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St. Ryne was indeed in riding attire, and as he stepped into the church, it became obvious to all that the Viscount had come to his wedding in all his dirt.

An uproar rippled through the church. His top boots were thick with dust, and his buckskin breeches sported a dark stain on one thigh.

His jacket, while admirably fitting his form, showed signs of sweat and dust, while his Inexpressibles bore a distinct gray cast. About his neck, in a very casual manner, was knotted a kerchief.

Elizabeth felt sure she would faint from mortification. She forced herself to stand calm, as if it were no concern of hers.

St. Ryne glanced about the church, a bland smile on his face, before focusing on those guests standing by the entrance. He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you all not found seats yet? Freddy, be a good chap and assist them, please.”

Freddy, who stood transfixed and gawking at St. Ryne’s appearance, roused himself. “Certainly—ah, right you are. This way.”

With a soft murmur of voices, guests scurried to resume their seats.

One affronted gentleman moved to leave altogether, only to be stopped and remonstrated by his lively mate that they would do no such thing, for she vowed this was better than a play.

Hearing the woman’s comment, Elizabeth ground her teeth in vexation.

“You should have trod the boards. Beware. The lady is of uncertain temper,” Sir James Branstoke advised St. Ryne. “Moreover, she is a lady,” he warned.

St. Ryne smiled. “Rest easy,” he said, clapping Branstoke on the shoulder good-naturedly, though a quizzical light shone in his eyes.

Branstoke turned to look past him, and St. Ryne followed his gaze to where Elizabeth stood in the shadows. His smile faded as he bowed slightly in her direction. He turned back to Branstoke.

“All will be well. I do not strive to hurt, only to tame.”

“And can you do one without the other?” Branstoke asked in flat tones.

“Why not?”

“I wonder—But here is Freddy, his chore completed.”

“Ah, yes indeed. Now I shall assume my place and await my gentle bride.” So saying, St. Ryne walked up the side aisle, followed by Freddy, and took his place before the altar. Once there, he turned to look back in expectation of seeing his bride approach, a set smile upon his face.

It was the smile that set the cap upon her rage. Staring steadily at St. Ryne, she threw down her bouquet in unspoken challenge, then turned to march out of the church.

She had reckoned without her father. Though the Viscount had made them the butt of jokes, he was here, and apparently still of a mind to marry his daughter.

Perhaps they were suited to one another.

Regardless, he’d had enough skiff-skaff for one day and would see the two of them wed.

He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, jerking her off balance so she fell heavily against him.

“I told you, will ye, nil ye, I would see you wed,” he growled in her ear.

Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise. “I refuse to believe you’re serious. That man has just humiliated us in front of all of London, and you would still countenance this wedding—this farce?”

“Countenance it? It is an event to be desired. Has it not occurred to you that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?”

“You’re mad!”

“Perhaps. I am your father, however, and as you so crudely stated earlier, you have been signed and sealed for. What remains is the delivery. Come.”

Panicked, Elizabeth started to pull away.

Her eyes looked out into the church as she did so, and what she saw caused her to freeze.

Every head was turned her way. Bitterly she realized this wedding was better than a play, affording society with a scandal that would provide grist for the gossip mill until the next season.

She glared at her father. Well, she would not make her father an object of sympathy and pity—she would not give him that luxury.

She would be the martyr, and let her father and the Viscount take the hisses.

She threw up her head and casually smoothed the creases in her gown.

“Bravo!” whispered Sir James Branstoke, as he handed her the discarded bouquet.

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. He was the oddest creature.

There seemed to be a depth in him that was lacking in her sister’s other suitors.

She bowed her head in silent thanks, then resolutely turned toward the altar and walked steadily down the long aisle.

She felt all eyes following her progress.

Let them stare. Though the marriage mart was full of simpering beauties, only she would be the Viscountess St. Ryne, and albeit thrust upon her, she intended to make the most of the position.

She repeated her vows in a clear but clipped voice, bringing a genuine smile to St. Ryne’s face. When the priest declared them man and wife, Elizabeth’s new husband gently lifted her veil.

“Isn’t it better, my lady,” he murmured softly, “to be angry for legitimate slights than merely perceived slights?” Astonished, Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, only to have the Viscount swoop down to capture her lips in a kiss.

Pulling her tightly to him, his kiss caressed and teased, bringing an unfamiliar tingling up through her body, making her feel weak and giddy.

She grasped his shoulders for strength. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended and he put her away from him.

Dimly Elizabeth was aware of a few titters of laughter.

Color rushed to her cheek. Angry with the Viscount and herself, she stepped hastily backward, catching the heel of her shoe on the altar step.

Suddenly she was slipping backward. Her arms went out in a crude attempt to balance herself but to no avail.

She continued to fall backward, landing smartly on her posterior.

Hearty laughter erupted from the wedding guests, and tears burst into Elizabeth’s eyes. St. Ryne bent down to help her rise and he felt a twinge of remorse for his behavior.

“Come, Bess,” he said softly. “If you laugh, they will be laughing with you, not at you.”

Thankful for his sudden understanding, she smiled ruefully up at him. “It is hard to laugh when a portion of one’s anatomy hurts.”

“That is indeed true; however, it also aids in forgetting the pain.” He pulled her upright.

“Do you think, my lord?—”

“Justin.”

She laughed. “Do you think, Justin, we might depart from this church with a modicum of decorum?”

“I doubt I would place a bet in the book at White’s; however?—”

“However, we will try,” Elizabeth said firmly.

St. Ryne held out his arm. Smiling, Elizabeth took it and together they walked down the aisle. Seeing them together, smiling, caused several who observed to wonder once again at the root of this marriage.

Elizabeth’s good humor lasted until they entered the carriage that would take them back to Rasthough House, where a breakfast for the wedding party was waiting.

She did not understand St. Ryne’s strange humors.

One moment he could be insulting, the next understanding.

She was uncertain as to how to act with him.

She found herself wondering about the marriage bed.

Would he be rough with her or patient with her ineptness?

She blushed furiously at her thoughts, turning her head away so St. Ryne would not note her embarrassment, for how could she explain?

Delighted with her good spirits as they left the altar, St. Ryne was dismayed to see it fade when they were alone.

He consoled himself with the belief he had managed to place a chink in her armor.

It angered him, however, to see her turn away from him in the carriage, as if she could no longer stand his presence.

Any thoughts he had of not continuing the course he’d laid out for them were swiftly laid to rest. His Kate was not yet tamed.

At Rasthough House, St. Ryne’s countenance was inexpressive as he handed his bride down from the carriage.

For her part, Elizabeth kept her eyes downcast until her family claimed her attention.

St. Ryne followed them into the house, nodding pleasantly to those arriving guests who’d been invited to partake of the wedding breakfast.

After the last guest arrived, St. Ryne began the play anew: “My lady, it is time we left. Go change into your riding attire so we may be on our way.”

“What!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Now see here, St. Ryne—” expostulated Lord Monweithe.

St. Ryne raised a hand for silence. “Hurry now, and change. We must be on our way.”

“Are you mad? We have got to stay for the breakfast!”

“Are you begging me, my sweet Bess?” St. Ryne asked.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Then for sure we cannot stay. I will not tolerate a begging wife.”

“Well then, you can go and I will stay!” Elizabeth said angrily, whirling around to face those of the guests who stood in the hall with them, all agog with curiosity yet embarrassed to be where they were. “Come,” she invited, “let us go in to breakfast.”

“Yes, go all of you to make merry and celebrate this day. My Bess cannot be with you for she goes with me. She is my everything, and I shall protect her with my last breath,” he said loudly, then turned to speak softly to Elizabeth.

“Now, do I have to undress and dress you myself, or will you go get into your habit and bid your man saddle your horse? Pack only what is needful in a small portmanteau. The rest will be sent to follow. Our honeymoon tryst should be our secret.”

Too embarrassed to argue publicly with him after the events of the morning, Elizabeth flounced up the stairs to change.

She was piqued at his manner, yet also intrigued.

Slowly she gathered accoutrements for her portmanteau, stowing them carefully away as she considered St. Ryne’s behavior.

She did not know his game and was not sure she wanted to play.

Refusing to change, she sat down on her bed, deciding to stall, as she had done that morning with her father.

His patience exceeded her father’s by ten minutes.

When he stormed into her room some thirty minutes later, Elizabeth scrambled to her feet.

Belatedly she realized she erred greatly in flaunting his order.

Taking in the situation at a glance, St. Ryne strode determinedly toward Elizabeth.

“So, you prefer to ride before me on horseback. Why didn’t you tell me sooner, my love.

We could have been off by now. Well, come, it is time to go. ”

“No! Wait! I’ll change.”

St. Ryne smiled. “It is too late now, my love,” he said softly. “Now, will you walk down the stairs before me, or do you wish me to carry you?”

“You wouldn’t?—”

“Wouldn’t what? You should know by now there is a great deal I will dare.”

Elizabeth shuddered slightly. Without a word she walked numbly past him and down the stairs.

She listened in a daze as he ordered a warm hooded cloak for her, and almost docilely followed him outside to where a groom held his horse.

He threw her up onto the front of the saddle then mounted behind her.

The Earl of Rasthough stood in the doorway and silently watched his son-in-law, wondering for the first time in his life what would become of his daughter Elizabeth.