Page 11 of A Comfortable Wife

  "I didn't think!" Philip made the admission through clenched teeth, belatedly realizing the truth. Antonia, wilful, stubborn Antonia, was no more likely to be a party to Hen­rietta's machinations than he. "I assumed— incorrectly, I admit. However, that subject is now entirely beside the point—I no longer particularly care how we reached our present pass." Much to his amazement, that statement, too, held the undeniable ring of truth. "What concerns me now—what we need to discuss—is what comes next."

  Forcing himself to remain seated, Philip caught Antonia's glittering gaze and held it. "We both know what we want— don't we?"

  Antonia studied his expression, grey eyes clear, filled with undisguised, unmistakable purpose. Holding his gaze, she drew in a slow breath, then nodded.

  "Good—at least we agree on that much." Philip finked his fingers, laying them on one thigh, the better to resist a distracting urge to catch hold of her. “My affairs are cur­rently in order; the matter of settlements can be decided at any time."

  Antonia's eyes widened. "Your discussions with Banks. . ."

  "Indeed." Philip couldn't resist a superior glance.

  Antonia sniffed. "If we're speaking of planning—"

  "Which thankfully we aren't." Ignoring her haughty glance, Philip continued, "Henrietta is your nearest adult relative. I don't see much point in asking her permission to pay my addresses—she's going to be unbearably smug as it is. As for Geoffrey, I doubt he'll object."

  "Given he's halfway to idolising you," Antonia retorted. "I sincerely doubt it, too."

  Philip's brows rose. "Do you mind?"

  Antonia met his gaze; inherently truthful, she shook her head. A species of dizzying panic was gathering momentum inside her. Consternation threatened. This was all happening much too soon.

  "Which leaves only your inclination in question." His tone deepening, Philip held out his hand. "So—will you, dear Antonia, agree to be my wife?"

  The world was definitely spinning. Her heart raced—An­tonia could feel it beating wildly in her throat. Disregarding the fact, her gaze trapped in the grey of his, she laid her hand in Philip's palm. "Yes, of course. Eventually."

  Philip's fingers closed about hers, then convulsively tightened. His features, about to relax into lines of arrogant satisfaction, froze; his expression wavered between shock and incredulity. "Eventually?"

  Antonia gestured vaguely. "Afterwards."

  "Afterwards when?"

  She frowned. "After we return from London was what I had imagined."

  "Well, imagine again." Abruptly, Philip stood. "If you imagined I'd consent to letting you swan through London's ballrooms without the protection of a betrothal, free as a bird, attracting God-knows-what attention, you are, my dear, fair and far out. We'll announce our betrothal tomor­row—I'll place a notice in the Gazette when I reach town."

  "Tomorrow?" Antonia stared at him. "But that's im­possible!"

  "Impossible?" Philip towered over her, his expression growing more intimidating by the second.

  Lifting her chin, Antonia met his gaze squarely. "Im­possible," she reiterated—and watched his eyes darken, felt his fingers tighten about hers. "I thought you understood," she said, as the familiar vice tightened about her chest. Frowning, she dropped her gaze to his cravat. "You do understand—of course you do." Raising her head, she looked directly into his eyes. "So why can't you see it?"

  For one, long instant, Philip closed his eyes. Then, open­ing them, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, and forced himself to release her hand. "I fear, my dear, that despite your conviction, I must claim temporary mental obfuscation. I have no idea what it is that I'm supposed to be able to see, much less why or how it, whatever it might be, comes to render my proposal ineligible."

  Antonia blinked at him. "I didn't say your proposal was ineligible—just that it's impossible to announce our be­trothal before we return from London."

  Philip frowned at her; the tension locking his muscles slowly dissipated. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You agree to marry me as long as we don't announce our be­trothal until after we return from London." He held An­tonia's gaze. "Is that right?"

  Antonia coloured. "If. . . I mean. . ." hands clasped before her, she lifted her chin ". . . presuming you still want me as your wife."

  "That, thank heavens, is not in question." Eyeing her uptilted face, Philip had to fight the urge to take advantage of it. He fell to pacing, two steps away, then two steps back. "Kindly get it fixed in your head that I wish to marry you—if I had my way, immediately. Society and the laws, how­ever, require a certain interval between proposal and exe­cution. I had therefore planned. . ." he paused to throw Antonia a narrow-eyed glance ". . . in light of our apparent similarity of purpose, to announce our betrothal immedi­ately so that we may be married on our return from town. Now you inform me that that's not possible!"

  Antonia stood her ground. "It may be theoretically pos­sible, but it's a great deal too soon."

  "Too soon?"

  Shutting her ears to his disbelief, Antonia nodded. "Too soon for me. You must see that, Philip. You know what. . .that is. . ." She frowned, searching for words to del­icately allude to the effect he had on her. “You know how I react—I don't yet know how to go on in tonnish society. I need to learn the knack—and I can't do that if we're betrothed."

  "Why not?" Philip frowned back. He kept pacing.

  "What difference does it make if we're betrothed, married or merely acquaintances?"

  Antonia lifted her chin. "As you very well know, if we were married or betrothed, people—certainly all the ladies—would expect me to know how things were done, how to behave in all circumstances. They would expect the lady you had chosen as your bride to be accomplished in such matters."

  Seeking his face, she fixed her eyes on his. "As you also know, I don't have any experience of society at large—nothing more than a limited exposure to selected entertain­ments in Yorkshire. That's hardly sufficient basis on which to, as you phrased it, swan through the ton. I'd fall at the first hurdle." Her lips twisted wrily. "You know I would. In that particular arena, I've no experience in the saddle, and even less confidence in my ability to clear the hedges."

  Philip slowed, then stopped. His frown had deepened.

  Calmly, Antonia held his gaze. "You told me I needed to practice my skills before I tried handling the whip. The same is true here—I need to learn how to go on, how to behave as your wife, before we marry."

  Philip grimaced then glanced away. To his mind, she needed no instruction in how to behave socially; her innate breeding, her natural directness, her honest openness, would stand her in good stead. Her performance on the day of the fete had been exemplary, but she clearly did not see that success as equivalent to facing the ton, a point he could hardly argue.

  An uncertain, less-than-confident Antonia was a being he had little experience of, yet he felt a pressing need to re­assure her, to accede to her plans. He scowled at his lawns. "Everyone will know that having hailed from Yorkshire, you might be feeling your way."

  "Exactly." Antonia nodded. "And should our betrothal have been announced, they'll be watching like hawks, tak­ing note of any and all mistakes I make. If I am merely your stepmother's niece being introduced to the ton, beyond natural curiosity no great attention will focus on me. I'll be able to study how ladies go on without giving rise to any adverse comment."

  Philip remained silent; sensing victory, Antonia pressed her point. "You know that's true. In the eyes of the ton, a deficient upbringing is no excuse for gauche behaviour."

  "You couldn't be gauche if you tried."

  Antonia smiled. "Unintentionally, perhaps." She so­bered, studying his profile, the rigid line of his shoulders. Straightening her own, metaphorically girding her loins, she drew in a deep breath. "I comprehend. . .that is, I imagine your expectations of your wife are that she will manage your households, act as your hostess both here and in town, and. . .and. . ." Dragging in another breath, she r
attled on, "In short, that she will fulfill all the usual functions and roles ascribed by society."

  "I would want your friendship, Antonia." That and a great deal more. Philip kept his gaze on the gardens, un­willing to let her glimpse the emotions visible in his eyes.

  Heartened by his statement, Antonia replied, "I, too, would hope our friendship would continue." She waited; when he said no more, she prompted, "I do want to marry you, Philip, but you do see, don't you, why we can't be betrothed until after our return?"

  Philip turned, his jaw set, his gaze sharp and penetrating. For a long moment, he studied her eyes, and the conviction therein. She was asking for four, possibly five weeks of grace. Curtly, he nodded. “Very well—no—announcement of our betrothal. There is, however, no reason whatever why we cannot be betrothed, but keep the fact a secret."

  Antonia met his gaze with one of her very direct looks. "Henrietta."

  Philip swore beneath his breath. Hands rising to his hips, he swung away, facing the lawns again. Henrietta! His fond stepmama would never be able to keep the news to herself. And a legal betrothal was impossible without her knowl­edge.

  It was an effort not to grind his teeth. He drew in a very deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Antonia, I am not about to let you waltz through the ballrooms of London without some agreement." He turned on the words, shifting to stand directly before her, trapping her with his gaze. "I will agree—grudgingly, make no mistake—not to press you for a formal betrothal, secret or otherwise, until we return to the Manor—which we will do immediately you've gained sufficient experience of the ton."

  Holding hard to his reins, acutely conscious of the de­bilitating effects of frustration, Philip reached for her hands. Lifting them, he held them, palm to palm, between his and looked down into her eyes. "Antonia, I want you as my wife. If we cannot be betrothed formally, then I ask that we be betrothed privately—an agreement between the two of us."

  Briefly, Philip glanced up at the sickle moon, riding high in the softly tinted sky, then looked down to recapture An­tonia's green-gold gaze. "I ask that we plight our troth wit­nessed only by the moon—to consider ourselves promised, you to me and me to you, from now until we return to the Manor, after which we will wed as soon as custom per­mits."

  He felt her fingers flutter between his, sensed the catch in her breath. For a long moment, he held her gaze, then, slowly, he separated her hands and carried one to his lips. "Do you agree, Antonia?" He brushed a kiss across her knuckles, then lifted her other hand, his eyes all the while on hers. "To be mine?"

  His words were so deep, so velvety dark, Antonia barely heard them. She sensed them deep inside her, and felt a compulsion she couldn't deny. His lips grazed her fingers and she shivered. "Yes." She had always been his.

  His eyes still held her trapped; slowly, he drew her hands up and out. When he let them go, they fell to his shoulders; his shifted to her waist, spanning it, then firming as he drew her close.

  Antonia felt a quake ripple through her. "Philip?"

  The question was the merest whisper. Philip heard and understood “All troths must be sealed with a kiss, sweet­heart."

  Her heart blocking her throat, Antonia felt her bodice brush his coat. She watched his head lower; her lids fell.

  His lips found hers; warm and persuasive, their pressure soothed and reassured. Antonia relaxed, then stiffened as he gathered her into his arms, locking her in his embrace. Yet his hold remained gentle; his hands stroked her back.

  Again she relaxed, again the kiss took hold, sweeping her into some magical realm of mystery, of sensation. His lips firmed; hesitantly, she parted hers, a flicker of ner­vousness distracting her momentarily, called forth by rec­ollections of their encounter in the woods. But this time there was only warmth and pleasure, enticing, beckoning caresses that made her hungry—for what she didn't know. No unbridled passions arose to confront her, to elicit the wanton craving she was convinced she had to hide.

  Reassured, she drifted deeper, giving herself up to gentle pleasure.

  It took all of Philip's skill to keep the kiss, if not light, then at least non-conflagrationary. He was acutely aware of her untutored responses, of the way her body slowly soft­ened in his arms, accepting his embrace in the same way her lips accepted his kiss. As in all things, she was deliciously direct, unambiguous-ly open, totally innocent of in­trigue. For one of his ilk, the novelty was as heady as sum­mer wine.

  He forced himself to draw back, to gradually bring the kiss to an end, despite the ravenous hunger eating him. He was familiar with that demon; while it might make his life hell, he was its master.

  When he eventually lifted his head, it was to the pleasure of watching Antonia's eyes, heavy-lidded, slowly open. She blinked at him, then made an obvious effort to compose herself.

  "Ah. . ." Gently, Antonia tried to draw back, only to feel his arms firm.

  "Not yet." Prodded by his demon, Philip lowered his head and stole another kiss, then another, before she could catch her breath.

  "Philip!" Antonia barely got the word out; this time she insisted on pulling back.

  Reluctantly, Philip dropped his arms but kept hold of one of her hands. "You're mine, Antonia." Possessiveness surged; he shackled it, unaware of the deep resonance of his voice, of the dark glitter in his gaze, of the way his fingers tightened about hers. Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed a warm kiss to her palm. "Never forget it."

  Antonia shivered as he released her hand.

  Holding her with no more than his gaze, Philip lowered his head one last time, barely touching his lips to hers. "Sleep well, my dear. I'll see you next in London."

  She drew back, wide-eyed and, he thought, wondering. Then she inclined her head and slowly turned away. He let her go, watching as she retreated into his house, to spend the night under his roof, as she would from now on.

  The smile on his lips slowly fading, Philip turned back to the lawns. After a moment, he grimaced feelingly, then descended the steps; hands in his pockets, he strode into the cool night.

  Chapter Seven

  "There's a message arrived for you, m'lord. Up from the Manor."

  Seated in a wing-chair in his library, Philip waved Car-ring, his major-domo, forward. After spending an afternoon about town, calling in at his club and spending an hour at Manton's, he had retreated to his library secure in the knowledge that few of his peers had yet quit their summer hunting grounds. The continuing fine weather gave little incentive for returning to town before the round of balls and parties that made up the Little Season. Which meant Antonia would have a relatively quiet few weeks in which to gain her balance.

  The silver salver Carring presented held a note addressed in Banks's finicky script. Frowning, Philip picked it up and unfolded it. He read Banks's few lines, then swore. "The damned woman's finally made up her mind!"

  "Is that good news or bad news, m'lord?" Carring held himself correctly by his master's side, his lugubrious tone absolving his query of any hint of impertinence.

  Philip considered the point, eyeing Banks's missive with distaste. "Both," he eventually replied. "It means that at long last we'll be able to close the sale of Lower Farm. Unfortunately, Mrs Mortingdale wants to see me in person over the matter of certain unspecified assurances." Exas­perated, he sighed. "I'll have to go back." He glanced at the clock. "Not tonight. Tell Hamwell to have the greys ready at first light—wake me before then."

  If he took the Brighton road, he could reach the Manor by midday; if luck was with him, he might be free of the vacillating widow in time to make the trip back that eve­ning.

  "Very good, m'lord." Caning, ponderously round and suited all in black, unhurriedly headed for the door. There, he turned, his hand on the knob. “Am I to take it, my lord, that her ladyship and her visitors will still be arriving to­morrow?"

  "They will." Philip's tones were clipped. "Make sure all is ready."

  Carring's brows ros
e fractionally as he turned away. "Naturally, m'lord."

  Contrary to his plans, it was early afternoon two days hence before Philip returned to Grosvenor Square.

  Carring helped him out of his greatcoat. "I take it the business of Lower Farm was successfully completed, m'lord?"

  "Finally." Resetthng his coat, Philip turned to the hall minor to check his cravat. “Her ladyship and the Mannerings arrived yesterday?''

  "Indeed, m'lord. I comprehend their journey passed without incident."

  "No highwaymen—not even a scheming landlord to chouse us over the reckoning."

  Turning, Philip beheld Antonia, a vision in soft turquoise muslin floating down the stairs. A stray sunbeam lancing through the fanlight struck golden gleams from her hair. “I should hope not," he said, moving forward to meet her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her fingers. "I presume my coachman and grooms took good care of you?"

  Antonia raised a brow. "Of all of us. But what of you? Did the widow eventually weaken?"

  "She finally came to her senses." Tucking her hand in his arm, Philip turned her down the corridor. "However, nothing would do for it but that she had to see me in person so that I could give her an assurance—word of a gentle­man—that I would keep her farm labourers on."

  As he opened the door to the back parlour and handed her through, Antonia mused, "Actually, that seems rather wise—and kind of her, too."

  Philip hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "But I would have kept them on anyway. As it was, her summons meant I wasn't here to greet you. It appears I'm fated to return to my house to find you gracing my hall."

  He shut the door behind them. Antonia slanted him a questioning glance as he came to stand beside her. "Do you find that so disturbing?"

  Philip looked down into her green-gold eyes. "Disturb­ing?” For all his experience, he felt his senses slide. Taking firm hold of his wits, he clasped his hands behind his back. "On the contrary." His lips curved in a deliberately pro­vocative smile. "That's precisely the result I'm aiming for. In this particular case, however, I had looked forward to welcoming you on your first evening in London."