He tugged at his neckcloth. He had taken extra care with his attire that evening, as much extra care as he could without Cranston’s good offices. He missed that gentleman damnably at the moment, for it was his desire to show to advantage.
He paced the library restlessly. A soft knock on the door halted him in his tracks.
“Yes?”
It was merely Atheridge. “Dinner is served, my lord.”
“Very good,” he said, coming out of the library. "I shall inform the Lady Elizabeth.”
“No need, I’m here, Justin.” The unusually husky voice came from the shadows on the stairs.
St. Ryne watched, frozen, as Elizabeth’s silhouette glided downward, slowly taking form as she approached the lighted hall. She stopped on the last step, the elaborate candelabrum on the newel post casting its glow on her. St. Ryne silently extended his hand. Elizabeth, equally silent, placed her hand in his, and he formally conducted her to the dining room.
Elizabeth cast a surreptitious glance in his direction, only to find he had done the same. They looked away from each other quickly, but not before Elizabeth noted where his eyes rested. Overwhelming relief, bearing confidence in its wake, flooded Elizabeth. At least he was not indifferent to her as a woman. It was a start—a small start perhaps, but a start.
St. Ryne did not release her arm until they stood by her chair and even then he did not quit her side. He held out her chair and saw her seated, his fingertips grazing her bare shoulders.
Elizabeth looked up inquiringly, only to note with satisfaction the direction of his gaze. His eyes were fixed on her shadowed cleavage.
“Is something the matter, Justin? You seem quiet this evening.”
“No, no, nothing at all.” He cleared his throat and went to pull out his own chair. “Sorry to be wool-gathering, just estate matters and my instructions for Tunning. Nothing to bother yourself about.”
“I see.” A slow smile curved her lips as her lashes lowered to hide the brilliant light of satisfaction in her expressive gold eyes. “So, how long do you plan to be gone?”
“I don’t know. A week at the most, I imagine.” Elizabeth regally nodded her understanding as Atheridge entered. “I trust you will find this evening’s menu to your liking,” she stated politely. "I will own it is simple, but the food is fresh from the village this day. By her own admission, Mrs. Atheridge is no cook, so I instructed her to forego any attempt at saucing the food.”
St. Ryne glanced down at the boiled and roasted unadorned food set before him. A wry half smile touched his lips. It appeared no more appetizing than the meal set before him the evening before, and only slightly more edible. It piqued him to be following Petruchio’s lead continually, without intervention. A strange disquiet settled over him and he looked up to study Elizabeth intently. He knew he was truly no Petruchio, though he now seemed thoroughly caught in the role. Could it be his Bess was no Katharine? She sat there quietly and gracefully erect, her attention centered on cutting her meat into small bits. The light from the candelabra on the table flickered in her hair. In daylight her hair was so dark it almost looked black. Only under the proper conditions could one note it was a rich earthen brown. When light struck it properly, it cast off warm red and gold, encasing her head in a halo aura. Her skin was like alabaster save for the delicate rose tones flaring across her cheeks. It was her eyes, however, that never failed to shake him to the core. The color of old guineas, they flamed like a torch when her ire rose. A tigress, his tigress. What was that poem he once read? Something by Blake. Ah-
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
The rest slipped his mind, but the imagery remained. He clenched his fist around a knife. He would wake the slumbering passions within her. He had to. He just needed patience and proper planning. He would keep her slightly off balance and make her come to defer to him. A reluctant smile kicked up the corner of his mouth when he realized that again he was to use Petruchio’s tactics.
Elizabeth looked up suddenly, her finely arched brow rising in polite inquiry at his steady regard.
St. Ryne shifted in his chair and turned his attention to his food. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her reach for her wine goblet, her milky-white breasts straining against the gray lace. He cleared his throat.
“I don’t recall that particular gown.”
Elizabeth smiled widely, revealing small, pearly white teeth. “You don’t? Well, I must own I did contrive a few minor alterations.”
“Minor?”
“Yes. I must tell you, and I do hope you will not be too offended,” she said patronizingly, “your knowledge of the niceties of feminine attire is lamentable. I’m sure you had the best of intentions.” She reached over to pat his hand soothingly.
He flushed dark red. She had managed to turn the tables on him, and now what had seemed like clever maneuvering came across decidedly flat.
“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “Your own trunks should be arriving in the next day or so. I shall not repeat my error.”
“No, I don’t think you will,” she returned smugly.
He eyed the décolletage again. “Isn’t that a trifle, ahem, too, too?—”
