Honor's Players (5 page)

“You!”

Justin’s smile broadened. Closing the door, he leaned against it.

“What, my Elizabeth speechless again? For shame. Well, I’ll promise not to tell, we can’t spoil your reputation now.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly while her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. He came!

“What? Here? Standing— You haven’t asked me to sit yet,” he said easily as he avidly drank in her appearance. She was more beautiful than he remembered.

“Don’t play games,” she ground out. “Why did you come to see me?”

“Now we are getting conceited, aren’t we? And just after one dance.” He watched her bite her lip in exasperation and laughed. “Actually, I came to visit your father.”

“My father?” Her voice shook.

“Certainly. It still is considered necessary for a suitor to ask the parents of a young lady if he may solicit her hand in marriage, isn’t it? At least, it was when I left for Jamaica. Personally,” he went on reflectively, “I’ve always thought the principals should decide such things among themselves first; however, I am in the minority so I bow to convention.”

She sneered at him. “So, another of little Helene’s conquests.” A steel band tightened around her heart.

He cocked his head to one side as he regarded her. “That is exactly what your father thought. Perhaps I overreacted. No, you silly widgeon, it is your hand I asked for.”

The color drained from Lady Elizabeth’s face and she slowly raised her hand to her throat. Her stomach somersaulted. Swallowing convulsively, she stared up at him. The silence in the room was suffocating.

Lady Elizabeth took a ragged deep breath. “How dare you. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive. Get out!” she rasped, rising unsteadily from her seat and pointing toward the door. She could not take his teasing her. She knew of her reputation as a shrew. No gentlemen approached her. It was cruel of him to play with her in this manner.

In two strides St. Ryne was before her with her hand held securely between his.

“Thank you, my love. Since I know I am not the last man alive, nothing may stand in my way.”

Elizabeth sputtered, “S-s-swine! Trading on your birth as a nobleman.” She tried to wrest her hand away by pushing on him with her other. “A common cit is a better man! Let me go or I’ll scream!”

“Please do, my love. Though I must admit it is an unconventional method of saying, ‘Yes, I will marry you.’ I would never want my Bess to be conventional. Of course, if you really want to be in a more colorful compromising position, I’m sure we can arrange that, too.”

Elizabeth glared at him then slapped him with her free hand. St. Ryne froze for a moment then slapped her back. Lady Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with the audacity of her action and his unexpected reaction. She raised a shaking hand to her cheek.

“Get out! I don’t know how you weaseled your way up here and I don’t care, just leave!” she rasped, her voice rising, catching painfully in her throat. “I-I won’t marry you. Is that plain enough?”

“My lady, you will marry me because you really don’t like being the laughing stock of society. You are a beautiful, gentle, sensitive young woman and you have lived a lie in order to protect yourself,” he soothed, dropping her hands. “Only now the chickens have come home to roost and it no longer protects you. As each day passes, you are becoming more and more frightened. ”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. It was on her lips to deny him, but the truth shone out from her face and she felt naked and exposed. She turned from him to stand in front of the window, grasping the frame with a white-knuckled hand. Sunlight glowed around her like a halo.

St. Ryne walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. It was within him to feel compassion for this woman, but she still needed her strength and anger to see her through the next week. He did not want her broken, just the wildness contained yet always burning within her.

“Don’t worry, my Bess. Though you are a hell-born brat, I don’t hold that against you. I shall look forward to the fires you’ll ignite in our bed. Now don’t be petulant just because you’ve finally met someone stronger than you. I know you are already aching for my caresses, but we can’t have too much of a good thing too soon. That is a way to get sick.”

Elizabeth whirled around to glare at him and move away from his disturbing nearness only to find she had backed herself into a corner. She tried to push him aside, but his arms were like iron and resisted her.

“You already make me sick.”

“Ah—see? We progress.”

“Get out of my way.”

“I am not in your way, I am your way,” he said softly, leaning toward her.

Just then Lord Monweithe slowly opened the door, his curiosity getting the best of him since he had not heard much yelling. St. Ryne turned his head toward the door with an easy smile on his lips, still keeping Elizabeth pinned in her corner. He took one of her arms and lightly twisted it behind her back.

“We shall be wed next week at St. George’s in Hanover Square by special license. I leave it to you to make all the arrangements. By the by, I find the stories of your daughter’s temper all a hum. We shall do very well together, won’t we, my sweet?” he said, glancing down at her to be met by a look of pure venom in return. “Oh, I know you must continue to rant and rail against me for appearances’ sake, and dig in your heels against the wedding because you are such a playful puss.” He looked back to the Earl. “But she knows, sir, that will ye, nil ye, I’ll have her. But come, we have much to discuss downstairs and all of us have much to do before next week.”

St. Ryne let go of the Lady Elizabeth’s arm, backing away quickly before he could be slapped again. Elizabeth merely rubbed her abused arm, her mind in a turmoil, her tongue cloying to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes blazed at him but she knew she had no way of dinting his armor. As he went to close the parlor door, some of her normal energies returned. Glancing around quickly, her eyes lighted on a vase on the table next to her. She picked it up, throwing it at his head. The vase sailed past him, crashing into the door. She trembled at her own audacity when St. Ryne turned to look back, and then down at the vase on the floor.

He grinned. “Practice, my dear, practice,” he suggested, and closed the door.

... this is the ’pointed day ...

—Act III, Scene 2

“Elizabeth!” Lord Monweithe’s voice bellowed up the stairs. “Elizabeth! Confound it, girl, hurry up! We’ll be late!”

Elizabeth returned no comment but continued to move very slowly. It was agony to move so slowly. Her tense muscles screamed at the discipline; however, she persevered. She wanted to be late to the wedding, to force that arrogant Viscount to cool his heels while he waited upon her!

The previous week had been a nightmare. All society seemed to come to Rasthough House to offer felicitations, ogle, raise eyebrows, and whisper behind open fans and sheltering hands. Elizabeth had refused to come down when she could and sat stoically quiet through those visits she could not avoid. Only once had she openly responded to the many arch questions and innuendos cast in her direction and that had been to smile triumphantly at one particularly vicious matron with two marriageable daughters and remark graciously: “While I feel it is beneath one to bandy words and frowns,” a feeling she certainly did not feel but rather did with a certain amount of relish, “I feel compelled to remind you that I, at least, have ended this season betrothed.”

Affronted, the matron promptly quitted Rasthough House with a harrumph and dark mutterings of future comeuppance. So relieved were all with her departure, that even Lady Romella did not frown for long at Elizabeth.

Save for her small victory, she felt she was riding in a poorly sprung runaway carriage. When the household was not besieged with visitors, Lady Romella and Helene towed her from one dressmaker and milliner to another, shopping for her trousseau. Her father had been adamant that she should have a large and rich trousseau. Whether that gesture was out of guilt or sincerity, Elizabeth did not venture to guess. During these enforced shopping excursions she followed apathetically along, merely grimacing as more and more frivolous pastel colors were purchased. For Lady Romella and Helene, surprised by Elizabeth’s perceived docility, were soon emboldened to choose anything they themselves admired without querying her at all.

On solely two occasions did Elizabeth voice her opinion—once again quite in her old spirit—and that was in the choice of nightgowns and her wedding dress. She refused filmy muslin nightgowns in favor of a more sturdy lawn material and insisted on an ivory-colored wedding gown over a stark white which she knew, while highly flattering to Helene, would cause her to appear insipid.

She stared now at the wedding gown reflected in the mirror, unconsciously stroking the fine material. It was of ivory gauze with silk appliqué petals and leaves sewn in tiers at the hem and on the puffed upper portion of her sleeve. The bottom of the sleeve fitted snugly to her arm, fastening with ten tiny pearl buttons. The gown’s small, high bodice was plain. On her head Elizabeth wore a small brimmed hat of ivory silk plush decorated with the same silk petals and leaves as were on her dress. Attached to the brim and allowed to fall over her face to her shoulders was a sheer gauze veil edged with tambour work. Elizabeth, turning slightly so she could see the gown from all angles, was pleased with the overall effect.

The maid sent into her that morning by Lady Romella fussed about her, straightening a petal and seam while chattering of her mistress’s good fortune. “And to think, my lady, one day you’ll be a Countess!” She clucked her tongue. “Lawks a mercy, all a’Lunnon a been buzz’n about this wedd’n. It’s the affair of the season, that’s what they do say, even if it do seem a might unseemly in its haste,” the maid remarked ingeniously, hoping for some reaction from Lady Elizabeth that she could take below stairs.

Her chatter fell on deaf ears. Around and around in Elizabeth’s mind the one single unanswered question whirled. Why me? She had tried to dissuade St. Ryne, had tried to show him only her nastiest side, only to find herself tongue-tied before him, impotently raging within herself. She refused to analyze her reasons, knowing if she did so she would discover she had met the one man who mattered.

No! she thought sharply, tossing her head, which sent the maid into another bout of clucking. No man mattered! For her sanity she repeated the litany in her mind. She wondered how late she dared be before her father stormed up the stairs.

Elizabeth fervently wished Hattie were here. Her old nurse was the only person she ever laughed with, the only person to understand her and love her unreservedly.

To be unloved was agony. She had borne it from her father since her mother’s death. She could even say with conviction it didn’t bother her anymore. At nineteen she had learned to accept what she could not have though she still railed against it. She trembled at the thought of being thrust into a new life with a man she didn’t know and who couldn’t possibly love her. Her eyes misted, their gold lights turning to amber.

Her waspish tongue and rude attitude had developed as a young girl's ploy for attention from her father. At least if he ranted, railed, and punished her, he had to acknowledge her existence. Hattie had often lectured on the futility of such a strategy, but her words were to no avail. As Elizabeth grew older, her rudeness and cutting tongue became a habit and a defense. She learned to consider herself unlovable for she was the one blamed for her mother’s death.

She remembered the day well—she could scarcely forget for it was carved in her memory and often haunted her dreams. It was her fifth birthday and nature was helping the family celebrate by offering up an unusually warm spring day. The past winter had been particularly severe and for a time Lady Susan Monweithe, Elizabeth’s mother, had been extremely ill and not expected to survive. She had, nonetheless, recovered splendidly, leaving the family doctor awed and her family joyful. As the weather was sunny and mild, it was decided Elizabeth’s birthday party would be out of doors; consequently, a family picnic was planned. Her father was jolly then, tossing first her then Helene in the air. After lunch, he dozed in the shade of a large tree while their mother watched as she and Helene, a golden-haired toddler then, explored the edge of the lake. Mama had warned them not to go too close; however, with youthful impetuousness they did not heed her. While Elizabeth gathered flowers by the water’s edge, Helene squatted on an overhanging rock to watch some frogs. From her great maturity at five, Elizabeth knew it was dangerous to get so near the water so she jumped onto the rock to scold her baby sister. Suddenly the rock tipped forward and unthinkingly she pushed her sister to shore before she tumbled backward into the water.

Though afterward she could see there had been no danger for the water was not over her head, she panicked, and her mother ran to pull her out. Somehow—Elizabeth was never sure how—her mother also lost her balance. Screaming, Elizabeth clamored to her like a mad thing. Her mother tried to get up, but her long skirt tangled her legs and Elizabeth was thrashing and kicking too much. Her screams and Helene’s crying woke her father, and he came charging down the bank to haul his wife and daughter out of the water just as dark clouds closed over the sun and a sharp spring wind kicked up to remind them of the season. The drenching and the return of the cold spring weather caused Lady Susan’s illness to return. This time she did not recover. While she was ill, Lord Monweithe banished his children to their nursery and haunted his wife’s room. Lady Susan tried to tell him in a hoarse, cracking voice how Elizabeth had been protecting Helene. He shushed her and begged her not to strain herself. In the nursery, Elizabeth sobbed and clung to Hattie. There was no calming her for she knew something dreadful was going to happen. Four days later, her mother passed away in her sleep. From that day, and for many years, Lord Monweithe could not bear to look at Elizabeth. In his mind he knew he could not blame the child for his beloved wife’s death, but in his heart he did. As he could not reconcile his feelings, he chose to pretend Elizabeth did not exist. Over the years, though the pain grew less, his manner of ignoring his elder daughter became habit. He ceased even to realize what he was doing.

Elizabeth’s maid was putting the final adjustments on her hat when there was a sharp rap on the door. Before she could respond, it was flung open, banging against the wall, and Lord Monweithe angrily strode into the room. He had waited fifteen minutes, and now they would be twenty minutes late. Though Elizabeth wished she could be late forever for this wedding, she was resigned to the event now. She took heart and drew strength from knowing they would be twenty minutes late to the church.

After seeing Lady Romella and Helene off, Lord Monweithe had waited downstairs for Elizabeth, his only companion his port bottle. At first, he took to the port when vague doubts about the correctness of this hasty marriage flitted through his mind. As the minutes passed, so did those doubts, to be replaced with a sense of injury and an insidious fear the marriage would not take place; that Elizabeth’s seeming bid ability of late was a sham to cover her plans to humiliate him further. With the second glass of port came the conviction that those indeed were her plans and an equally strong conviction arose on his part to see the marriage go through. The older she became, the harder it was for him to even look at her. Though her hair was darker and her eyes brighter than his dear departed wife’s, in face and form, she was her twin. At one time he had irrationally blamed Elizabeth for her mother’s death. That was long ago. There were times when she was growing up he had wanted to draw her to his chest to hug, only to be met with bitter, waspish, angry words. He’d never known how to reach that tiny wraithlike creature with her condemning gold eyes.

He knew she had been devastated by her mother’s death, yet at the time, he’d had no room in his heart to comfort her—so great was his own grief. Unthinkingly he pushed her away, pushed her into the cursed shrew she was. Through the years he’d never been able to rectify his error and give her the love she needed. Perhaps marriage would cure her. Yes, he decided, babes were what she needed. That and a change of scene, away from her own family. He would not let her throw away a chance for happiness. He owed her that chance and owed himself some peace, he’d decided foggily before storming up the stairs.

“What missish nonsense is this?” Lord Monweithe paced Elizabeth’s room in a tight circle, his color rising. “If you’ve no notion of going through with this marriage and think it a play to embarrass your family, you’ve overextended yourself,” he declared flatly. “I’ll see you married or I’ll swear I never had an elder daughter named Elizabeth and throw you out on the street!”

Elizabeth gaped at the injustice. Fearful he was serious, her sense of aloneness and being unloved grew in proportion. Bile rose, burning her throat. She swallowed convulsively.

“Married or not, I would not stay a day longer in this house with a sanctimonious old woman, an empty-headed young one, and a man so enamored with appearances and conventions!” Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper while she held her head high and angrily held back tears. “But I will see this farce of a wedding through, if only to maintain my place in society so I may be a constant reminder to you, a constant thorn in your side with the knowledge of your failure as a father.” She crossed the room to the dressing table, staring down at its surface.

“Hold your tongue!” Lord Monweith roared. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow.

“Why?” Elizabeth choked out, whirling around to glare at him. “You have already sold me; the wedding remains a mere formality. Since Mama died I have been like a dead thing to you. You are merely getting around to burying the rotted corpse.”

Appalled at her words, Elizabeth twirled away from her father to stare sightlessly out the window. Never had she come so close to revealing herself, and never in fourteen years had she even dared mention her mother to her father. An awful silence filled the room. The maid, her back to the combatants, busied herself with straightening brushes and bottles while her sharp ears listened carefully so she could repeat word for word everything that was said to her peers below stairs.

The Earl mopped his brow, the earlier fogginess being replaced with a searing pain in his head. Carefully, he ignored what Elizabeth said save her statement that she would go through with the wedding.

“If you’re going to go through with the wedding, we’d best be off before the guests think we are not coming and rise to leave.”

Elizabeth nodded curtly. She picked up a handkerchief from the dressing table and under cover of her veil, dabbed at the corner of her eyes before turning to her father. He was holding the door to her room open. With her head high, she swept through it and on down the stairs ahead of him. At the foot of the stairs Jovis waited with her bouquet. Regally she took it from him and disdained the warmth of a proffered cloak. Lord Monweithe scowled, saying nothing, a wordless truce having sprung up between them. He took her arm to lead her to the waiting carriage. Elizabeth murmured a polite “thank you” as he handed her into the vehicle but otherwise remained silent as they traversed the few short blocks between their home and St. George’s in Hanover Square.

In that time, she sadly convinced herself the marriage was for the best. It was unfair to her family to bear with her any longer. She was a blight on their lives. Just because she could not have love and happiness, what right did she have to deny that to others? She sighed audibly, drawing her father’s curious eyes upon her but she did not notice. At the church, she mutely allowed herself to be handed down and led up the wide church steps. She paused at the great doors, steeling herself for the walk up the aisle and the end of her life as she knew it to be. Suddenly she was aware of a flurry among the people gathered at the altar and Freddy Shiperton came hurrying back to them, agitated and stuttering his request to stay where they were.

“Stay? But we’re late as it is. We must get on with this.” The Earl looked around. “Where is St. Ryne?”

Freddy looked pained and wrung his hands. “That’s just it, sir. We don’t know. He ain’t here yet.”