Page 59

Thus have I politicly begun my reign

And 'tis my hope to end successfully.

A Mona Lisa smile curved Elizabeth’s lips when she viewed her décolleté neckline. The effect was alluring—and shockingly fast.

A little more than an hour had passed since she entered her dressing room in an impotent rage, and her anger and frustration were given vent in a wild frenzy.

How could he be so unforgivably rude, so cold-blooded?

It was certainly bad enough that she played the unaccommodating shrew in society; however, to quit one’s spouse within days of exchanging vows was an insult difficult to swallow.

Duels were fought with far less provocation.

Angrily she ripped the dresses St. Ryne had supplied her from the wardrobe and flung them about the room.

They fell scattered, like wilted weeds yanked from a garden.

Afterward, her anger spent, Elizabeth sank to the floor gently weeping.

It was through a veil of tears that she first noted the sliver of white silk.

In the candlelight, with tears blurring her sight, the white fabric glowed.

Curious, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and crawled to the discarded dress.

Picking it up, she shook it out, then laid it flat.

It was a half-mourning gown. Likely it had been a modiste’s model or an unclaimed order, for it was unlike any of the other dresses.

Elizabeth wondered at the dressmaker’s reaction to St. Ryne’s wardrobe request, and silently applauded the wily merchant who caged an opportunity to sell a ready-made dress at a handsome profit.

The white silk was a slip covered by a sheer, gray organza overdress.

Extra gathering of the sheer material created a misty cloudlike fall to the fabric.

Three bands of gray lace ruffles trimmed the hem and each puffed sleeve.

A yoke comprised of gray lace over white silk was attached to a narrow bodice and ended in another three tiers of gray ruffles at the top of the high neck.

If one were in black gloves, it would be a modest yet elegant dinner gown, suitable, perhaps, for attending a musicale or card party.

Elizabeth fingered the yoke, noting its attachment.

Gathering her skirts about her, she scrambled to her feet to search her portmanteau for scissors and a packet of sewing needles and pins.

Quickly she set to work picking out the stitching attaching the yoke, removing it, and hemming under the edges of the material at the neckline.

Two judicious tucks tightened the small bodice that now stretched across her breasts, just capturing the tips.

She then separated the gray lace on the yoke from its white silk backing and with it fashioned a narrow banding as an inset over the low tight décolletage, tying it in a bow at the center.

Elizabeth studied the effect of her ensemble in the cheval glass.

Her color rose, her eyes sparkled, and a pleased little smile lifted the corners of her lips.

The gown was scandalous—deliciously so. It appeared if one were to untie the strategically placed bow, her breasts would be released from captivity.

She finished her attire with a necklace of milky white pearls, and dressed her hair in a Clytie knot, with curling dusky tendrils falling across her brow and neck.

The overall effect of the gown was as daring as could stare.

In the past, she would never have contemplated donning such a gown.

It amused her to consider how quickly one’s attitude could change, given the proper circumstances.

Her new outlook, she ruefully admitted, prompted her current course of action.

If St. Ryne could now remain unmoved, then his disgust of her was deep and insurmountable, or he was not a true man.

Regardless, she vowed to maintain a cool, polite demeanor, and further determined, if he should attempt to goad her, she would not fly up into the boughs.

The small, secret smile remained in place as she descended the stairs for dinner.

St. Ryne was not pleased with how his recent interview with Elizabeth ended.

Truly, he did not wish to return to London.

More likely he would be bored to tears or hounded by his erstwhile friends.

Perhaps all was not lost. Circumstances could still arise that evening that would obviate the necessity for his departure.

Yet, he reconsidered, perhaps it was good that he leave Larchside.

At some point during the interview with Elizabeth, he had lost control of the situation.

No, not some point —he knew precisely when their relationship had suffered a reversal.

It was when he had the fool audacity to kiss her as a punishment.

The only person punished was himself. Going to London would allow him to regain control of the play.

He tugged at his neckcloth. He had taken extra care with his attire that evening, as much extra care as he could without Cranston’s good offices. He missed that gentleman damnably at the moment, for it was his desire to show to advantage.

He paced the library restlessly. A soft knock on the door halted him in his tracks.

“Yes?”

It was merely Atheridge. “Dinner is served, my lord.”

“Very good,” he said, coming out of the library. "I shall inform the Lady Elizabeth.”

“No need, I’m here, Justin.” The unusually husky voice came from the shadows on the stairs.

St. Ryne watched, frozen, as Elizabeth’s silhouette glided downward, slowly taking form as she approached the lighted hall.

She stopped on the last step, the elaborate candelabrum on the newel post casting its glow on her.

St. Ryne silently extended his hand. Elizabeth, equally silent, placed her hand in his, and he formally conducted her to the dining room.

Elizabeth cast a surreptitious glance in his direction, only to find he had done the same.

They looked away from each other quickly, but not before Elizabeth noted where his eyes rested.

Overwhelming relief, bearing confidence in its wake, flooded Elizabeth.

At least he was not indifferent to her as a woman.

It was a start—a small start perhaps, but a start.

St. Ryne did not release her arm until they stood by her chair and even then he did not quit her side. He held out her chair and saw her seated, his fingertips grazing her bare shoulders.

Elizabeth looked up inquiringly, only to note with satisfaction the direction of his gaze. His eyes were fixed on her shadowed cleavage.

“Is something the matter, Justin? You seem quiet this evening.”

“No, no, nothing at all.” He cleared his throat and went to pull out his own chair. “Sorry to be wool-gathering, just estate matters and my instructions for Tunning. Nothing to bother yourself about.”

“I see.” A slow smile curved her lips as her lashes lowered to hide the brilliant light of satisfaction in her expressive gold eyes. “So, how long do you plan to be gone?”

“I don’t know. A week at the most, I imagine.

” Elizabeth regally nodded her understanding as Atheridge entered.

“I trust you will find this evening’s menu to your liking,” she stated politely.

"I will own it is simple, but the food is fresh from the village this day. By her own admission, Mrs. Atheridge is no cook, so I instructed her to forego any attempt at saucing the food.”

St. Ryne glanced down at the boiled and roasted unadorned food set before him.

A wry half smile touched his lips. It appeared no more appetizing than the meal set before him the evening before, and only slightly more edible.

It piqued him to be following Petruchio’s lead continually, without intervention.

A strange disquiet settled over him and he looked up to study Elizabeth intently.

He knew he was truly no Petruchio, though he now seemed thoroughly caught in the role.

Could it be his Bess was no Katharine? She sat there quietly and gracefully erect, her attention centered on cutting her meat into small bits.

The light from the candelabra on the table flickered in her hair.

In daylight her hair was so dark it almost looked black.

Only under the proper conditions could one note it was a rich earthen brown.

When light struck it properly, it cast off warm red and gold, encasing her head in a halo aura.

Her skin was like alabaster save for the delicate rose tones flaring across her cheeks.

It was her eyes, however, that never failed to shake him to the core.

The color of old guineas, they flamed like a torch when her ire rose.

A tigress, his tigress. What was that poem he once read? Something by Blake. Ah-

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The rest slipped his mind, but the imagery remained.

He clenched his fist around a knife. He would wake the slumbering passions within her.

He had to. He just needed patience and proper planning.

He would keep her slightly off balance and make her come to defer to him.

A reluctant smile kicked up the corner of his mouth when he realized that again he was to use Petruchio’s tactics.

Elizabeth looked up suddenly, her finely arched brow rising in polite inquiry at his steady regard.

St. Ryne shifted in his chair and turned his attention to his food. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her reach for her wine goblet, her milky-white breasts straining against the gray lace. He cleared his throat.

“I don’t recall that particular gown.”

Elizabeth smiled widely, revealing small, pearly white teeth. “You don’t? Well, I must own I did contrive a few minor alterations.”

“Minor?”