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He ran a finger over its polished surface then sat down in the chair behind it. A hooded expression claimed his features, making them as noncommittal as the hands he folded and placed before him on the desk.

“My lady, wife.” He paused. Every ounce of fortitude he possessed was harnessed to maintain his air of calm. The kiss he had bestowed in masculine arrogance as a lesson made him the student. For him, touching Elizabeth was like touching a spark to dry tinder. Yet she remained unmoved.

Egads! How could a cold wench ignite such hot fires within him? There had to be a fiery passion buried within her. How else could her temper flare so? His skin still tingled from touching her, while she stood there impassively as if nothing had occurred.

His knuckles whitened as he twisted his fingers together in frustration. Patience. It would take patience. While Shakespeare’s play was over in a matter of hours, he could not expect his rough wooing to have a desired effect in so short a time.

He looked at her steadily, his voice exactingly neutral. “Enough frivolous dalliance for the moment. We have business to discuss.”

“Friv-?” She blinked rapidly in shocked surprise.

Her entire world had just turned upside down, and he sat there as if they had just been discussing the weather.

A scream of vexation clogged her throat, while a shimmering veil of tears blurred her vision.

How dare he mock her further! She could stand no more.

Wildly, she looked about. Her eyes lighted upon a china dog placed on a mantel during the day’s cleaning. It was a horrid, hulking beast. She grabbed it up quickly. The thought that it and St. Ryne were a fitting pair came moments before the object left her hand on its way to his head.

He ducked it easily enough and the figurine crashed harmlessly against the bookcase sending slivers of china flying.

He glanced at the shattered statue then rose from his chair to come around the desk toward her.

Elizabeth backed away from his silent approach.

Reaching blindly behind her, she sought for other items to grab, with a desire now to ward him off rather than to vent her frustrations.

She did not like the implacable look in his eye.

It sent a chill of alarm through her body.

Her searching hand met a candlestick. It also fell harmlessly past him. Next she grabbed a heavy tome to hurl at his head, only to have him clasp her wrist and wrench the book from her hand.

“No! No! Let me go!” she cried, twisting and turning in his grasp.

He caught her with his other hand and hauled her thrashing body toward him.

“Enough!” he grunted suddenly, and an oomph sound whistled through his teeth when she caught him in the stomach with her elbow. “Elizabeth!” he roared, shaking her like a rag doll.

“No! Leave me alone!” Her struggles weakened. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Elizabeth—Bess, love—listen to me!”

“No!” she cried wildly then flung herself on his shoulder, sobbing. He had kept her off balance and confused since their first meeting with his odd fits and starts. Now, all the pent-up emotions she’d gathered came spewing forth. With the tension released, there was no dam to halt the outpouring.

She heard him murmuring, but the words came from a long way off, without coherent meaning.

When she settled down to gulping sobs, she pulled away from him, staring down at the worn carpet.

Without a word, she turned toward the fireplace.

Like the china dog, her pride lay shattered at her feet.

She supposed the outburst had been inevitable.

She remembered that yesterday she had wished for a new beginning with this wedding.

Was it so recently? It seemed forever. A rush of self-pity consumed her, angering her, for she would not be its slave.

“My word,” she managed shakily, “I’d heard a new bride was wont to be weepy.” She laughed tightly. “I had not imagined I would as well.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, then turned defiantly to face St. Ryne.

“Mrs. Atheridge should have been here by now,” she said calmly. “I shall go check on tea.”

Her eyes still glistened, and her color ran high, but she did not have a blotchy complexion as most women did after a bout of tears. To St. Ryne she looked more gloriously beautiful than ever before.

After she left, he eased himself into one of the winged chairs by the fireplace and stared broodingly into the flames.

He didn’t understand the reason for her outburst of temper and tears; however, he was not disgusted by the display, as he would have been from another woman.

He realized if he could rouse her to such emotional heights in anger, then there was a possibility of doing so in passion as well.

Perhaps he needed to squelch the anger avenues as Petruchio had done with his Kate, thereby leaving passion as her solace for release.

He looked up when the door opened, watching through heavily hooded eyes Elizabeth’s fluid movements as she directed the placement of the tea tray. A plan for handling his Kate in this next match slowly jelled in his mind. He smiled at her and murmured a thank you as she handed him a cup and saucer.

“We will need new paint, wallpaper, drapes, and upholstery if we are to put this pile of rubble to rights. I shall have craftsmen and samples sent to Larchside from London when I am in town.”

“Wouldn’t it be faster to write?” she asked coolly, content to follow his conversational gambit. Her outburst of emotion had left her drained and sick with remorse.

“Not at all. I shall be returning to town tomorrow myself. You may look for the first of the craftsmen and samples to arrive as early as the day after.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I have asked Tom Tunning, the estate agent, to step around after dinner so you may meet him and discuss your household needs and expenses while I am away.” He studied her dispassionately. “You know, you have shown me on two occasions now that you have no appreciation for the value of money.”

“What?” Her cup clattered down on the tray.

“Your penchant for throwing and breaking objects proves your lack of respect for money. Therefore, I have decided that you will have no allowance, and all requests for money—no matter what for—must be made before commitments are contracted. There will be no credit extended. I will inform tradesmen to this effect.”

“How dare you? You’re insane!”

He took a sip of his tea before calmly continuing. “While I am away, Tom Tunning will have control of all discretionary funds.”

Elizabeth surged to her feet, her entire body trembling with anger and her eyes glowing like molten gold.

She struggled for words, her lips moving soundlessly.

St. Ryne expectantly awaited her entirely justifiable tirade, but she closed her mouth abruptly.

When finally she did speak, her voice was low and controlled.

“Excuse me, I need to freshen up before dinner.”

Head held high, she regally quitted the room in her frumpish, dirt-streaked frock.

St. Ryne slumped down in his chair. He wished he saw his way clearly.

He had hoped to push her to anger and then sweep her into his arms again, channeling her anger to passion.

She fooled him by the tight check she maintained on her temper.

He sighed and set down his cup. Once again his course was set, and he would see it through.

What would be the outcome of this latest turn of events?

Surely Petruchio’s way was not so dark and twisting.

He rubbed his temples, willing the throbbing there to cease.

Wearily he rose to go change for dinner.