The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day

  Philip raised a brow back. “Because she’s the best—at least for style and, in my humble opinion, for that indefinable something that gives rise to true elegance.”

  Glancing again at the blue gown in the window, Antonia nodded. “But it was you who had the entrée—not Henrietta.”

  When, turning, she fixed an openly enquiring gaze upon him, Philip wished her understanding was not quite so acute. He considered a white lie, but she had already noted his hesitation.

  Again her brow rose, her expression half playful, half distant. “Or is that one of those matters into which young ladies should not enquire too closely?”

  It was; for the first time in his lengthy career, the fact made Philip uncomfortable. Inwardly frowning, he kept his expression impassive. “Suffice to say that I have had call to make use of Madame’s expertise in the past.”

  “For which,” Henrietta said, puffing slightly as she came up with them, “we are both duly grateful.” She fixed Philip with an approving stare. “Wondered why you had John Coachman stop here.” Turning to Antonia, she explained, “Horrendously difficult to interest personally, Madame. But if you can catch her eye, then your wardrobe, you may be assured, will be enough to set the tabbies on their tails.” Straightening, Henrietta waved to her coachman, “You may wait for us at the end of Bond Street, John.” Then she gestured her footman forward. “Come, Jem, give me your arm. We can stroll from here.”

  Philip offered Antonia his arm. She hesitated only fractionally before placing her hand on his sleeve. Head high, a distant smile on her lips, she strolled by his side as they followed Henrietta into Bond Street.

  Her joy in his company, in his introducing her to Madame Lafarge, had been quite effectively depressed.

  Their foray up and down the fashionable thoroughfare was punctuated by frequent halts before the windows of milliners and glovers, haberdasherers and bootmakers.

  “No sense in deciding on anything until we’ve consulted with Lafarge tomorrow,” Henrietta opined. “Elsewise, we’ll end with the wrong colour or style.”

  Dragging her gaze from a quite hideous chip bonnet sprouting a border of fake daisies, Antonia nodded absentmindedly. One of their last halts was before the windows of Aspreys, the jewellers. Necklaces and rings, baubles of every conceivable hue, glittered and winked behind the glass.

  Her gaze locked on the display, Henrietta pursed her lips. “If memory serves, your mama was never one for jewellery.”

  Antonia, still wrestling with unwelcome realization, shook her head. “She always said she didn’t need much. But I have her pearls.”

  “Hmm.” Henrietta squinted at a necklace and drop earrings set on a velvet bed towards the back of the display. “Those topazes would suit you.”

  “Where?” Blinking, Antonia summoned enough interest to follow her aunt’s gaze.

  “Not topazes.”

  Philip spoke from behind them; it was the first utterance he had made since they’d gained Bond Street. Both Antonia and Henrietta turned in surprise.

  Endeavouring to retain his habitually impassive mien, Philip reached past them to point to the items arrayed on a bed of black silk in pride of place in the centre of the window. “Those.”

  “Those” were emeralds. Eyeing the exquisite green gems, set, not in the usual heavily ornate settings, but with an almost Grecian restraint in simple gold, Antonia felt her eyes grow round. Just like the gown in Lafarge’s window, the delicate necklace with pendant attached, matching earrings and matching bracelets exerted a charm all their own. She would love to have them—but that was impossible. Even she could tell they were worth the proverbial king’s ransom. They were, she suspected, the sorts of gifts a gentleman might give to his mistress, especially were she one of those beings referred to in hushed whispers as “high-flyers”—the sort who might qualify for peignoirs from Madame Lafarge. She stifled a sigh. “They’re certainly beautiful.” Determinedly, she turned away. “There’s John.”

  The carriage was waiting just up from the corner. His face expressionless, Philip stepped back. Without comment, he gave Antonia his arm across the street then handed his stepmother, then her niece into the carriage.

  Henrietta leaned forward. “I’d thought to go for a quick turn about the Park—just to let Antonia get a feel for the place. Will you join us?”

  Philip hesitated. He shot a glance at Antonia; the shadows of the carriage hid her eyes. She made no move to encourage him. Gracefully, he stepped back. “I think not.” Feeling his jaw tighten, he forced his face to impassivity. “I believe I’ll look in on my clubs.” He executed a neat bow, then shut the door and gave John Coachman the office.

  * * *

  PHILIP ROSE LATE the next day, having spent the evening idly gaming with Hugo Satterly, whom he had opportunely sighted late in the afternoon napping behind a newsheet in White’s. After a leisurely dinner, they had moved on to Brooks and settled in for the evening, a sequence of events so common they had not even bothered to discuss their intent.

  Determined to cling to such comfortable routines, he descended his stairs at noon, carefully pulling on his gloves. As he set foot in his hall, the library door opened, and Geoffrey looked out.

  “Ah—there you are.” Grinning engagingly, Geoffrey came forward.

  Instantly suspicious, Philip raised one brow. “Yes?”

  Geoffrey’s grin turned ingenuous. “I wondered if you recalled your promise that you’d help me in town if I kept all of the children out of the lake during the fête?”

  “Ah, yes,” Philip mused. “As I recall, no one got wet.”

  “Exactly.” All but bouncing on his toes, Geoffrey nodded. “I wondered if you’d consider sponsoring me at Manton’s—in return for my sterling efforts?”

  His smile was infectious; briefly, Philip returned it. Manton’s was, in fact, one of the safer venues for one of Geoffrey’s years. “I’ll have to speak with Manton himself—he doesn’t normally encourage youngsters.”

  Geoffrey’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high,” Philip advised, turning to accept his cane from Carring who had silently approached. “But he may make an exception.” Turning to Geoffrey, he raised his brows. “Provided, that is, that you can handle a pistol?”

  “Of course I can! What sort of countryman can’t?”

  “As to that, I can’t say.” Extracting a card from his case, Philip handed it to Geoffrey. “If you get caught anywhere, use that. If not, meet me outside Manton’s at two.”

  “Capital!” Eyes glowing, Geoffrey scanned the card, then put it in his pocket. “I’ll be there.” With a nod, he turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, I say—Antonia mentioned about the riding.”

  “Ah, yes.” Philip waved away the hat Carring offered.

  “Would it be a problem if I took one of your horses out in the mornings? I was speaking with your grooms. They seemed to think it was all right—that is, permissible—for me to ride early, say about nine.”

  “Indeed.” Philip nodded. “And yes, before you ask, you can gallop down the tan—as long as you remain on the track. The keepers don’t appreciate having their lawns cut to pieces.”

  “Oh, good!” Geoffrey’s face glowed. “Antonia explained how she can’t gallop but I thought that might just be one of those feminine things.”

  “Precisely,” Philip replied. With a wave, he headed for the door.

  * * *

  ONE OF THOSE feminine things.

  The words returned to haunt Philip as he idly strolled the clipped lawns bordering the carriageway in the Park, his gaze scanning the landaus and barouches wending their way along the fashionable avenue. He had dined well with friends at a select eatery in Jermyn Street, then met Geoffrey at Manton’s.

  After prevailing on the proprietor to overlook Geoffrey’s age, an
argument greatly assisted by his protégé’s undeniable skill with a pistol, he had left Geoffrey happily culping wafers and repaired to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon. Declining an invitation to don a pair of gloves and spar with the great man himself, an acquaintance of many years, he had strolled the rooms, catching up with cronies and identifying the notables already in town. What gossip there was he had gleaned, then, with no pressing engagement, he had let his feet wander where they would.

  They had brought him here. He wasn’t sure whether he approved or not.

  On the thought, he spied the Ruthven barouche, rolling slowly around the circuit. He raised his arm; his coachman saw him and drew the carriage into the verge. He strolled up as John was explaining his actions.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Turning, Henrietta fixed him with one of her more intimidatory stares. “Perfect. You can take Antonia for a stroll on the lawns.”

  Philip’s answering glance held a definite hint of steel. “Precisely my intention, ma’am.”

  Henrietta fluffed her shawls and sank back against the cushions. “I’ll wait here.”

  His lips compressed, Philip opened the door and held out his hand commandingly—before pulling himself up. His gaze flew to Antonia’s face; the blank look in her eyes struck him like a blow. He drew in a quick breath. “That is, if you would like to take the air, my dear?” Where on earth had his years of experience gone? He had never acted so insensitively in his life.

  Bundling an uncharacteristic spurt of temper and a less well-defined hurt aside, Antonia forced herself to nod. Outwardly serene, she placed her fingers in his. She did not meet his gaze as he assisted her out of the carriage, even though she could feel it on her face.

  Settling her hand on his sleeve, Philip drew in a deep breath. And set himself to regain the ground he’d lost.

  About them, the lawns were merely dotted with other couples, not crowded as they would be in a few weeks’ time. “The company, I’m afraid, is somewhat thin at the moment.” Glancing down at Antonia’s face, he smiled. “As soon as the weather turns, the ton will flood back and then the entertainments will start with a vengeance.”

  Determined to hold her own, Antonia lifted her chin. “I’ve heard that there’s no place on earth to rival London for all manner of diversions.”

  “Quite true.” Philip succeeded in catching her eye. “Are you looking forward to being diverted?”

  Shifting her gaze forward, Antonia raised her brows. “I suppose I am. Henrietta seems quite caught up with it all. She was certainly in her element at Lafarge’s this morning.”

  “Ah, yes. How did your session with Madame go?”

  Antonia shrugged lightly. “I have to admit I’m very impressed by her designs. She’s sending the first of the gowns tomorrow.” Glancing down at her cambric skirts, she pulled a face. “Not a moment too soon, I suspect.” Her gaze rose to take in the stylish toilettes of two ladies strolling by.

  “After tomorrow, my dear, you’ll take the shine out of all the London belles.”

  Despite her determination to remain aloof, Antonia’s lips twitched. She shot Philip a glance—which he was waiting to catch.

  He laid a hand on his heart. “Nothing more than the truth, I swear.”

  She had to laugh; to her surprise, it cleared the air, allowing her to respond more easily.

  “The smaller, less formal parties will be starting soon, I imagine.”

  “Indeed,” she replied evenly. “Henrietta already has a small stack of invitations.”

  “And then will come the crushes as the major hostesses return to the fray.”

  “Hmm.” She hid a frown.

  Philip glanced down at her. “I thought you were looking forward to experiencing the ton in all its glory?”

  Fleetingly, Antonia met his gaze. “I certainly expect my time here to be an experience—an undertaking necessary to extend my understanding of society and its ways. As for enjoyment—” She shrugged. “I don’t know enough to anticipate it.”

  Philip studied her face, open and honest as always; his expression softened. “Strange to tell, there’s more to London than ton parties.”

  Antonia looked up, brows lifting.

  “There’s the theatre and opera, of course—but you know of them. Then there’s Astley’s and Vauxhall across the river, both worth a visit if it’s simple pleasures you seek.” Looking down, Philip met her gaze. “And I own to surprise that neither you nor Geoffrey has yet developed a yearning to see the museum.”

  Without waiting for her comment, he continued, blithely extolling the virtues of the capital, detailing sights and possible excursions, gently twitting her on her ignorance until, with a laugh, she conceded, “Very well—I will own that I might, indeed, enjoy my stay in London. I hadn’t realized there was so much we—” Abruptly, Antonia caught herself up. She drew in a steadying breath. “So much to see,” she amended.

  Trying but failing to trap her gaze, Philip inwardly frowned. “Having been interred in the wilds of Yorkshire as you have, that’s hardly surprising. We must make an effort to take in some of the sights at least, before the season gets into full swing.”

  Antonia glanced up and met his gaze. “That would be very...pleasant.”

  Philip smiled. “We’ll have to see what we can squeeze in.”

  They had reached the barouche; opening the door, he handed her in. “Until later,” he said, his eyes on hers.

  Antonia nodded, regally assured. Henrietta humphed and tapped John Coachman on the shoulder. Philip watched the carriage draw away; a frown slowly formed in his eyes. An odd constraint seemed to have sprung up between them—he couldn’t for the life of him see why.

  * * *

  AT SIX O’CLOCK that evening, Antonia started up the stairs. The dinner gong had just sounded; it was time to change her gown. Nearing the landing, she heard footsteps above. Looking up, she met Philip’s gaze. She stopped on the landing, watching as he descended.

  He was wearing a stylish coat of Bath superfine over ivory inexpressibles; an intricately tied cravat, tasselled Hessians and a waistcoat of amber silk completed the outfit. His hair looked freshly brushed, waving gently about his head. In one hand, he carried a pair of gloves, flicking them gently against one thigh.

  His lips curving, he stopped directly before her.

  “I had wondered, my dear, if you are free tomorrow afternoon, whether you might care to drive to Richmond? We could take tea at the Star and Garter and return in good time for dinner.”

  The poor light on the stairs hid the flash of happiness that lit Antonia’s eyes. It also hid the faint blush that succeeded it. “I...” Lifting her chin, she clasped her hands before her. “I wouldn’t wish to disrupt your normal routine, my lord—I’m sure there are other claims on your time.”

  “None that can’t wait.” Philip hid his frown. “Are you free?”

  She met his gaze but he could read nothing in her eyes. “I can’t recall any other engagement.”

  Philip tightened his grip on his gloves. “In that case, I’ll meet you in the hall at...shall we say half past one?”

  Gracious but determinedly distant, Antonia inclined her head. “I’ll look forward to the outing, my lord.”

  What, Philip wondered, had happened to his name? “Antonia—”

  “Will you be dining with us this evening?” It took all Antonia’s courage to ask the question; she waited, breath bated, for the answer, dismally aware she was only making a rod for her own back.

  Philip hesitated, then forced himself to shake his head. “I’m dining with friends.” He was, at Limmer’s. As if from a distance, he heard himself say, “I often do.” The shadows hid her eyes, too well for him to be sure of her expression. Few men of his age, married or not, dined frequently at their own board; it was a fact of fashionable life, not a situatio
n of his own choosing.

  “Indeed?” Determinedly bright, Antonia flashed him a brittle smile. “I’d better go up or I’ll be late. I wish you a good night, my lord.” With another fleeting smile and a nod, she went past him and on up the stairs. She was, she sternly lectured herself, being foolish beyond permission. To feel rejection when none was intended, to feel downhearted just because he was behaving as he usually did. This was, after all, what she had come to London to learn—how she would fit into his life.

  She reached the upper gallery and all but ran to her room.

  Philip listened to her footsteps fade. Slowly, he resumed his descent. By the time he reached the hall, the planes of his face had hardened. She had said not a word out of place, said nothing to make him suspect she was wishful of his company. Not once had she made the mistake of trying to make him feel guilty; she had made no demands of him whatever.

  Why, then, did he feel so dissatisfied? So certain something was, if not precisely wrong, then very definitely not right?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT HALF PAST ONE the following afternoon, Philip stood in his hall and watched Antonia descend the stairs. She was wearing a new carriage dress delivered that morning from Madame Lafarge’s workshop, a creation in leaf-green twill that emphasized her slender shape and set off the gold of her hair. The bodice and skirt were edged with forest-green ribbon, the same shade as the parasol Philip held furled in one hand.

  It, too, had come from Madame Lafarge, expressly chosen on his instructions and delivered by one of Madame’s lackeys at precisely one o’clock.

  The parasol held behind his back, Philip strolled forward, taking Antonia’s hand to help her down the last steps. “You look positively enchanting.”

  Buoyed by the confidence stemming from her first London gown, Antonia returned his smile. When Philip’s gaze dropped, shrewdly judging, she obligingly twirled, her skirts flaring about her. “Madame’s skill is beyond question.”

  “True.” Philip recaptured her hand. “But as I am sure she would tell you, perfection can only be attained when one works with the very best of raw materials.”