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He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak: 'tis charity to shew.

A smile flickered on the Viscount St. Ryne’s lips as he approached the club.

The bow window set had sighted him, and not all the gentlemen there managed to maintain the sanguine attitude deemed de rigueur for that location.

He distinctly noted two viewing him with wide-open mouths, rather resembling landed fish, he decided satisfactorily.

He had judged his appearance would be tantamount to placing the cat among the pigeons; however, there was the little matter of a bet to collect.

If truth be told, he was enjoying putting society on its ear by his inexplicable behavior.

As blame had been assigned to the sun in Jamaica for his exploits, he doubted the island would be visited by many for a long while.

His smile broadened as he fairly skipped up the steps and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the Friday-faced porter who opened the door.

“What’s the long face for, my good man? A face like that could set a man off his drink,” he said over his shoulder, shrugging off his driving coat and handing it with his modish beaver to a hovering footman.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the porter responded faintly. Was it just three weeks since his lordship had entered looking as black as a thundercloud? This new manner of his lordship was as alien to the porter’s mind as the black humor had been.

It was said his lordship recently tied the knot, so that might account. The porter shook his head mournfully. In his considerable experience, such action was not in keeping with a jovial countenance, as leg-shackled gentlemen were likely to be of morose or snappish demeanor.

“Well then, let’s see a smile.” St. Ryne turned to face him, his hands on his hips.

The porter was confused. Gentlemen were always taking queer starts. He viewed the Viscount’s request with a jaundiced eye; nevertheless, he weakly opened his mouth in a carved wooden smile.

His endeavor was met with a shout of laughter. “A travesty! I can see I was mistaken. Resume your habitual frown; that smile would curdle milk.”

“Thank you, my lord,” murmured that worthy.

“Ah, St. Ryne, I thought that was you,” a measured, quiet voice floated down the stairs.

St. Ryne turned to the sound, his eyebrows raised in faint inquiry. A small laugh, like a rush of air, escaped his lips on recognizing the gentleman at the top of the staircase. He mounted the stairs to his side.

“Well met, Branstoke.”

“Are we? I wonder,” he returned languidly, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

“Questions are being raised as to the honesty of our bet.” They fell into step heading toward the card room.

“I cannot tell you how boring it is to be the recipient of clumsy hints that we are in league. They sorely lack the proper subtlety and fineness to rise above the plebeian, to be truly effective.”

St. Ryne’s lips twitched in appreciation. “How singular,” he murmured. “I imagined they would rather view me as being in league with the Devil. Do they view you as one of her minions?”

“I am afraid the masses lack the poetic soul.”

St. Ryne laughed. Damn if he didn’t like this gentleman. There was an unaccounted depth to him, and a wry sense of the absurd few would see.

“I must tell you I have a grievance with you, my friend.” Branstoke’s manner was conversational.

“Oh?”

“I’ll have you know you have spiked my game. I must say I knew it was your intention three weeks ago; however, you moved faster than I had accounted.”

“Really? Was it your intention to make a play for Lady Elizabeth?”

“Hardly.” Branstoke waved his quizzing glass casually before him.

“I make it a habit to join only the entourages of unattainables. Since La Belle Helene is now removed from that category, I find I must retire from the ranks of her suitors. I considered remaining one of their number a while longer; however, I have noticed her eyes resting on me, weighing my suitability.” He shuddered slightly allowing the quizzing glass to fall back to rest against his chest. “I can think of few worse fates.”

A look of mock surprise crossed St. Ryne’s face. “Is not La Belle Helene a paragon?”

Sir James Branstoke shrugged. “So few are,” he murmured. He slid a glance at St. Ryne. “Totally unlike your own bride,” he continued blandly.

St. Ryne’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline in inquiry, but Branstoke only bowed slightly in his direction and wandered away.

The Viscount stood in the doorway watching the enigmatic gentleman enter into conversation with others in the room, until Freddy Shiperton, spying him standing there, hurried to his side.

“Justin, what are you doing here?” Freddy inquired sotto voce, glancing around furtively to see if any were near enough to hear.

“Really, Freddy, why do any of us come here? For cards, wine, and good company, of course.” He tucked his arm in Freddy’s and led him into the room. “Shall we start a game?”

“Dash it, Justin, you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

“Yes, I know. What makes you believe I am not?” he returned affably, as he looked about the room, inclining his head in recognition of various acquaintances. “Do not look askance, old fellow,” he said, turning back to Freddy. “A honeymoon is merely a state of mind.”

A slightly slurred, unrecognizable voice came from a crowded table: “He must have killed her.” It was rapidly shushed by others.

Freddy scowled briefly before pulling his friend toward a slightly less populated corner of the room. “Dashed if I understand you, Justin. You weren’t never taken to such queer turns.”

St. Ryne laughed. “Do not vex yourself. Come, let’s order a glass and we’ll toast my sweet, gentle bride.”

A look of startled horror captured poor Freddy’s face, causing St. Ryne to laugh louder as he signaled for a passing waiter.

The Viscount St. Ryne accepted with fortitude the plethora of jibes thrown his way when he came to collect his portion of the winnings he gained at his club as a result of his marriage to Lady Elizabeth Monweithe.

Unfortunately, that fortitude began wearing thin, and in the days that followed, St. Ryne was alternately amused and irritated by the sly glances, innuendos, and jokes cast in his direction.

Often he found himself wishing he could share with Elizabeth a passing joke or comment he overheard, his mind conjuring up the panoply of emotions that could cross her face, along with her answering snubs and witticisms.

Such thoughts of her invariably brought to mind the kiss he’d stolen that rocked his senses while leaving her completely unmoved.

Each time he remembered that scene, a niggling question pushed at a corner of his mind for more and more space.

Had she truly been unmoved? Would it not, perhaps, been more in keeping for her to struggle against the kiss and rant and rave, calling down abuse upon his head?

Instead, she’d played the role of ice maiden, out of keeping with her personality as it was known in the polite world.

Yet how much of the picture presented to society was real, and how much dissimulation?

He had often noted a vulnerability unseen by others, yet he persisted in acting like it did not exist.

He began to wonder if he had played the game differently, would he be in London now, a virtual exile from his own home and hearth?

It slowly occurred to him that perhaps Elizabeth’s lack of response to his kiss stemmed from lack of experience.

What occasion had any man to kiss her? He swore to himself as the idea loomed larger and larger in his mind, causing his good humor on arriving in London to dissolve slowly into studied politeness.

St. Ryne was not a man to admit easily to a mistake.

These thoughts skittered in and out of his mind for days, played upon by the amused knowing glances cast his way by Sir James Branstoke.

He would return his look with one of quelling hauteur that would only cause that gentleman to purse his lips slightly and nod.

Afterward St. Ryne was left feeling the fool, a circumstance to which he was unaccustomed.

One evening at a select card party, after exchanging their dance of innuendos, St. Ryne approached Branstoke demanding to know what was plaguing his mind.

“My mind? My dear St. Ryne, what is in my mind would hardly plague a gnat,” he returned pleasantly, drawing his snuffbox out of his pocket.

He studied its intricate design as he went on: “It is your mind which bears contagion.” He looked up at St. Ryne, flicking open the snuffbox with his thumb as he did so.

“Would you care for a pinch?” he asked, extending the box in St. Ryne’s direction.

St. Ryne waved it away. “I find your meaning obscure.”

“And here I thought you such a downey fellow.” He shook his head doubtfully before taking a pinch of snuff himself.

“Look to yourself.” He brushed a speck of snuff from his sleeve.

“You are a man away from his new wife, yet I’d venture to wager she is not away from your thoughts.

You have shown no notice of the lovelies who have thrown their kerchiefs your way, and are becoming increasingly surly the longer you’re from her side.

I understand it to be a serious disease, one perhaps best treated gently,” he suggested, replacing his snuffbox in his pocket.

St. Ryne laughed curtly. “There is much to what you say and don’t say. Unfortunately, the die has been cast.”

“Don’t be a fool, St. Ryne,” grated Branstoke, for the first time revealing any emotion besides boredom.

St. Ryne studied the man before him carefully. “You may be correct.”

Branstoke shrugged elegantly, his famous equanimity restored. “But permit me to divert your mind to another aspect of your play unfolding. First, I have a thirst which needs quenching. Will you join me?”

“Gladly.”