Honor's Players (7 page)

By this reck’ning he is more shrew than she.

—Act III, Scene 3

Gray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach. For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter. Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, taking a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them.

Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails. They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb. At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back. She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair by a blazing fire. It was thus that their approach to Larchside went unnoticed, until the tired horse responded to his master’s pull on the reins before the steps of a feebly lit manor house.

Dazedly, Elizabeth raised her head to look about her, scarcely noting when St. Ryne encircled her slim waist to lift her down. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance and briefly closed her eyes in relief, grateful they had reached their destination.

St. Ryne felt a surge of compassion for his beleaguered bride. She looked so frail and exhausted. He glanced up at the rundown manor and a twinge of conscience swept over him for bringing her to Larchside. Gently he set her down before him.

“Ah-h!” Cold water shocked Elizabeth to her senses. She glanced down at the icy puddle in which St. Ryne had set her. “Fool!” she gasped. Her skirts, like a candlewick to oil, were quickly drenched with water, her thin shoes soaked. Shivering, she carefully picked a path to the steps.

St. Ryne closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth in vexation. Why was it that whenever she was complacent and he felt remorse for his actions, some incident would occur to rekindle her temper?

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught pneumonia from this jaunt of yours,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are we? What is this place?” She looked up at the unpretentious building.

“Larchside,” St. Ryne said as he splashed toward her.

“Larchside?”

“Yes. Your settlement.” He stooped to pick her up.

“Justin! What are you doing? Put me down!”

“Never, for we progress,” St. Ryne replied, carrying her up the steps. “That is the second time you have called me by name. Henceforth I shall live for the day it comes trippingly off your tongue,” he said.

The front door of Larchside creaked open, and any scathing comments Elizabeth would have returned died. She tightly compressed her lips and turned her head away from St. Ryne’s mocking countenance.

“Thank you, Atheridge,” St. Ryne said as he carried Elizabeth into the hall, setting her down gently. “This is my wife,” he said with a curious smile on his face. “The Viscountess St. Ryne.” He removed the sodden cloak from around her shoulders, handing it to Atheridge.

“My lady,” Atheridge returned dutifully, bowing before her.

Stunned, Elizabeth scarcely paid heed, her mind reeling from the scene before her. There was dirt and dust everywhere. She took a hesitant step into the hall, running a shaking finger over a side table, its surface sticky with grime. She wrinkled her nose at the close, musty smell of the house and the acrid odor of the cheap candles sputtering in their sockets and leaving soot streaks on the wall. At her feet, the colors of what was once a magnificent Aubusson carpet were indistinguishable. A look of horror and disgust captured her features.

St. Ryne noted her reaction with satisfaction. He relaxed, leaning back on his heels. He glanced at the waiting butler. “Is there a fire laid in the library? Good,” he said as Atheridge nodded. “We shall repair to that room for the moment. Be so good as to have Mrs. Atheridge step up here please.”

“Yes, my lord,” Atheridge replied, his thin nose fairly twitching as he backed quickly away. Hurrying toward the kitchen, he scratched his head at the strange homecoming of the Viscount, wondering if Tunning could make any sense of it.

“All right, you have had your joke,” Elizabeth said rounding on him as he closed the library door behind him. “What is it you expect me to do? Faint? Cry? What is your pleasure, my lord?” The title dripped acid. She spun away from him to flick back Holland covers from chairs, coughing at the billows of dust she raised.

St. Ryne watched her in silence, and then a slow smile crossed his face. “But, Bess, this is your home. Did you not see the marriage settlement? A property called Larchside was deeded to you. This is it.”

“This?” Elizabeth gasped out, her eyes streaming from the dust.

St. Ryne nodded, a crooked smile twisting his features to sardonic amusement.

“How dare you! You make a mockery of-of—”

“Tradition?” St. Ryne offered softly as he walked toward her.

Elizabeth took an involuntary step backward, suddenly nervous before the stranger who was her husband. Determined not to show it, her temper flared hotter. “Yes, tradition, if you will. My father, in a mistaken idea of what was in my best interests, negotiated this miserable alliance with you and you have, at every turn, made it a mockery. You, sir, are an insult to your rank!”

“And are you any better?” St. Ryne asked with a laugh. “Like to like, my dear,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to come closer to him and look up at him.

Elizabeth’s eyes blazed at hearing her father’s words echoed. She knocked his hand away. “Swine!” she hissed then turned to continue removing dust covers. Behind her St. Ryne laughed aloud and she cringed at hearing it, knowing she had not the power to put him in his place. He seemed to have an impenetrable hide.

At a knock on the door, St. Ryne turned away from watching his infuriated beauty. “Enter.”

Mrs. Atheridge dourly opened the door. “You sent for me, my lord?” she asked, hesitating briefly before acknowledging his rank in an insolent manner which, though lost on the Viscount, was not on the Viscountess. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open wide then narrowed to study the dark, squat figure before them. Mrs. Atheridge’s gray streaked hair, raked painfully back from her face, emphasized her slab shaped features and beady eyes. The dress she wore was black and of a severe cut, but Elizabeth could hear the rustle of silk petticoats and knew expensive material when she saw it. Despite the stark black color and lack of ostentation in her dress, this squat black beetle seemed oddly at variance with her surroundings.

She schooled her features to an aloofness she was far from feeling in order to study better this second member of her husband’s bizarre staff.

“Ah! Mrs. Atheridge,” hailed St. Ryne at her appearance. “My bride and I,” he said, winking at Elizabeth, “would like our dinner in one hour. We have had a long trip and unavoidably had to miss our breakfast. As you may imagine, we are quite famished.”

“One hour, my lord,” she said, bobbing diffidently. “Though I ain’t serving much ’cause there ain’t much here.”

“Sustenance is all we require. Immediately, however, conduct my lady-wife,” he said, emphasizing wife slightly as he gestured in Elizabeth’s direction, “to her room.” Turning to Elizabeth who stood stiffly behind a chair she had uncovered, he smirked. “Bess, my love, I know you must wish to change out of those wet garments.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her figure, visually undressing her. “There are some dry things in the cupboard upstairs. I believe I have your size right. Regardless, they should do until your baggage arrives in two or three days.”

Elizabeth had blushed when he turned to her, but at the last her eyes flew open again and her face drained of color. How dare he? How dare he treat her like a common trollop! Elizabeth started to open her mouth to issue a scathing remark when Mrs. Atheridge, standing in the doorway sourly watching them, broke in: “Well, come then, I ain’t got all day.” She turned to leave the room.

Elizabeth was torn in her course of action. She didn’t like the housekeeper and didn’t care for her insolent tongue, but she also was loath to stay with the Viscount. After biting her lower lip in frustration, she tossed her head and with a swish of skirts followed Mrs. Atheridge out of the room and up the stairs, forcing herself to block out the sound of the Viscount’s laughter.

The bedroom Mrs. Atheridge conducted her to was cold, yet appeared cleaner than other parts of the house. Still, the room bore a musty smell and the furniture a film of grime. That it was the master bedroom there could be no doubt by the look of the large canopied bed set on a raised dais. The head of the bed was on the same wall as the entrance door. The far wall was all curved windows with two doors leading out onto a narrow terrace. Looking out into the gloom beyond the terrace, she noted the tangled mess of the park below. Both side walls had doors leading, Elizabeth supposed, to dressing rooms for herself and St. Ryne. The room was hung with blue drapes and lighter blue wallpaper, scorched and discolored here and there. It had probably at one time been an attractive room.

She prowled the room restlessly as Mrs. Atheridge struggled to light a fire. She breathed a sigh of relief when she noted the chimney drawing cleanly. Mrs. Atheridge placed a pot of hot water on a hook in the fireplace and bowed her way out.

The warmth of the fire drew Elizabeth to it. She basked in its comforting glow a moment until with a start she realized she needed to change. After the morning episode, she did not dare speculate as to what the insane man below would do if she failed to change this time. Rip her dress from her body? Elizabeth blushed at the thought though there was an odd warmth surging through her that had nothing to do with the heat from the flames.

The first door she tried led to what was obviously St. Ryne’s dressing room. Elizabeth was surprised to see a narrow bed in the room but supposed it to have been used by those tending the house’s previous owner. She shut the door quickly, half afraid St. Ryne would enter and find her standing in the doorway. The second door gave on to her dressing room, or so she surmised on seeing her portmanteau standing by a large wardrobe. With a grimace she approached the cupboard, wondering what flights of fancy the clothing he chose would be. She imagined the low-cut gaudy gowns she had seen on courtesans at the theater and in the parks. Flinging open the doors, she braced herself for the peacock array.

Her jaw dropped in astonishment at the clothing that met her eyes. The peacock looked more like a pigeon. Dresses there were in the wardrobe—new ones too—but where Elizabeth had envisioned flashy reds with daring necklines hung gray, mauve, and dun-colored dresses. New, yes, but simple in design, almost austere. Dresses suited to a paid companion or governess. Elizabeth shook her head in bewilderment. Examining each carefully, she owned they did look her size, but not one of them could be described as anything other than plain and serviceable.

She pulled out a wool mauve gown. It was trimmed at collar and cuffs with a narrow banding of lace. It appeared to be the most decorative of the dresses. A smile curled her lips as she contemplated it while her trembling fingers worked to loosen the gown she wore. Donning the mauve dress, she walked over to the long looking glass in the corner of the room. Smiling still she pulled her hair severely away from her face and observed the look. Pleased, she whirled back to her portmanteau, tossing about the room the few items she had managed to stuff in on short notice. Deep inside she found a packet of hair pins. Working swiftly before the mirror, she pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head, When she was done she held her hands primly before her to study the effect. She saw a thin creature with bony features but large, luminescent eyes. The eyes bothered her, for they were her best feature and she did not want anything about her to look good. She shrugged slightly, watching the effect in the mirror. There was really nothing she could do about her eyes. Satisfied with her demure appearance, she descended the stairs to the library below.

St. Ryne was seated in a wing chair by the fire, a glass of wine dangling from his long fingers as he stared broodingly into the flames. He had not bothered to change and no further improvements had been made to the room. He glanced up only briefly, a twisted smile curling his lips, then turned back to his contemplation of the blaze before him.

“Come in, my lady wife,” he said softly as he stared into the flickering flames.

Elizabeth had sworn to herself she would be cool and remote, but his lack of courtesy in failing to rise when she entered and his sneering smile raised her ire, color flooding her cheeks. Eyes flashing, she came to stand before St. Ryne, her arms akimbo, hands on her hips.

St. Ryne looked up at her, raising his glass in mock salute. “Be merry, Bess!”

Despite herself, Elizabeth’s lips twitched, but she said angrily, “Are you already drowning your sorrows for the bad match you have entered into? Come come, my lord, it was at your insistence, not mine.”