head held high, she regally quitted the room in her frumpish, dirt-streaked frock.
St. Ryne slumped down in his chair. He wished he saw his way clearly. He had hoped to push her to anger and then sweep her into his arms again, channeling her anger to passion. She fooled him by the tight check she maintained on her temper. He sighed and set down his cup. Once again his course was set,and he would see it through. What would be the outcome of this latest turn of events? Surely Petruchio’s way was not so dark and twisting. He rubbed his temples, willing the throbbing there to cease. Wearily he rose to go change for dinner.
CHAPTER 7
Thus have I politicly begun my reign
And 'tis my hope to end successfully.
Act III, Scene 3
AMona Lisa smile curved Elizabeth’s lips when she viewed her décolleté neckline. The effect was alluring—and shockingly fast.
A little more than an hour had passed since she entered her dressing room in an impotent rage, and her anger and frustration were given vent in a wild frenzy. How could he be so unforgivably rude, so cold-blooded? It was certainly bad enough that she played the unaccommodating shrew in society; however, to quit one’s spouse within days of exchanging vows was an insult difficult to swallow. Duels were fought with far less provocation. Angrily she ripped the dresses St. Ryne had supplied her from the wardrobe and flung them about the room. They fell scattered, like wilted weeds yanked from a garden. Afterward, her anger spent, Elizabeth sank to the floor gently weeping.
It was through a veil of tears that she first noted the sliver of white silk. In the candlelight, with tears blurring her sight, the white fabric glowed. Curious, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and crawled to the discarded dress. Picking it up, she shook it out, then laid it flat. It was a half-mourning gown. Likely it had been a modiste’s model or an unclaimed order, for it was unlike any of the other dresses. Elizabeth wondered at the dressmaker’s reaction to St. Ryne’s wardrobe request, and silently applauded the wily merchant who caged an opportunity to sell a ready-made dress at a handsome profit.
The white silk was a slip covered by a sheer, gray organza overdress. Extra gathering of the sheer material created a misty cloudlike fall to the fabric. Three bands of gray lace ruffles trimmed the hem and each puffed sleeve. A yoke comprised of gray lace over white silk was attached to a narrow bodice and ended in another three tiers of gray ruffles at the top of the high neck. If one were in black gloves, it would be a modest yet elegant dinner gown, suitable, perhaps, for attending a musicale or card party.
Elizabeth fingered the yoke, noting its attachment. Gathering her skirts about her, she scrambled to her feet to search her portmanteau for scissors and a packet of sewing needles and pins. Quickly she set to work picking out the stitching attaching the yoke, removing it, and hemming under the edges of the material at the neckline. Two judicious tucks tightened the small bodice that now stretched across her breasts, just capturing the tips. She then separated the gray lace on the yoke from its white silk backing and with it fashioned a narrow banding as an inset over the low tight décolletage, tying it in a bow at the center.
Elizabeth studied the effect of her ensemble in the cheval glass. Her color rose, her eyes sparkled, and a pleased little smile lifted the corners of her lips. The gown was scandalous—deliciously so. It appeared if one were to untie the strategicallyplaced bow, her breasts would be released from captivity. She finished her attire with a necklace of milky white pearls, and dressed her hair in a Clytie knot, with curling dusky tendrils falling across her brow and neck. The overall effect of the gown was as daring as could stare. In the past, she would never have contemplated donning such a gown. It amused her to consider how quickly one’s attitude could change, given the proper circumstances. Her new outlook, she ruefully admitted, prompted her current course of action. If St. Ryne could now remain unmoved, then his disgust of her was deep and insurmountable, or he was not a true man. Regardless, she vowed to maintain a cool, polite demeanor, and further determined, if he should attempt to goad her, she would not fly up into the boughs.
The small, secret smile remained in place as she descended the stairs for dinner.
St. Ryne was not pleased with how his recent interview with Elizabeth ended. Truly, he did not wish to return to London. More likely he would be bored to tears or hounded by his erstwhile friends. Perhaps all was not lost. Circumstances could still arise that evening that would obviate the necessity for his departure. Yet, he reconsidered, perhaps it was good that he leave Larchside. At some point during the interview with Elizabeth, he had lost control of the situation. No, notsome point—he knew precisely when their relationship had suffered a reversal. It was when he had the fool audacity to kiss her as a punishment. The only person punished was himself. Going to London would allow him to regain control of the play.
