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“There you are, Elizabeth!” To the surprise of the assemblage, the Earl of Rasthough leaned toward his daughter to bestow a chaste kiss upon her cheek.

His bluff heartiness alone was sufficient to raise eyebrows, the public kiss—not often condoned in the best of instances—moved them again to momentary silence.

The Earl, grinning complacently, remained oblivious to the company’s reaction.

He tucked her arm in his and drew her close. “As Romella has gone and gotten herself leg-shackled today, I’d like you to be my hostess.”

A delicate pink of pleasure flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks “I’d be honored.”

“Sorry, St. Ryne,” Monweithe said, pointing a finger at St. Ryne’s stomach, “you’re to be sacrificed to the dowagers.”

“Such is the fate of the married man,” groaned St. Ryne theatrically. In truth, he did not care where he sat, for this was his wife’s night to shine. He was moved by his father-in-law’s gesture to make her his hostess. It was certain to go far in establishing her credit with society.

Elizabeth was about to twit her husband on his marital fate when the butler announced dinner. The words died on her lips, though a mischievous twinkle lurked in her eyes as she allowed her father to conduct her to the dining room.

Dinner was a lively affair as far as formal dinners went.

Discourse was loud and freewheeling as the company came to accept Elizabeth.

Protocol notwithstanding, she found herself answering questions put to her by people other than those seated to the right and left of her.

Even those known to be the highest sticklers were seen conversing volubly with others two or three removed from them.

When the last of the plates was removed, Elizabeth gracefully rose from her chair to lead the ladies back to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port. To her surprise, her aunt walked with her.

“Lovely gown, my dear. You have carried yourself well this evening.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Aunt Romella.”

“I always said you merely suffered from a deplorable want of management. It appears the Viscount is to be commended,” her aunt went on austerely.

“So kind,” Elizabeth murmured though her brows rose at Lady Romella’s effrontery.

“Nonsense. He has done a fine job with you. I trust I shall be equally successful with Carlton.”

“I wish you joy.” The words were nearly strangled in her throat. “Please excuse me now, Aunt. In my duty as hostess I must see to the other guests.”

It amazed Elizabeth to consider how she could have ever been hurt by Lady Romella Wisgart, or the Honorable Mrs. Tretherford, as she must now consider her.

The woman was no more than a comedy, and as such deserved her pity in her enmity.

Elizabeth wished her well in her marriage and gave her credit for realizing she should contrive to ensnare a husband.

With both Helene and herself married, her father would have no use for her, and she would most likely be given a small cottage somewhere with a small but adequate pension to add to her widow’s jointure, and would thus be thrust out of society.

Nodding and smiling politely to those she passed, Elizabeth made her way to a sofa where a small group was aiding two old harridans in the disposal of their voluminous shawls and the positioning of fire screens.

To her amusement she soon learned that the old considered themselves above the conventions of society.

There was nothing mealy-mouthed about her two elderly guests, for they lighted on her like hawks to their prey, asking questions and making observations that put those around them to blush.

As little time as three weeks ago, she would have flared white hot and retorted with some remark in kind.

That evening she took their words with forbearance, for truthfully her mind was not on the guests or the party, but on the unspoken promise she had seen in St. Ryne’s eyes.

She listened to the women with only half an ear to catch the verbal clues that warned her some remark or answer was expected, but blithely took no insult from their callous words.

All her life Elizabeth had felt apart from society, never sure of her existence within its framework.

Now she felt beyond society, capable of laughing fondly at its foibles and loving it, warts and all.

That her new attitude stemmed from her love for her husband and her confidence in his love for her was inconsequential.

She felt right with the world and glowed with an inner contentment.

The gentlemen remaining behind in the dining room were also wont to spare no bones with their comments. No sooner had the last skirt swished from sight and the doors closed following the ladies’ exit, than they felt free to loosen their tongues.

It was a circumstance St. Ryne grudgingly accepted in his mind, but was uncertain as to his course. Casually he signaled for his glass to be refilled and leaned back in his chair.

“Amazing,” drawled one sprig of fashion, absently dropping the quizzing glass he held up to observe the ladies’ departure. Several gentlemen echoed his sentiments, emboldening him to preen and continue. “St. Ryne, I admit to myself, I am nonplussed. Miracles do occur.”

“Ha! With that one, I vow it took more than a miracle, unless miracles are engendered with the judicious use of a riding crop to a fair backside,” sneered another from the other end of the table.

“Now hold there!” blustered Monweithe, rising slightly out of his seat.

He was forestalled by St. Ryne. “It is you who need the riding crop for you have the manners and mind of a cur.” He pinned the offender with a malevolent eye.

“No, do not think to call me out while I am in my father’s house.

In truth, you are the knave who gives insult,” he said softly.

His gaze swept the party. “Be it known, gentlemen, I do not countenance slurs cast upon my wife.”

Carlton Tretherford sniffed and scratched the side of his nose. “Perhaps it is not she who has been tamed. More likely her calmness stems from satisfaction at training you to run tame like a cursed lap dog.” He picked up a nut to crack.

“And I must perforce call you Uncle,” murmured St. Ryne, watching him contrive a child’s trick of cracking the nut between his fingers. “Gentlemen, can none of you accept the concept of wedded bliss?” he asked expansively, waving his wineglass before him.

“Confound it, Justin,” complained Freddy, “you’re doing it too brown. We ain’t gudgeons, and we all know Lady Elizabeth.”

St. Ryne took a sip of wine then shook his head in mock sadness. “Freddy, I find your lack of confidence appalling.

Sir James Branstoke leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on its arms as his hands contemplatively formed a steeple. “Do not be hasty. I believe there is unexposed truth to Freddy’s words,” he mused.

Tretherford harrumphed and bent forward, strands of lank gray hair falling onto his face. “Talking don’t pay toll. I propose a test. The Viscount here is cocksure the demon’s been driven out of the woman?—”

“Tretherford, I warn you!” thundered Monweithe, only to be overborne by the roaring enthusiasm of the others at the table and the multiple exhortations for Tretherford to continue. St. Ryne crossed his arms over his chest and a dark scowl descended over his features, though he nodded continuance.

Tretherford sneered at Monweithe, then turned back to encompass the gentlemen at the table. The footman and butler standing by the door strained to hear.

“I propose a test of the Viscountess’s new docility. A simple test. Have him bid her come here. For surely if she is a dutiful wife and properly tamed, she’ll come.” He looked about the company, a smirching smile on his lips as gentleman after gentleman voiced approval.

“All right, we are agreed. And to make it sporting, I wager one hundred pounds she will not come when sent for.”

A clamor of agreement rose from the others at the table despite St. Ryne’s scowl.

Freddy jumped up onto his chair, holding his glass high. “And I’ll bet the same that my sweet Helene comes. What do you say, Tretherford, willing to put your money where your mouth is, too?”

Tretherford surged to his feet, shaking his fist at Freddy. “I’ll have you know, you arrogant jackanapes, a lady such as my Romella always knows her place and just what’s expected of her, too. To be sure I make the same bet.” “Well, what do you say, Justin?” Freddy asked, teetering on the chair.

“A hundred pounds?” St. Ryne queried in low-voiced disgust. “Is that all you gentlemen are willing to wager on your wives? I make such bets on my dogs or horses, but on my wife? Nay, gentlemen, I’ll wager you one thousand pounds she comes!

” Looking triumphantly into their stunned faces he raised his wineglass and drained it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll cover you, lad,” Lord Monweithe assured St. Ryne.

“I’ll stand in no need of assistance, sir.”

Freddy called for pen and paper to record the bets and the other side bets made by the company. Branstoke came to St. Ryne’s side, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “Your play is over. In God’s name, man, have done!”

At first St. Ryne failed to comprehend Branstoke’s words, then as their meaning filtered through, a dark red suffused his face. “I had not thought?—”

“This was not planned?”

“No, I’ve vouchsafed the play anytime this past week.”

“Does she know of the play?”

“To my knowledge, she has not fallen to it yet, though she is a bright woman and one who could.”

Branstoke squeezed his shoulder. “I pray she stays in ignorance a while longer.”

“You think it would matter?”

Branstoke eyed him pityingly. “I know it would.”

“Ready, Justin,” Freddy called out gaily as he sanded the document he’d contrived.

“After you, gentlemen,” he said suavely.