Page 54

By this reck’ning he is more shrew than she.

G ray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach.

For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops, or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter.

Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled, for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, taking a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them.

Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails.

They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb.

At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back.

She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair by a blazing fire.

It was thus that their approach to Larchside went unnoticed, until the tired horse responded to his master’s pull on the reins before the steps of a feebly lit manor house.

Dazedly, Elizabeth raised her head to look about her, scarcely noting when St. Ryne encircled her slim waist to lift her down. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance and briefly closed her eyes in relief, grateful they had reached their destination.

St. Ryne felt a surge of compassion for his beleaguered bride. She looked so frail and exhausted. He glanced up at the rundown manor, and a twinge of conscience swept over him for bringing her to Larchside. Gently he set her down before him.

“Ah-h!” Cold water shocked Elizabeth to her senses. She glanced down at the icy puddle in which St. Ryne had set her. “Fool!” she gasped. Her skirts, acting like a candlewick to oil at touching the water, were drenched, her thin shoes soaked. Shivering, she carefully picked a path to the steps.

St. Ryne closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth in vexation. Why was it that whenever she was complacent and he felt remorse for his actions, some incident would occur to rekindle her temper?

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught pneumonia from this jaunt of yours,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are we? What is this place?” She looked up at the unpretentious building.

“Larchside,” St. Ryne said as he splashed toward her.

“Larchside?”

“Yes. Your settlement.” He stooped to pick her up.

“Justin! What are you doing? Put me down!”

“Never, for we progress,” St. Ryne replied, carrying her up the steps. “That is the second time you have called me by name. Henceforth I shall live for the day it comes trippingly off your tongue,” he said blithely.

The front door of Larchside creaked open, and any scathing comments Elizabeth would have returned died aborning. She tightly compressed her lips and turned her head away from St. Ryne’s mocking countenance.

“Thank you, Atheridge,” St. Ryne said, as he carried Elizabeth into the hall, setting her down gently. “This is my wife,” he said, with a curious smile on his face. “The Viscountess St. Ryne.” He removed the sodden cloak from around her shoulders, handing it to Atheridge.

“My lady,” Atheridge returned dutifully, bowing before her.

Stunned, Elizabeth scarcely paid heed, her mind reeling from the scene before her.

From what she could see, there was dirt and dust everywhere.

She took a hesitant step into the hall, running a shaking finger over a side table.

Its surface was sticky with grime. She wrinkled her nose at the close, musty smell of the house and the acrid odor of the cheap candles sputtering in their sockets and leaving soot streaks on the wall.

At her feet, the colors of what was once a magnificent Aubusson carpet were indistinguishable.

A look of horror and disgust captured her features.

St. Ryne noted her reaction with satisfaction. He relaxed, leaning back on his heels. He glanced at the waiting butler. “Is there a fire laid in the library? Good,” he said as Atheridge nodded. “We shall repair to that room for the moment. Be so good as to have Mrs. Atheridge step up here, please.”

“Yes, my lord,” Atheridge replied, his thin nose fairly twitching as he backed away quickly. Hurrying toward the kitchen, he scratched his head at the strange homecoming of the Viscount, wondering if Tunning could make any sense of it.

“All right, you have had your joke,” Elizabeth said, rounding on him as he closed the library door behind him.

“What is it you expect me to do? Faint? Cry? What is your pleasure, my lord?” The title fairly dripped acid.

She spun away from him to flick back Holland covers from chairs, coughing at the billows of dust she raised.

St. Ryne watched her in silence for a moment, then a slow smile crossed his face. “But, Bess, this is your home. Did you not see the marriage settlement? A property called Larchside was deeded to you. This is it.”

“This?” Elizabeth gasped out, her eyes streaming from the dust she raised.

St. Ryne nodded, a crooked smile twisting his features to sardonic amusement.

“How dare you! You make a mockery of-of?—”

“Tradition?” St. Ryne offered softly as he walked toward her. Elizabeth took an involuntary step backward, suddenly very nervous before the stranger who was her husband. Determined not to show it, her temper flared hotter.

“Yes, tradition, if you will. My father, in a mistaken idea of what was in my best interests, negotiated this miserable alliance with you, and you have, at every turn, made it a mockery. You, sir, are an insult to your rank!”

“And are you any better?” St. Ryne asked with a laugh. “Like to like, my dear,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to come closer to him and look up at him.

Elizabeth’s eyes blazed at hearing her father’s words echoed.

She knocked his hand away. “Swine!” she hissed, then turned to continue removing dust covers.

Behind her St. Ryne laughed aloud, and she cringed at hearing it, knowing she had not the power to put him in his place. He seemed to have an impenetrable hide.

At the sound of a knock at the door, St. Ryne turned away from watching his infuriated beauty. “Enter.”

Mrs. Atheridge dourly opened the door. “You sent for me, my lord?” she asked, hesitating briefly before acknowledging his rank in an insolent manner, which, though lost on the Viscount, was not on the Viscountess.

Elizabeth’s eyes flew open wide then narrowed to study the dark, squat figure before them.

Mrs. Atheridge’s gray streaked hair was raked painfully back from her face, emphasizing her slab-shaped features and beady eyes.

The dress she wore was black and of a severe cut, but Elizabeth could hear the rustle of silk petticoats and knew expensive material when she saw it.

Despite the stark black color and lack of ostentation in her dress, this squat black beetle of a woman—for so Elizabeth described her to herself—seemed oddly at variance with her surroundings.

She schooled her features to an aloofness she was far from feeling, in order to study better this second member of her husband’s bizarre staff.

“Ah! Mrs. Atheridge,” hailed St. Ryne at her appearance. “My bride and I,” he said, winking at Elizabeth, “would like our dinner in one hour. We have had a long trip and unavoidably had to miss our breakfast. As you may imagine, we are quite famished.”

“One hour, my lord,” she said, bobbing diffidently. “Though I ain’t serving much ’cause there ain’t much here.”

“Sustenance is all we require. Immediately, however, conduct my lady wife,” he said, emphasizing wife slightly as he gestured in Elizabeth’s direction, “to her room.” Turning to Elizabeth, who stood stiffly behind a chair she had uncovered, he smirked.

“Bess, my love, I know you must wish to change out of those wet garments.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her figure, visually undressing her.

“There are some dry things in the cupboard upstairs. I believe I have your size right. Regardless, they should do until your baggage arrives in two or three days.”

Elizabeth had blushed when he turned to her, but at the last her eyes flew open again and her face drained of color.

How dare he? How dare he treat her like a common trollop!

Elizabeth started to open her mouth to issue a scathing remark when Mrs. Atheridge, standing in the doorway sourly watching them, broke in: “Well, come then, I ain’t got all day. ” She turned to leave the room.

Elizabeth was torn in her course of action.

She didn’t like the housekeeper and didn’t care for her insolent tongue, but she also was loath to stay with the Viscount.

After biting her lower lip in frustration, she tossed her head and with a swish of skirts followed Mrs. Atheridge out of the room and up the stairs, forcing herself to block out the sound of the Viscount’s laughter.