Page 75

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree;

And time it is, when raging war is done,

To smile at scrapes and perils overblown.

T he dinner party before the betrothal ball was purported to be of a select nature, yet by gazing upon the invited personages filling the drawing room of Rasthough House awaiting the call to dinner, it bore a striking resemblance in size to one of Prinny’s famous Carlton House banquets.

In truth, an invitation to the dinner had become a social necessity to any with pretensions of position and was regarded dearer than an admittance card to Almack’s.

Gentlemen, pressed by their wives and their pockets because of the side bets placed in the clubs on Lady Elizabeth’s comeuppance, jovially importuned the Earl of Rasthough for invitations.

Widows flirted shamelessly with him to the same effect, or turned to Lady Romella Wisgart, so sweet in their congratulations.

Still others sought invitations from the betrothed couple with warm compliments and subtle, or not so subtle, hints that an invite would be welcomed.

Lady Helene Monweithe and her swain, the Honorable Frederick Shiperton, naively took it as their due.

They were sadly mistaken, for society’s interest was grounded solely in their knowledge that the 'Shrew of London' would be in attendance.

Gossip concerning the new Viscountess St. Ryne had risen to a fevered pitch since her return to the city.

Those who had chanced to see her with her husband on the street or in the park rushed to others to speak of their observations and huddle together over tea or a glass of port to speculate on the exact meaning of their sighting.

It could not be said that the Viscount and Viscountess St. Ryne were oblivious to the speculation they raised or that they had not expected it; however, when they entered the drawing room to join the party forming there, they were amazed at the scope of the interest in their actions and the contrivances of society to be present.

They exchanged brief stunned glances before they pulled the blank masks they'd practiced so well on each other into place, and entered the swarming mass of curiosity.

They, however, were not the only ones stunned.

From that collective mass of bon ton there was a momentary sharp hiss of intake of breath, followed by an unnatural silence for a gathering of that size and scope.

The universal surprise was not at seeing their prey, but in seeing their prey.

The Viscountess St. Ryne was beautiful, and almost unrecognizable save for the richness of her antique gold eyes and lustrous dark brown hair.

Mme. Vaussard was truly either a witch or a fairy godmother, for the gown she conjured for her new client was gorgeous; it was designed to create the image of a living gold flame, a Phoenix risen from the ashes.

When sound returned to the room, it swelled, softly at first, then gathered momentum and volume until it crashed upon the St. Rynes, buffeting them like an ocean wave.

Steadily they entered the sea of humanity, standing all smiling, and nodding to their acquaintances as if nothing untoward had occurred.

St. Ryne spied Freddy leaning against the mantel, and gently guided Elizabeth in that direction, the sea inexorably parting in their path.

The humor of their situation percolated up through Elizabeth, her eyes bubbling with suppressed laughter, while her lips thinned over her teeth and curved upward as she strained to contain her mirth.

She did, however, retain her regal stature as she glided through the room on her husband’s arm.

With part of her mind, Elizabeth conjured up a vision of herself attending such a party before she met Justin.

Her eyes drifted to the right. She would most likely be standing there, by the windows and behind the chairs, her expression sullen, daunting, and a trifle sad, her gown a ridiculously frilled white muslin creation, and her hair dressed in a tight coronet of braid.

From there she would watch the dance of society, glaring at anyone who veered close to her, fearing they would speak and expect some answer in return.

But that corner was empty, the imagined ghost of her past fading even as she thought of it.

She turned her face toward her husband, a radiant love shining from her eyes.

He must love her, he had to, else how could she love him so much?

He was treating her so gently, too, like an exotic fragile flower.

She had to find a way to show him she was not made of glass but was a flesh and blood woman with—she admitted to herself—flesh and blood passions.

She would make him proud this day, and then claim her prize by her good intentions, for she bore a fierce desire to be the Viscountess St. Ryne in more than just name.

St. Ryne, feeling her luminous gaze upon him, cocked an eyebrow in teasing inquiry while he reached across to squeeze her hand resting on his other arm.

“Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, uncrossing his lanky legs and straightening up to offer St. Ryne a hand in greeting.

He gave Elizabeth a perfunctory bow, wary of her despite the rumors in society as to her new docility, then turned back to St. Ryne.

“What do you say to all this? Shocking squeeze, ain’t it?

Haven’t seen the like since Princess Charlotte’s wedding—but she being royalty and all, that’s expected. ”

St. Ryne gave a languid sweeping survey of the party before turning back to Freddy. “You are to be felicitated. It appears you have kept half of London in town rather than decamping for the country for the remainder of the season for those intolerable holiday house parties.”

“Talk about shocking squeezes,” Elizabeth murmured, slanting a glance in his direction through sweeping dark lashes.

“And sneezes,” St. Ryne responded adroitly, “spreading illness among one and all.”

She laughed softly, enjoying their easy bantering. “Don't forget ill will.”

He inclined his head toward the assemblage behind him. “How could I?”

They grinned like children exchanging a secret code, smugly content that their minds were in harmony.

“What are you two nattering about?” Freddy asked, looking from one to the other in confusion.

“Pardon, Freddy, a married folk habit,” St. Ryne explained.

“Well, leave done,” he said petulantly.

“What’s the matter, Freddy, feeling bereft? Where’s your lovely bride-to-be?”

“Off somewhere on her father’s arm. Say, what occurred at your town house yesterday? Monweithe’s been deuced silent since his return. Not morose, you know, just quiet."

Elizabeth blushed while St. Ryne laughed easily. “I guess you could say he learned the error of his ways.”

Freddy scratched the back of his neck above his high neck cloth. “Dash it, Justin. Seems like I only understand one word in ten you say these days.”

“I believe only a tenth of what anyone says is worth understanding,” Sir James Branstoke drawled softly, joining them.

“Well met, Branstoke,” St. Ryne said warmly.

“Yes, but I tell you straight out, I have come to pay my respects to the ravishing creature at your side.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in his and bestowed a kiss upon her fingertips. “My lady, you are a star to put stars to shame, and I welcome the sight in this firmament.”

Her eyes danced with mischief. “Delightfully said, sir, but I admit to confusion, for I do not know what tenth of your words are worth understanding.”

“Hoisted on my own petard. Very good. St. Ryne, your wife possesses wit, beauty, and assurance. Beware, my friend, she is a woman to be reckoned with.”

“I ain’t as dashed eloquent as Branstoke, but I guess I’ll be happy now to call you sister, even though I lost a bit of blunt.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Freddy!” St. Ryne exclaimed.

A pained expression briefly crossed Sir James Branstoke’s face before he hooked his arm in Freddy’s.

“Come, Shiperton, I have yet to pay my respects to your bride-to-be, and as a fallen suitor, it is only proper, wouldn’t you agree?

Be a good fellow and conduct me to her side.

” Bowing and murmuring polite apologies, Branstoke led Freddy away.

“Justin, what did Freddy mean?”

“Some of the young bucks placed small bets as to our marriage ever taking place,” St. Ryne said off-handedly. “I guess I did not inspire Freddy with confidence.”

Mollified, Elizabeth let the subject drop, though part of her still worried over the idea, for Tunning had said much the same thing.

If Tunning knew of the bet or bets, could they be small and inconsequential?

And what of St. Ryne’s participation? She shivered slightly.

How crass and demeaning to be the object of wager.

St. Ryne noticed his wife’s distracted manner.

In light of the promise of intimacy between them, it would have been churlish to fail to remark her disquiet.

A stab of remorse for the wild machinations of his wooing cut through him.

A play was merely that, a distortion of reality for entertainment and edification.

He had treated The Taming of the Shrew like a lady’s household management journal containing a new recipe, when he should have known characters in a play were puppets for the playwright.

Elizabeth was no puppet, she was a living, breathing, vibrant woman.

He was thankful he had the opportunity to repair the damage he caused with his conceit.

He looked about the drawing room. It appeared all eyes were surreptitiously still upon them, and some guests were deciding to beard the lioness.

He observed Lady Jersey quitting her circle of cohorts to make her way to their side.

He did not think he was ready for Silence and her piercing questions.

Adroitly he guided Elizabeth toward the door where her father stood.