Beauty for Ashes. Dorothy Clark

you a great deal of trouble and embarrassment, and I am determined that I shall not do so again.” She sighed. “I knew you wanted to leave this morning without delay, so, when my shoes came up missing, I decided to leave without them.” She looked at the cold, disbelieving look in his eyes and wondered why she was bothering to explain. “You were already angry with me!”

      His left eyebrow shot up.

      Elizabeth swallowed her own irritation along with the little pride she had left. “Rightfully angry. And, as you said, the shoes were of little use in the snow.” She looked down at the satin slippers he still held in his hand. How could she blame him for not believing her? It did sound foolish when she put it into words.

      Justin snorted. He threw her shoes to the floor, scooped something up off the bed and stalked back to her. “Put these on, Elizabeth. You should find them a comfortable fit—Little Fawn used your shoes to alter the size.”

      He thrust a pair of moccasins into her trembling hands. His gaze dropped to the stocking-clad toes peeking out from under her long skirts, then lifted back to her face. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, Elizabeth, but be warned—it’ll not work with me!”

      He reached for the door latch. She jumped aside. He frowned, and yanked open the door. “Be ready when Daniel comes for the bags.”

      The door slammed shut behind him. Elizabeth cringed. So much for a day without foolish incidents! She stared hard at the closed door and compressed her lips into a thin line. She would never apologize to Justin Randolph again. Never!

      Elizabeth clenched her hands—the moccasins squashed. Her tirade stopped short as she looked down at them. Justin Randolph was a most unpleasant man, yet he was surprisingly thoughtful. Suddenly, she giggled. Would that be unpleasantly thoughtful…or thoughtfully unpleasant? Her amusement died. Either way it was incongruous. The two simply didn’t go together—except in her new husband.

      Elizabeth sighed, pushed the hood off her head and walked over to sit down in one of the two, crudely made slat-back chairs at the table. What could cause a person to have such divergent characteristics? She glanced down at the leather moccasins and shook her head. What did it matter? Whatever the reason, Justin Randolph was both—she would simply have to make the best of it.

      She glanced over at her shoes on the floor in front of the fireplace where Justin had thrown them, gave another sigh, and went to retrieve them. She put them in her bag, then resumed her seat. Her lips twitched, then twitched again. What a picture she must have made crawling out from under the bed and striding haughtily toward the door in her stocking feet!

      Elizabeth convulsed with laughter, then, suddenly, began to cry. He hated her. He hated her! She straightened and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. Serves you right for trying to play the grande dame! You looked like a big fool. Let that be a lesson to you!

      She blinked rapidly, picked up the moccasins and ran the long, leather thongs that trailed from them through her fingers. What did Justin Randolph’s opinion of her matter? She didn’t want him to like her. Still, it would be nice if they could at least be pleasant to one another. She shook her head at the improbability of that ever occurring and leaned forward to pull the fur-lined moccasins onto her cold feet.

      Chapter Nine

      T he carriage ride seemed endless. Time dragged. Elizabeth glanced over at Justin, then turned and pulled the window curtain back to stare out at the snow-covered landscape. All of her efforts at polite conversation had met with cold, curt answers and she was not eager to be rebuffed again. The carriage shuddered as a gust of wind hit it. Hail began to pound the roof with icy fists, demanding entrance. The sound was a steady drumming that emphasized the silence.

      Elizabeth dropped the curtain, wiggled her toes and smiled to herself at the warm, luxuriant feel of the soft fur that molded itself to her foot. Moccasins. Justin was right—they were comfortable. Yesterday her feet had been painfully cold, but now they were encased in a lovely warmth. Did he ever wear them? Is that why he had thought to provide them for her?

      Elizabeth studied this stranger she had married from under her lowered lashes. Try as she would, she couldn’t imagine him in moccasins. His clothes were the latest fashion, the material and cut quietly stating wealth and good taste. Even in the matter of clothing his self-assurance was obvious—he disdained the popular use of breeches and wore trousers instead. Her gaze swept from his Hessian boots to the top of his dark head. His hair was cut so that it just brushed the top of his collar and fell in thick, springy waves about his temples and forehead. The style suited him.