A Comfortable Wife

  Antonia hid a grin. "No—but I suspect I can imagine. Am I to take it you aspire to such heady heights?"

  Geoffrey considered, then shrugged. "I can't say I'd mind being top o' the trees some day, but I've decided to concentrate on getting a working notion of this ton business for now—I'll be going up in a few weeks after all."

  Antonia nodded. "A wise idea, I'm sure."

  "Philip thought so, too." Geoffrey was looking over the room. "What's say we do as we were bid and go introduce ourselves to some fellow sufferers?"

  "Just as long as you refrain from informing them of their status." When he looked expectantly down at her, Antonia raised a brow. "I'm on your arm, remember? You're sup­posed to lead."

  "Oh, good!" Geoffrey grinned and lifted his head. "That means I get to choose."

  Predictably, he chose the group gathered about the pret­tiest girl in the room. Luckily, this included Cecily Mount-ford who, mindful of her mama's strictures, promptly intro­duced them to the three ladies and four gentlemen loosely grouped before the fireplace. None were more than twenty. Geoffrey was immediately included as one of the group; Antonia, her age declared not only by her innate poise but also by the elegant lines of Lafarge's creation, stood on its outskirts, metaphorically if not literally. Not that any at­tempted to exclude her—indeed, they treated her so defer­entially she felt quite ancient. The young gentlemen blushed, stuttered and bowed while the young ladies leaned forward to shake hands, casting glances of muted envy at her gown.

  It rapidly became apparent that their hostess's injunction to set formal restraint aside had been enthusiastically em­braced; with the customary facility of youth, the company quickly got down to brass tacks.

  The beauty, a sweet-faced young miss in a pale blue gown with dark ringlets bobbing on her shoulders, proved to be a Miss Catriona Dalling, an orphan from east York­shire who was in town under the aegis of her aunt, the Countess of Ticehurst.

  "She's a dragon," Miss Dalling informed the company, her big blue eyes huge, her distinctly squared little chin jutting aggressively. "No! I tell a lie—she's worse than that, she's a gorgon!"

  "Is she truly insisting on marrying you to the highest bidder?" Cecily Mountford was no more bashful than her guests.

  Lovely lips set in a line, Miss Dalling nodded. "What's more, she's set her heart on poor Ambrose here." Dramat­ically, she put a hand on the bright green embossed silk sleeve of the young gentleman on her right and squeezed meaningfully. "So now we're both being persecuted!"

  Ambrose, who gloried in the title of the Marquess of Hammersley, was a pale, obviously nervous young gentle­man, short and slightly stocky; he blushed and muttered, and tried to smooth the creases Miss Dalling's strong little fingers had left in his sleeve.

  Geoffrey frowned. "Can't you both just say no?"

  The comment earned him a host of pitying looks.

  "You don't understand," Miss Dalling said. "My aunt is set on me marrying Ambrose because he's a marquess and we haven't had one of those in the family before and a marquess is better than an earl, so she sees it as advancing the family's cause. And Ambrose's mama is pushing the match because of my inheritance, because his estates are not bringing in enough to dower all his sisters. And," she added, with a darkling look, "because I'm so young she thinks I'll be easy to manage."

  Antonia couldn't help but wonder if the Marquess's mama was blind.

  "It's all arranged for consequence and money," Miss

  Dalling continued with undisguised contempt. "But it won't do! I've decided to marry for love or not at all!"

  Her dramatic declaration drew approving nods from all around, particularly from the Marquess. Antonia inwardly frowned, wondering if they were all really so young, so untutored in society's ways—or if they were merely head­strong, trying their wings in vocal but not active rebellion.

  Miss Dalling's championship of the gentle passion pro­voked argument on all sides, most, Antonia noted, thor­oughly supportive of the heiress's position while openly condemning her aunt's.

  Her spirits clearly unimpaired by the browbeating she had assured the company she had endured en route to Brook Street, Catriona Dalling flashed her an engagingly confiding smile. "I understand you're in town for the first time, as indeed we all are, but you have doubtless more experience than we in searching for your one and only love. I do hope you'll forgive me for speaking so plainly and rattling on so, but I dare say you can see things have reached a pretty pass. Ambrose and I will have to make a stand, don't you think?"

  Arguments raged about them, revolving about how to spike Lady Ticehurst's ambitions; Geoffrey, Antonia could hear, was urging the participants to check with their men of affairs. Looking into Miss Dalling's unquestionably in­nocent eyes, she felt the weight of her years.

  "While I would certainly not condone your being co­erced into marriage, Miss Dalling, the fact remains that most marriages within our class are arranged, at one level or another. Some, perhaps, are underpinned by affection or long-standing acquaintance, but others are promoted on the basis of what I admit sound cold-blooded reasons. How­ever, in the absence of either party's affections being fixed elsewhere, don't you think there's the possibility that your aunt's suggestion might, in the end, bear fruit?" In making the suggestion, Antonia's gaze touched the Marquess; she felt an immediate pang of uncertainty.

  "There is that, of course." Miss Dalling nodded sagely. “But you see, I have found my only true love, so the ar­gument does not hold."

  "You have?" Antonia could not help eyeing her in con­cern. The heiress looked barely older than Geoffrey. "For­give my impertinence, Miss Dalling, but are you sure?"

  "Oh, yes. Absolutely sure." Catriona Dalling's decisive nod set her ringlets bouncing. "Henry and I have known each other since we were children and we're quite sure we want to marry. We had thought to wait for a few years— until Henry has proved himself in running his father's farms, you see—but Aunt Ticehurst stepped in."

  "I see." The heiress's straightforwardness rang truer than any impassioned declarations. Antonia frowned. “Have you explained your attachment to your aunt?''

  "My aunt does not believe in love, Miss Mannering." The militant gleam was back in Catriona Dalling's eye. "She might be more amenable were Henry a marquess too, only unfortunately he's simply a squire's son, so she's not disposed to acquiescence."

  "I had not realized," Antonia admitted "that your situ­ation was quite so. . .awkward. To be urged to turn your back on love, given the connection is not ineligible and your attachment has proved constant, must be distressing."

  Catriona gave another of her decisive nods. "It would be, if I had the slightest intention of giving in to the pres­sure. As it is, I'm determined to stand firm. Not only would marrying Ambrose ruin my life and Henry's, it would un­deniably ruin Ambrose's as well."

  Viewing the determined cast of Miss Dalling's fair fea­tures, and seeing the Marquess, weak-chinned and timid, in earnest conversation with Geoffrey beyond, Antonia could only concur.

  "One way or another, I'm determined to win out. It's not as though love matches are all that rare these days." Ca­triona gestured grandly. “Even in days gone by, such affairs were known. My very own aunt—not Ticehurst, of course, but my other aunt, her sister, now Lady Copely—she defied the family and married Sir Edmund, a gentleman of suffi­cient but not extravagant means. They've lived very happily for years and years—their household is one of the most comfortable I know. If I could have as much by marrying for love, I would be entirely satisfied." She paused only for breath. “And only last year, my cousin Amelia—my Aunt Copely's eldest daughter—she married her sweetheart, Mr Gerard Moggs." She broke off to point out a young couple across the room. "They're over there—you can see for yourself how happy they are."

  Antonia looked, effectively distracted from Miss Dall­ing's concerns. This was, after all, what she had come to London to see—married ladies consorting in public with their spouses.

  What
she saw was a young gentleman of twenty-five or six, standing by a chaise on which a pretty young lady was seated, angled around and looking up to meet her husband's gaze. Mr Moggs made some comment; his wife laughed up at him. She laid a hand on his sleeve, squeezing lightly, affectionately. Mr Moggs responded with an openly adoring look. Reaching out, he touched a finger to his wife's cheek, then bent and whispered in her ear before straightening and, with a nod, leaving her.

  Antonia noted he went no further than the refreshment table, returning with two glasses.

  "Miss Mannering, is it not?"

  With a start, Antonia turned to find a gentleman of much her own age bowing before her. He was neatly if fashion­ably dressed, having avoided the excesses to which the younger generation had fallen prey.

  "Mr Hemming, my dear Miss Mannering." As he straightened, Antonia looked into mild brown eyes set under wavy brown hair. "I hope you'll excuse my impertinence, but Lady Mountford tipped me the wink that the musicians are about to start up. Can I prevail on you to honour me with the first cotillion?"

  The invitation was accompanied by an engaging smile; Antonia responded spontaneously, graciously extending her hand. "Indeed, Mr Hemming. I would be pleased to stand up with you."

  She was well-versed in the cotillion, more adept, as it transpired, than Mr Hemming. Despite his pleasant dispo­sition, he was forced to give his attention to the figures, leaving Antonia free to pursue her principal purpose. As she twirled and swirled, it was easy to examine those not dancing for couples who might be husband and wife. Other than the Moggs, she found no likely candidates. As for the Moggs, they, she felt certain, were hardly representative specimens.

  It would, she felt sure, be unwise to use their behaviour as a guide to how she might behave with Philip. For a start, Philip was a good deal older than Mr Moggs. As, hand held high, she pirouetted, Antonia scanned the room. Indeed, she couldn't imagine Philip at such a gathering—there were no gentlemen like him present.

  The age difference was telling in another way. She could not, by any fanciful stretch of her imagination, imagine Philip casting adoring glances at her, in public or otherwise. Likewise, she was quite certain any affectionate squeezes would result in a frown and a reprimand for damaging his suiting.

  Gentlemen, her mother and all Yorkshire ladies had as­sured her, were made uncomfortable by any public show of fondness; ladies must never, so she had been taught, wear their hearts on their sleeves. While Miss Dalling and her family, one branch at least, as well as the youth of the ton, might freely acknowledge the softer emotions, Antonia could not believe that gentlemen of Philip's age and tem­perament had been won over.

  The dance ended and she sank into the prescribed curtsy. Mr Hemming, beaming, raised her. “An excellent measure, Miss Mannering." Gallantly, he offered her his arm. "I take it you'll be attending the coming balls and parties?"

  "I expect we'll attend our fair share." Antonia accepted his arm; he very correctly escorted her back towards the fireplace.

  "Have you seen Lord Elgin's marbles? Quite worth a visit, in my humble estimation."

  Antonia was about to reply when they were joined by an acquaintance of Mr Hemming's, a Mr Carruthers. Intro­duced, Mr Carruthers bowed extravagantly. Within minutes, two others had joined them, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Riley. Before Antonia could blink, she found herself at the centre of a small circle of gentlemen. They chatted amiably, pleasantly; she danced the quadrille with Sir Fred­erick and the last cotillion with Mr Carruthers. Mr Riley begged to be remembered when next they met.

  Then the party started to break up. Geoffrey appeared by her elbow with the information that Henrietta was ready to depart; Antonia excused herself to her cavaliers and politely withdrew.

  Once she had settled Henrietta in the carriage, draping extra shawls about her shoulders, Antonia sat back and pon­dered all she had seen. "Aunt," she eventually asked, as the carriage rocked into motion, "is it common for married gentlemen to accompany their wives to such entertain­ments?"

  Henrietta snorted. “Noticed the Moggs, did you? Hardly surprising—they attracted quite a bit of interest, that pair of lovebirds." Her tone suggested the matrons had not been impressed. "But to answer your question—no, it's not gen­eral practice, but not only is Gerard Moggs quite openly besotted with his wife, she's also in an interesting condition, so I expect we'll have to excuse him."

  Antonia nodded; she now had the Moggs in their proper perspective.

  "Quite a fine line, actually—just how much husbandly attention is allowable." Henrietta spoke into the darkness, her voice only just audible over the rattle of the carriage wheels. "Not, of course, that the question arises in many cases—gentlemen being what they are. Only too glad to keep to their clubs and their dinners. Most put in an ap­pearance at the best balls and parties, enough to nod to their wives in passing, but the consensus has always been that, in town at least, husbands and wives follow essentially sep­arate social calendars." She fluffed her shawls. "That, of course, limits the opportunities for the sort of exhibition you witnessed tonight."

  Any doubts as to her aunt's opinion of the Moggs' be­haviour was laid to rest. Antonia shifted in her seat. "I had thought gentlemen often escorted ladies to the various en­tertainments?"

  "Indeed." Henrietta yawned. "But, in the main, such escort duties fall to the unmarried males, the confirmed bachelors or the yet-to-be-snared. Only occasionally would a married lady expect her husband to act as her escort, and then only if he was wishful of attending the same function."

  The shadows hid Antonia's frown. Her enjoyment of the outings Philip had organised, the laughter they had shared, the undeniable pleasure she found in his company—would all that change once they were wed? Be relegated to history, never to be experienced again? What, she wondered, was the point of being married—of having a firm friendship with one's husband-—if being married prohibited him from spending time in your company?

  The carriage swayed around a corner then rumbled on into Grosvenor Square; Geoffrey shifted in his corner. As they drew up outside Ruthven House, he jumped down, smothering a yawn. Between them, Antonia and he helped Henrietta up the steps; Carring stood at the top, holding the door wide.

  Behind him, in the glow of the hall chandelier, Antonia spied Philip. He strolled forward as Carring shut the door. "A pleasant evening?"

  The question was addressed to her but Geoffrey answered it.

  "Dull work," he said, around another yawn. "Nothing of any substance except for the heiress's dragon of an aunt. She really did look like a gorgon."

  “Indeed?'' Philip raised an amused brow.

  “Absolutely,'' Geoffrey assured him. “But I'm for bed."

  "In that case," Henrietta said, poking him in the ribs, "you can give me your arm up the stairs." She glanced over her shoulder. "Send Trant up at once, please, Car-ring."

  Carring bowed deeply. "Immediately, m'lady."

  Antonia stood by Philip's side, watching until her brother and her aunt gained the upper landing.

  "Come into the library." Philip's words and his hand at her elbow had her turning in that direction. "Was there much dancing?"

  He had gone out after they had left, stifling a ludicrous wish that he could join them, instead meeting Hugo and a small coterie of friends at Brooks. Together, they'd gone on to Boodles, then to a select establishment in Pall Mall, but he'd been too restless to settle to the play. In the end, he'd cried off and returned home to idly pace the library floor.

  "Two cotillions and a quadrille." Antonia yielded to his persuasion. They entered the library; Philip shut the door behind them.

  “And you danced them all?''

  "Indeed."

  Philip stopped by one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace, filled with a cheery blaze. Antonia sat, her skirts sighing about her. Philip paused, studying her. “Would you like a nightcap?"

  Antonia looked up, her expression arrested, then smiled and shook her head.

  Phili
p was not deceived. "What?"

  Her smile reminded him forcefully of the irrepressible girl she had been. "Actually," she said, her eyes dancing, "I would dearly love a glass of warm milk but I cannot imagine how Carring would react to such a request."

  "Can you not?" Philip's brows slowly rose. Turning, he crossed to the bellpull.

  "Philip!" Antonia sat up.

  Philip waved her back. "No—I have a score to settle—hush!" He returned to take the chair opposite hers.

  Carring entered, ponderously solemn. "You rang, m'lord?"

  "Indeed." Philip's expression was utterly bland. "Miss Mannering would like a nightcap, Carring. A glass of warm milk."

  Carring's eyes flickered, then he bowed. "Will that be for two, m'lord?"

  It took Philip a moment to master his tone. "No—you may pour me a brandy when you return."

  "Very good, m'lord." Bowing, Caning withdrew.

  As soon as the door closed, Antonia succumbed. "The thought of you drinking warm milk," she eventually got out, hugging her aching ribs.

  Despite himself, Philip's lips curved upward. "One day, I keep telling myself, I'll have the last word."

  He was not destined to succeed that night. Carring reap­peared bearing a glass of perfectly warmed milk on a silver tray. He deposited it on the table by Antonia's side with the same care he would have taken had it been aged port, then crossed to the cabinet and poured Philip's brandy, leaving the large glass by his master's elbow.

  "Thank you, Carring. You may lock up."

  "M'lord." With his usual deep obeisance, the major-domo withdrew.

  Reaching for the brandy glass, Philip discovered it was half-full. A subtle hint, he supposed, of Carring's estimation of his state. Taking a sip, he smiled at Antonia. "With whom did you dance?"

  Cradling her glass in her hand, she settled back in the chair. "Most of those present were more Geoffrey's age than mine but there were a few older gentlemen present—Mr Riley, Mr Hemming, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Carruthers."

  "Indeed?" Philip did not recognize the names, which gave him some idea of their station. He fixed her with a mildly enquiring gaze. "And did you, like Geoffrey, find it dull work?"