Honor's Players by Holly Newman Page B

wide-eyed surprise and delight. His bride’s words suggested an agitation of spirit and perhaps chagrin as well. He was not ill-pleased. It would appear Petruchio’s formula drew merit.
    In a flurry of embarrassment, Elizabeth opened the dining room doors and hurried down the hall to the library where she had assigned Mrs. Atheridge to work. St. Ryne followed at her heels.
    “Mrs. Atheridge!” she called out in a cracking, flustered voice. “Mrs. Atheridge, have the villagers all left?”
    “Yes, my lady,” she grudgingly acknowledged.
    “Will they return tomorrow?”
    “Yes, though you should have relayed that request through me, not through that snip of a lad!”
    “Mrs. Atheridge,” Elizabeth began quellingly.
    St. Ryne laid a hand upon her arm. “She was in conference with me and it was expeditiously done. As we lack proper retainers, form, my dear Mrs. Atheridge, bears no form.”
    Mrs. Atheridge sniffed and sketched a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lord.”
    Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed upon her. She was incensed at St. Ryne’s drawing her fire. Mrs. Atheridge was well due for a dressing down. Her eye ran over the housekeeper’s figure; her dress hung limply about her stocky frame, the silk petticoats dispensed. A measure of self-satisfaction filled Elizabeth and she found herself speaking with a quiet tongue. “Bring tea to the library, please. Afterward you may begin the dinner preparations.”
    Elizabeth continued into the library, without sparing the housekeeper a glance to see if her orders were obeyed. For all her obstructionist tactics of the day, Elizabeth felt sure she would not dare a blatant disregard for a command, particularly with St. Ryne present. She could not say, however, that she envisioned an appetizing dinner. Replacing Mrs. Atheridge in the kitchen would be one of her first concerns.
    She moved gracefully into the room to stand by the fireplace and critically scan the room. It would do. All traces of grime had been removed from the wainscoting and furniture and some pieces had already received a fresh coating of wax or oil. Half of the books were cleaned and replaced in their shelves, the rest stood in stacks upon the floor. There remained a musty smell about the room, but with time and care she felt it could be banished. She studied the chairs and drapes, contemplating replacement fabric. She entirely forgot St. Ryne’s presence until the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor roused her from her reverie.
    St. Ryne placed one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, gesturing that she should sit. He then drew up the other for himself. A nervous flutter traveled through Elizabeth.
    “Am I amiss in setting to rights my settlement?” She spoke coolly, refusing to acknowledge the flutters in her body or to consider their source.
    “No-no. Not at all. But, Bess, must you look so-so—”
    “Common? Bourgeois?” she asked archly, indicating her attire.
    “Common?” St. Ryne laughed. “You, my dear, could never be common. In that attire, though, you appear entirely too menial for a Viscountess.”
    “They say pride doth come before a fall. May I be so bold as to remind you that, aside from the coating of dirt and this apron, my appearance is precisely how you framed me when you ordered my, what would you call it? My trousseau?”
    St. Ryne had the grace to blush. He clenched his teeth tightly until the muscle in his jaw jumped. There were no quotes or phrases from Shakespeare to cover this encounter. It occurred to St. Ryne that the bard left out a good bit of interchange between Petruchio and his Katharine for brevity’s sake. His bride was sharp-tongued and sharp-witted; this, coupled with her dark beauty, caused his pulse to quicken considerably. There were no rules or guidelines, no lines save of his own invention. So be it. It was no great matter to postulate Petruchio’s reaction under like circumstances and act accordingly.
    He pulled his wife to her feet, drew her into