Page 55

The bedroom Mrs. Atheridge conducted her to was cold, yet appeared cleaner than the parts of the house she had been in previously.

Still, the room bore a musty smell and the furniture a film of grime.

That it was the master bedroom there could be no doubt, by the look of the large canopied bed set on a raised dais.

The head of the bed was on the same wall as the entrance door.

The far wall was all curved windows with two doors leading out onto a narrow terrace.

Looking out into the gloom beyond the terrace, she noted the tangled mess of the park below.

Both side walls had doors leading, Elizabeth supposed, to dressing rooms for herself and St. Ryne.

The room was hung with blue drapes and lighter blue wallpaper, scorched and discolored here and there.

It had probably at one time been an attractive room.

She prowled the room restlessly as Atheridge, after carrying in an old rusted coal scuttle filled with wood, struggled to light a fire. She breathed a sigh of relief when she noted the chimney drawing cleanly. Atheridge placed a pot of hot water on a hook in the fireplace and bowed his way out.

The warmth of the fire drew Elizabeth to it like a moth to flame.

She basked in its comforting glow a moment, until with a start she realized she needed to change.

After the morning episode, she did not dare speculate as to what the insane man below would do if she failed to change this time.

Rip her dress from her body? Elizabeth blushed at the thought, though there was an odd warmth surging through her that had nothing to do with the heat from the flames.

The first door she tried led to what was obviously St. Ryne’s dressing room.

Elizabeth was surprised to see a narrow bed in the room, but supposed it to have been used by those tending the house’s previous owner.

She shut the door quickly, half afraid St. Ryne would enter and find her standing in the doorway.

The second door gave on to her dressing room, or so she surmised on seeing her portmanteau standing by a large wardrobe.

With a grimace she approached the cupboard, wondering what flights of fancy the clothing he chose would be.

She imagined the low-cut gaudy gowns she had seen on courtesans at the theater and in the parks.

Flinging open the doors, she braced herself for the peacock array.

Her jaw dropped in astonishment at the clothing that met her eyes.

The peacock looked more like a pigeon. Dresses there were in the wardrobe—new ones, too—but where Elizabeth had envisioned flashy reds with daring necklines hung gray, mauve, and dun-colored dresses.

New, yes, but simple in design, almost austere.

Dresses suited to a paid companion or governess.

Elizabeth shook her head in bewilderment.

Examining each carefully, she owned they did look her size, much to her chagrin, but not one of them could be described as anything other than plain and serviceable.

She pulled out a wool mauve gown. It was trimmed at collar and cuffs with a narrow banding of lace.

It appeared to be the most decorative of the dresses.

A smile curled her lips as she contemplated it while her trembling fingers worked to loosen the gown she wore.

Donning the mauve dress, she walked over to the long looking glass in the corner of the room.

Smiling still she pulled her hair severely away from her face and observed the look.

Pleased, she whirled back to her portmanteau, tossing about the room the few items she had managed to stuff in on short notice.

Deep inside she found a packet of hair pins.

Working swiftly before the mirror, she pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head.

When she was done, she held her hands primly before her to study the effect.

She saw a thin creature with bony features, but large, luminescent eyes.

The eyes bothered her, for they were her best feature and she did not want anything about her to look good.

She shrugged slightly, watching the effect in the mirror.

There was really nothing she could do about her eyes.

Satisfied with her demure appearance, she descended the stairs to the library below.

St. Ryne was seated in a wing chair by the fire, a glass of wine dangling from his long fingers as he stared broodingly into the flames.

He had not bothered to change and no further improvements had been made to the room.

He glanced up only briefly, a twisted smile curling his lips, then turned back to his contemplation of the blaze before him.

“Come in, my lady wife,” he said softly, as he stared into the flickering flames.

Elizabeth had sworn to herself she would be cool and remote, but his lack of courtesy in failing to rise when she entered and his sneering smile raised her ire, color flooding her cheeks. Eyes flashing, she came to stand before St. Ryne, her arms akimbo, hands on her hips.

St. Ryne looked up at her, raising his glass in mock salute. “Be merry, Bess!”

Despite herself, Elizabeth’s lips twitched, but she said angrily, “Are you already drowning your sorrows for the bad match you have entered into? Come come, my lord, it was at your insistence, not mine.”

“This house is a ruin,” he said abruptly.

Elizabeth blinked and cocked her head to one side as she warily observed him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “You have certainly let the estate fall into disrepair.”

“Not I. It was in this state before I inherited it. But it is perfect for my purposes,” he said, tossing off his glass of wine and rising to his feet in one fluid movement.

Elizabeth was so surprised by the suddenness of his movement that she involuntarily took a step backward.

“Afraid, Bess?” he asked, taking a step closer and smiling lazily down at her.

Elizabeth felt a strange lurching feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked up into his face. Flustered for a moment, she strove to relax and speak icily to him in return.

“We were speaking of this manor—rather this excuse for a manor house. I understand you lived out of the country for a time. Am I also to understand you have developed a taste for the barbaric, slovenly life-style?”

“Blame it on the sun. It seems to be the catch-all for my sins.”

Elizabeth held herself erect. The only sign of her tension was her hands clasped tightly before her.

“Not even that could explain them all,” she said scornfully, then gasped, “No!!” as he reached out for her, but his hands only rested on her shoulders to propel her around, and before she could stop him, he ruthlessly pulled the pins from her hair until it fell down around her shoulders.

As it fell, St. Ryne caught a handful of the silken stuff, then let it fall, combing it into place slowly with his fingers.

His touch sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine.

She pulled sharply away, her color high and her eyes bright.

To cover her confusion she lashed out at him.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Then don’t put your hair up,” he said, tossing the hairpins into the fire.

Elizabeth made an inarticulate cry and grabbed his arm to stop him, but was too late.

She stared into the flames for a moment longer before becoming aware she still held his arm.

She backed away swiftly, or would have, had not St. Ryne caught her around the waist. She struggled to get away from him, yet he held her firm.

She knew his strength was superior to hers, and knew the futility of trying to break away, so she abruptly stopped and looked coldly up at him, hoping he did not notice her rapidly beating heart.

St. Ryne loosened his hold when he felt her struggles cease, and to her surprise, let her go. With one long finger, he tipped her chin up to him and smiled down into her rigid features.

“Don’t fight me, Bess,” he said softly, then dropped his hand and turned away toward his chair.

A knock at the door startled both of them. It was Atheridge, come to announce dinner.

“My lady,” St. Ryne said, offering Elizabeth his arm. Elizabeth looked at it scornfully and moved to walk past him, but he caught her and draped her arm over his, chuckling as he did so. “You have a lot to learn, my spoiled darling.”

Elizabeth chose to ignore him, knowing she had not found a way to get under his skin at all and also knowing he had gotten under hers.

The dining room was in the back of the house with windows on three sides, all heavily draped in a dark velvet material, so old and discolored that Elizabeth wondered at its original color.

A burgundy, she surmised by the silk tassels that still retained some of that hue.

It was a large room with a rococo-style ceiling and a large marble fireplace.

But if the two rooms she had seen thus far had perturbed her with their layers of dust, the dining room was revolting.

The thought of eating any food in such filth was nauseating.

Cobwebs covered the ornate chandelier and the delicate designs in the ceiling.

The table had obviously been given only a cursory swipe with a dust cloth in anticipation of their meals, and Elizabeth, looking at the chairs, was certain the dress she was wearing would be more gray than mauve when she rose again from dinner.

To her consternation, St. Ryne appeared not to notice the condition of the room, but blithely conducted her to a chair to his right while he took the chair at the head of the table.

“We will dine informally tonight, all right, my love?”

Elizabeth glared at him but did not deign to respond. If she could not get the best of him verbally, she would try silence and see how he liked that.

Atheridge served dinner, and it was a meal to further depress Elizabeth’s appetite. The soup was thick and floury, but the lamb was revoltingly swimming in its own juice and was cold. St. Ryne reacted to that, demanding to know why he must serve them cold meat.

“Beg pardon, my lord, but it being so far from the kitchen—” the man whined in return.

“Remove it, man! If that is your best, we’ll fast tonight, and mend matters tomorrow. Come, Bess.” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulling her out of her chair, propelled her before him, stopping long enough for the port bottle and his glass before guiding her into the library once again.

“Sit down,” he said, pushing her into a chair across from his.

Without a word she sat stiffly, looking everywhere save at her husband.

She was very tired, and felt her shoulders long to droop and relax, but she forced herself to remain rigid.

She would have loved to go to bed, but was afraid to suggest it, fearing what actions he would take then.

She did not feel ready to deal with the intimacies of marriage, particularly to this stranger who was her husband.

The day had been a mockery. Would he also make a mockery of the marriage bed?

She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back a freshening of tears.

Glancing over at him, she noted him drinking steadily, and dimly hoped he would drink himself to sleep as her father was wont to do.

She was surprised when sometime later she felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and looked up to find the Viscount’s eyes inches away from hers. With a start she realized she’d fallen asleep and was leaning back against the cushions, her cheek pillowed against the chair wing.

“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand.

Without thought, Elizabeth placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet.

His free arm swept around her waist to guide her toward the door.

At his touch, all realization returned to Elizabeth and the color fled her face.

St. Ryne dropped his arm as he opened the door for her and followed her out.

Elizabeth walked slowly toward the stairs, her heart in her throat.

She was surprised when St. Ryne did not take her arm again.

She hurried slightly ahead of him up the stairs to avoid contact.

He laughed softly and followed her into the bedchamber.

“Are you so impatient for my caresses, my love?”

Elizabeth froze. She began to tremble and crossed the room to the fireplace to warm her hands, though she knew full well she was not trembling from the cold.

Behind her she heard St. Ryne breath in sharply.

She closed her eyes, trembling once again while she tried to will her body to stop, to be cold and aloof.

She concentrated so hard, she did not hear St. Ryne cross the room, and was only snapped into awareness by the click of a closing door.

Startled, she straightened and looked around the room. St. Ryne was gone.

Swiftly she crossed to the connecting door then the main door to lock them, only to find there were no keys. She eyed the furniture, but unfortunately, they were all solid, heavy pieces—too big for her to move in front of a door.

A little uncertainly, she removed the mauve dress, then swiftly donned her new white lawn nightgown.

She looked about the room again, half expecting St. Ryne to appear.

Bewildered, Elizabeth picked up her brush from the vanity and sat before the fire, waiting and listening as she brushed her hair with long even strokes.

Eventually she heard St. Ryne moving about in his dressing room.

She froze, expecting him to enter. She closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand to the neckline of her nightgown, drawing it more closely about her.

She winced as first one boot then the other was heard to hit the floor, followed by a muffled rustling.

She opened her eyes and rose slowly to face the door.

She strained her hearing to catch the first signs of the door opening.

Instead she heard the narrow bed she had seen in St. Ryne’s dressing room creak as it received his weight, then the house was silent.

Confused, Elizabeth tentatively crossed to the big empty bed on the dais.

Crawling in, she pulled the blankets snugly about her as she huddled on one side.

She was exhausted and her stomach churned in hunger. Sleep, however, was a long way away.