Page 57

Elizabeth drew the back of her hand across her forehead, brushing an escaping lock of dark hair out of her eyes.

She was bone-tired, yet strangely it felt good.

She had worked beside the village help, pulling down musty curtains and wall hangings, shifting furniture about, attacking cobwebs.

She had been too busy to think about her marriage and St. Ryne’s actions, which suited her perfectly.

A brief frown creased her brow. He would most likely be returning soon, if he hadn’t run from his mockery of a marriage as he had from their conjugal bed—a circumstance, she admitted, not without favor.

Her stomach rumbled. She clamped a hand to her middle as if to still the vulgar sound while she watched Thomas carefully take apart the chandelier.

St. Ryne stood quietly in the doorway of the dining room.

The manor was a veritable beehive of activity.

It would appear half the village had come to help clean Larchside, undoubtedly out of curiosity more than any other reason.

Were they sated? What stories would be passed over a mug of ale, in the shops, and on the road?

He watched Elizabeth directing the efforts of a strapping young man removing the chandelier.

She was concentrating intensely and a small frown played across her features.

The hem of her gown was black, the large cook’s apron she’d tied on over her dress was streaked with gray, and a smudge graced her cheekbone.

A hideous kerchief covered her glorious dark hair, though a few stubborn wisps escaped to curl and cling to her damp brow.

Shadows were lengthening, and it would soon be too dark to work.

St. Ryne felt a curious tightening in his chest as he watched her. Was this his shrew? His Katharine?

He saw her press her hand to her middle. Was she not well?

“My lady.” His voice sounded rusty and harsh to his ears.

She whirled around to face him, a slight flush creeping up to stain her cheeks. He cleared his throat, but the tightening in his chest seemed to have affected his voice as well.

“St. Ryne?” she queried, a watchful wariness in her voice.

“It appears all the dirt of Larchside has been transferred upon your person.” He managed a slight smirk to cover his confusion.

Elizabeth stepped toward him, a self-mocking smile upon her lips. “It is not to be surprised.”

“How so? Are there not servants to attend to the manor?”

Her smile vanished. “Nay, sir, there are not! These are good village folk, come to help clean this wretched sty, and come more out of curiosity than for coin.”

St. Ryne’s eyes flew to Thomas, poised on the ladder, listening intently to their conversation.

Elizabeth caught his glance and flushed anew.

“Thomas,” she said carefully, drawing herself to her fullest height, her hands placed primly before her. “I fear it is too dark to do more today. We may cause the chandelier to fall if we work in such indifferent light. Will you come tomorrow?”

“Certainly, my lady.” Thomas scampered down the ladder, his inquisitive eyes capering between the Viscountess and Viscount.

“Thank you. Please convey my thanks to the others and ask that they return tomorrow as well, if they please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

St. Ryne and Elizabeth silently watched as he hurried out of the room and painstakingly closed the door softly behind him.

After Thomas left, Elizabeth smiled, recalling her day’s labors. St. Ryne, seeing her secret smile, wished he knew her thoughts and fleetingly regretted she did not smile so for him.

“They worked hard today,” she said softly. She glanced ruefully down at the soiled apron covering her dress. “I could not begin to direct their labors without knowing what must needs be done myself.”

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “To judge what must be done requires doing?”

“To judge what will stay and go, to examine long-closed rooms and shut-away items—in short answer, yes.” She rounded on him, tiring of the smirks and innuendos she perceived.

He would not again get the best of her in a verbal duel.

“Lest you would desire to live in a sty or stable. If that is the case, I can in good conscience recommend the stable. I haven’t sent anyone to clean there. ”

“Pray, don’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“In truth, I am debating the merits of removing the structure entirely and building anew.”

“Ah, I comprehend the matter,” she said, nodding sagely. “The best for one’s horse, forsake the rest. Or am I to remove there when it is completed? No, forgive me, my tongue runs away with me. I am not a mount you choose to ride.”

Appalled at her words, Elizabeth turned hastily from St. Ryne, missing entirely that gentleman’s wide-eyed surprise and delight. His bride’s words bespoken an agitation of spirit and perhaps chagrin as well. He was not ill-pleased. It would appear Petruchio’s formula drew merit.

In a flurry of embarrassment, Elizabeth opened the dining room doors and hurried down the hall to the library where she had assigned Mrs. Atheridge to work. St. Ryne followed at her heels.

“Mrs. Atheridge!” she called out in a cracking, flustered voice. “Mrs. Atheridge, have the villagers all left?”

“Yes, my lady,” she grudgingly acknowledged.

“Will they return tomorrow?”

“Yes, though you should have relayed that request through me, not through that snip of a lad!”

“Mrs. Atheridge,” Elizabeth began quellingly.

St. Ryne laid a hand upon her arm. “She was in conference with me and it was expeditiously done. As we lack proper retainers, form, my dear Mrs. Atheridge, bears no form.”

Mrs. Atheridge sniffed and sketched a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lord.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed upon her. She was incensed at St. Ryne’s drawing her fire.

Mrs. Atheridge was well due for a dressing down.

Her eye ran over the housekeeper’s figure; her dress hung limply about her stocky frame, the silk petticoats dispensed.

A measure of self-satisfaction filled Elizabeth and she found herself speaking with a quiet tongue.

“Bring tea to the library, please. Afterward you may begin the dinner preparations.”

Elizabeth continued into the library, without sparing the housekeeper a glance to see if her orders were obeyed.

For all her obstructionist tactics of the day, Elizabeth felt sure she would not dare such a blatant disregard for a command, particularly with St. Ryne present.

She could not say, however, that she envisioned an appetizing dinner.

Replacing Mrs. Atheridge in the kitchen would be one of her first concerns.

She moved gracefully into the room to stand by the fireplace, and critically scanned the room.

It would do. All traces of grime had been removed from the wainscoting and furniture, and some pieces had already received a fresh coating of wax or oil.

Half of the books were cleaned and replaced in their shelves; the rest stood in stacks upon the floor.

There was still a musty smell about the room, but with time and care she felt it could be banished.

She studied the chairs and drapes, contemplating replacement fabric.

She entirely forgot St. Ryne’s presence until the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor roused her from her reverie.

St. Ryne placed one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, gesturing that she should sit. He then drew up the other for himself. A nervous flutter traveled through Elizabeth.

“Am I amiss in setting to rights my settlement?” She spoke coolly, refusing to acknowledge the flutters in her body or to consider their source.

“No-no. Not at all. But, Bess, must you look so-so?—”

“Common? Bourgeois?” she asked archly, indicating her attire.

“Common?” St. Ryne laughed. “You, my dear, could never be common. In that attire, though, you appear entirely too menial for a Viscountess.”

“They say pride doth come before a fall. May I be so bold as to remind you that, aside from the coating of dirt and this apron, my appearance is precisely how you framed me when you ordered my—what would you have it?—my trousseau.”

St. Ryne had the grace to blush. He clenched his teeth tightly until the muscle in his jaw jumped.

There were no quotes or phrases from Shakespeare to cover this encounter.

It occurred to St. Ryne that the bard left out a good bit of interchange between Petruchio and his Katharine for brevity’s sake.

His bride was sharp-tongued and sharp-witted; this, coupled with her dark beauty, caused his pulse to quicken considerably.

There were no rules or guidelines, no lines save of his own invention.

So be it. It was no great matter to postulate Petruchio’s reaction under like circumstances and act accordingly.

He pulled his wife to her feet, drew her into his arms, and kissed her.

Elizabeth’s astonishment was lost in a sea of sensation crashing in upon her, crumbling rock-hard walls of preconceptions and attitudes.

She stood pliant under the pressure of his lips, alive to his breathing, her own heartbeat, his scent of woods and horse, and to a sudden dizzying warmth in the room.

Her eyes drifted shut, her senses savoring the kiss as one would sample and savor a well-laid-out feast. She could not move or speak; she could merely absorb.

For the first time since she was a child in Hattie’s care, she felt tenderness.

She responded as a crocus would to winter’s thaw.

St. Ryne slowly raised his head. She opened her eyes to meet his fathomless dark ones intent upon her face.

A small sigh, a gentle release of air, escaped her lips, lost in the crack and pop of a log as it broke and fell into the fire sending forth a rain of sparks.

A flare of red touched her cheek, blending with the rosy glow cast by the fire.

St. Ryne dropped her arms and walked to the desk.