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A puzzled expression captured his fair features. “Well, I don’t quite know what you’d call it except maybe in the manner of taming a shrew—sorry, you know, but you did ask. Say, you won’t take any offense, perhaps I shouldn’t have said?—”

“No, no, Freddy, you did perfectly right. Oh, the dance has ended, and I do believe I see Helene looking for you.”

“Really? Where? So sorry to rush off, really must go, she hates it if I wander too far, you know,” he said, laughing again.

Elizabeth was glad to be quit of him, for now her mind churned with the implications of what Freddy had so glibly let fell from his lips.

So, the bets she feared were real, and in the manner of taming a shrew.

She shuddered. She knew she was referred to as the Shrew of London.

But taming sounded so much like breaking a horse to bridle or?—

Another instance in which that particular phrase was used came to mind, and she froze.

No, it couldn’t be, she silently wailed.

It was all there, however, clear for any to see.

Had anyone? What a fool she had been! Her entire courtship, marriage, and now this blasted ball—nearly straight from Shakespeare’s famous play, and she an unwitting player since he had come to ask for her hand and had turned everything she said to compliments.

The wedding should have truly tipped his hand, what with his late arrival, slovenly dress, and refusal to stay for the wedding breakfast. She wondered how hard he had worked to find a suitable property, to say nothing of his behavior at the dressmakers when he’d vetoed the purchase of a cap such as married women wore.

Her eyes misted, and she fought the threat of tears with an angry shake of her head.

What she saw as love in him was no doubt satisfaction at his accomplishment—a calm, dutiful, and worshiping wife.

Faugh! He had much to learn. Her heart was breaking; however, she was well used to disappointments in life, and would weather this as well.

She looked up to see him approaching her, carrying two glasses of punch.

Her lips twisted cynically; so he’d thought to tame a shrew, she mused, a hard metal glitter in her yellow eyes.

She rose and swished the gold material of her skirt back, a tight smile turning up one corner of her mouth in the enigmatic manner of Mona Lisa.

Two bright spots of color flared on her cheeks, and she raised her chin bravely.

“Here, my love,” he said handing her a punch glass, his attention on watching Freddy circle the room with Helene on his arm.

He slowly turned his head back to her. “That was good of Freddy to keep you company while I—” he broke off, too late noting her expression to anticipate her actions.

This time the punch hit him full in the face.

“Perhaps if I had been successful last time, I would have been spared this marital farce!” she exclaimed shrilly, watching with satisfaction as the punch dripped down his suddenly implacable features to stain his neck cloth and waistcoat.

“You have had your fun, Justin. Now you’ll rue the day you studied to be a shrew tamer and took a character in a play for your model.

” She tossed her head grimly to fight the tears that threatened to overflow.

Through the blur she saw him reach for her and murmur her name.

She evaded his touch, her control held in place only by a silken thread.

She whirled away from him to run from the ballroom, pushing aside those who did not move readily from her path. Dancers faltered in mid-step, and the orchestra screeched wrong notes then fell silent. A shocked hush filled the ballroom.

“Elizabeth, no!” shouted St. Ryne, then his head swung around to pin Freddy where he stood, his face black as thunder. Slowly he took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face, then he stalked over to Freddy.

“What did you say to her?” he gritted.

“Easy, St. Ryne,” Sir James Branstoke murmured, coming up to lay a hand on his arm.

He shook the hand off, continuing to glare at Freddy. “Damn it, man, what did you say?”

Freddy gaped at him a moment before words could tumble out of his mouth. “Nothing! I—I mean we were just discussing bets.”

“What?!”

“Sh-she acted like she knew, commiserated with me on my losses and just asked what type bets they were.”

“And?”

“I—I said they were bets on taming the Shrew of London.”

St. Ryne clenched his fists to his side and closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

“I warned you, St. Ryne,” reminded Branstoke. “What are you going to do?”

St. Ryne turned empty eyes on him. “Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness,” he said simply.

His face was bleak as he crossed the ballroom.

The guests, catching sight of his face, slid out of his way without a word.

At the doorway Lord Monweithe stopped him.

St. Ryne looked into the tortured expression of the other man and laid a hand upon his shoulder for some small measure of reassurance.

“I know,” he murmured, “I love her, too.”

In the hall Jovis confirmed his fears. She had demanded her cloak and had fled without waiting for her carriage to be called.

Grimly he set off after her, praying the cold weather kept those who would prey on the unwary off the streets.

He remained alert, his eyes darting down alleys and streets, his ears sensitive to sounds of struggle, though his mind continually recited a litany of self-condemnation.

It was with relief he saw his townhouse.

The door opened before he could mount the steps, and a white-faced Predmore stood in the lighted opening.

“Oh, my lord, I’m so relieved to see you.

Her ladyship, she’s in a dreadful temper,” he said, hurriedly closing the door after he entered.

“She near cuffed poor Willy here senseless when he reached to take her cloak.” He waved his hand toward the unfortunate footman who stood in the hall nursing a sore jaw.

“Then she tore up the stairs shouting for her maid. They’re up there now, sir, and I don’t like to think how that little maid is faring for we’ve heard two crashes. ”

“Fear not, she won’t hurt the maid. Her anger is well directed,” he said wryly.

“I will talk to her.” He slowly mounted the stairs, his steps measured and apprehensive.

From her room he heard sharp murmurings, rending of fabric, thumps, and small crashes.

He winced, then tentatively raised his hand to knock on the door.

“Go away, I do not want anything,” came her voice sternly through the closed door.

“Bess, I have to talk to you.” He inclined his head toward the door listening for her response.

“You! What happened, did I cause you to lose a bet, or are you upset I failed to know my lines?”

“Listen to me. It’s true, at first I was enacting Petruchio’s role and thought to treat you like Katharine. I studied the play carefully and even went so far as to make notes.”

“You have done a masterful work. I’m sure someone will commend you for it,” she ground out.

“My family had been importuning me for the past year to marry and fulfill my obligations, yet all they would recommend for wives were meek little paragons while I desired a woman of personality. If I wanted a meek wife to mouth words of duty to her husband and would call him lord and master, I would have married one of the women my family put forth.”

“There would be no sport in that and no monetary gain, save for a dowry,” she snapped back.

He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I would have done it without the bets. Please let me in so I can explain and won’t have to stand here baring my soul to the entire household.”

“It will do you good, perhaps even give you a mite of character—if you’re lucky.”

“Bess!”

“No!” Her voice turned low and harsh. “I have played the fool and thought to grab a chance at love. Love, ha! A cat’s satisfaction at catching its prey. This prey is prey no longer, and I’ll see you the fool ’ere I play jester for your cronies’ entertainment again.”

“Bess, I love you too. That’s the damnable thing about this entire mess. I love you to distraction and was hoping to show you this night the proof of my affections.”

“That you have done full well, thank you. I don’t need your kind of affection.”

“Bess, please!”

Inside the bedroom Elizabeth cringed at his call.

He was such a good actor. He should have trod the boards.

She had waited so long to hear him say he loved her that even now, even with the knowledge of his deceit, his manipulation, and falseness of his feelings, she was still moved by his words.

The silken thread of her control snapped, allowing the tears she’d bottled inside her to flow.

With a strangled sob she threw herself on her bed to muffle the sound as copious tears fell.

St. Ryne strained to hear her answer, wondering if that was a sob he heard. He banged on the door impatiently and shook the lock, yet the door remained closed to him. In disgust, he flung himself away and stumbled back down the stairs to his library and a brandy bottle.

Ivy, Elizabeth’s little country maid, clucked her tongue and shook her head at the carryings on of gentry. She crossed to the bed to sit beside her mistress and stroke her head in comfort, for when all was said and done, whatever be a person’s class, true suffering was the same.