Page 72

“What do you know of it! You’re much to cocksure of yourself by half.

Mama contracted pneumonia after rescuing me from a duck pond.

She died a few days later. I was only five at the time; however, Papa blamed me for her death, and it was years before he would even look at me, and he never speaks to me unless he has to.

The only person who has ever cared whether I lived or died is Hattie, my old nurse. ”

“I care.”

His soft words hung between them. Elizabeth ardently wished she could believe them. A look of open vulnerability appeared in her eyes, pulling at St. Ryne.

“Bess—” he murmured, rising.

A light knock halted him. He turned toward the door, then cast one last glance in Elizabeth’s direction before granting permission to enter.

“Excuse me, my lord, Mr. Tunning's here to see you, sir.”

“Show him in.”

“Do you wish me to leave?” Elizabeth asked, color slowly returning to her face.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he assured her. He turned to confront Tunning when he entered. “Where have you been? I sent for you hours ago.”

“Beg pardon, my lord. I was checking on the cost of supplies for the stable. Some of those tradesmen can be real crooks, boosting prices just ’cause they works for gentry. I put them in their place right enough. We’ll not be gulled by any merchants in these parts.”

St. Ryne relaxed a bit at hearing Tunning's explanation. “I sent for you regarding the estate room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It’s locked again, damn it! What are you about, locking my own estate room against me?”

“I assure you, my lord, it weren’t done intentionally. I guess locking the estate room has just become habit of late, like I told you when you returned, because of all the strangers about. I assumed you had a key, my lord. I’ll have the smith make up another.”

“Have him make two,” interposed Elizabeth.

Tunning looked from St. Ryne to the Viscountess and back. “Two, my lord?”

“Yes, an excellent idea. You should have one on your ring, my dear.”

“Are you intending to work in the estate room, my lord?” Tunning asked in a strangled voice.

“Yes, about time I acquainted myself with the crops and numbers.”

“I will make myself available to assist you.”

“I think I am capable of reading by myself,” St. Ryne drawled.

“Well, I’ll just be by to answer questions, then.”

“That will not be necessary, as my hours in the estate room will no doubt be erratic. Any questions I have will be brought out later.”

“If you’re sure, my lord?—”

“Yes, Tunning, confound it, there is no need for you to live in my pocket.”

“To be sure, my lord, no offense meant. Will that be all?”

“Yes—No! Give me your key for now. We will deal with the smith later.”

Reluctantly, Tunning removed a large brass key from his pocket.

“Thank you. You may go.”

“Very good, my lord.”

St. Ryne turned the key over in his hand, blindly staring at it. Suddenly, closing his fist over it, he rose from his chair. “Will you excuse me, Bess? My curiosity is aroused.”

St. Ryne tapped the letter against his hand then went in search of Elizabeth.

The letter was franked by her father and appeared to be in his strong hand.

Given what Bess had told him of her relationship with her parent, he could not help but wonder at its content.

It was a splendid excuse to search her out, something he now tried to do at odd moments of the day.

Their open conversation over the apple flummery was not repeated; however, as they spent more and more time together at tea, over dinner, and in the evening, or at chance encounters during the day, the formality between them began to fade.

Elizabeth smiled and laughed more, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy.

She began to enjoy St. Ryne’s company, his humor, and his solicitous nature.

At times it made her wonder if the early days of her marriage weren’t some nightmare from which she awoke.

They still maintained separate bedrooms and nothing seemed to be occurring to change that circumstance.

St. Ryne was very careful not to do anything untoward that would upset their fragile budding relationship.

He wanted her to fall in love with him, and thought his gentle attentions and care would push her to love.

For her part, she wondered if St. Ryne would ever be interested in her.

She craved his touch, but was too afraid of his coldness and disgust if she demonstrated passion.

He found her in the drawing room, working on the chair cover.

The new drapes had not yet arrived from London, and consequently the pale sunlight streamed in through the tall, bare windows.

Elizabeth sat with the sun pouring over her shoulders, shining on the brilliant colors of the canvas in her lap, and casting the red-gold aura he had become so familiar with on her hair.

“This just came for you.”

“A letter, for me?” She took the letter from him. “It’s from my father!”

“You act surprised.”

“In truth, I am. I thought he’d washed his hands of me.”

“Well, obviously not. Aren’t you going to read it?”

She stared at the letter. “I suppose I must,” she said ruefully. She broke open the wafer and spread the closely written sheet open on her needlework. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents, then she looked up at St. Ryne. “Oh, come read this, too. ’Tis rich, I vow!”

St. Ryne leaned over the back of her chair, her hair tickling his chin and smelling of jasmine. The letter, in very stilted words, was to inform them of Helene’s betrothal to Frederick Shiperton, Esq.

“Poor Freddy,” they muttered simultaneously then began to laugh until their eyes watered. St. Ryne, his hands resting on her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her head. Elizabeth stilled at his touch, then slowly turned her head to look up at him. Silently they stared at each other.

Elizabeth nervously licked her lips. “They want us to come to London for a betrothal ball. It’s to be the last society event before the Christmas season,” she said faintly.

“All right,” he breathed, his head coming inexorably closer. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” yelped Elizabeth. She turned her head away, and with nervous fingers rolled her needlework up and replaced it in the tapestry bag. “Then I must get busy—there are a thousand things to do.”

St. Ryne sighed and stood upright. “Yes, of course, my dear. Let me know if I may be of any service to you.”

“Thank you, Justin, I will. I must find Mrs. Atheridge to supervise the packing and check on the laundry, then I’ll go see Mary and tell her not to get any more perishables. I’ll need to wash my hair this evening, as well?—”

St. Ryne laughed, holding his hands before him as if to ward off a blow. “Enough! I can see I have much to learn about traveling with a household,” he said humorously.

Elizabeth grinned saucily at him. “It’s not so bad as long as one remembers to deal a whip and chain.”

“Baggage!”

Elizabeth merely laughed and skipped out of the room. St. Ryne stared after her, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “Just you wait, my love,” he said to the empty room. “Your time is coming.”