A Comfortable Wife

  Antonia smiled. "While it certainly did not rival Ast-ley's, it was not totally without interest."

  "Oh?"

  It was more to the light in his eyes and his tone that she responded, relating her observations on all she had seen as she slowly sipped her milk.

  Philip watched the firelight strike gleams from her hair; the play of the fire-glow over her pale face, over her lips, sheened by the milk, held him in thrall. The cadence of her voice rose and fell; he sipped his brandy and listened as she painted a picture he had seen many times—through her eyes, it held an innocence, a sparkling freshness he had long grown too jaded to see.

  She concluded with a thumbnail sketch of the major pro­tagonists in what promised to be one of the season's more entertaining imbroglios.

  "Indeed," Antonia said, setting aside her empty glass. “The situation of Miss Dalling and the Marquess does seem to be of some urgency—but how much of that derives from Miss Dalling's undeniable sense of the dramatic I could not say. Whatever, I'm certain Miss Dalling will prevail, gorgon aunt or no." She looked across at Philip, smiling, in­viting him to share her amusement.

  To her surprise, his face remained expressionless. Abruptly, he stood, setting his glass on the table beside him. "Come. It's time you went upstairs."

  There was a note in his voice she could not place. Be­mused, Antonia gave him her hands and let him draw her to her feet. Only then, as she stood directly before him, feeling the warmth of the fire strike through her thin gown did he meet her gaze. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were dark, slate-grey and stormy. Antonia felt her breath catch; she hesitated, then, calmly, her lips gently curving, she inclined her head. "Good night, Philip."

  She was not going to retreat in disorder this time, nor take refuge in distance.

  Stiffly, Philip returned her nod. He tensed to step back, to let her go—his fingers twined with hers and held tight. He hesitated, his gaze on her face, then slowly, gently, he drew her towards him until her bodice brushed his coat. His fingers slid from hers; he lifted both hands to frame her face.

  Antonia held his gaze, her breath tangled in her chest, her heart pulsing in her throat. She saw his lids lower, his head angle over hers, then slowly descend. Her hand rose to his shoulder as she stretched upward, her lips slightly parted.

  He kissed her, not forcefully but confidently, as one sure of his welcome. His lips firmed, his tongue teased and tan­talised, tracing the ripe curves of her lips. She parted them fully, inviting him to taste; he did, sampling her softness, laying claim to all she offered with a possessive, consum­mate skill.

  The fire burned; the flames leapt. For long minutes, a gentle magic held sway.

  Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Philip drew back. His lips bare inches from Antonia's, he waited until her lids fluttered opened. He studied her eyes, burnished gold in emerald green. When they focused, he straightened. Hold­ing tight to his reins, he released her.

  "Good night, Antonia." His smile held a wry quality he doubted she'd understand. "Sweet dreams."

  She blinked; her eyes searched his, neither frightened nor puzzled, but with an intensity he could not place. Then her lips curved. "Good night."

  The soft whisper reached him as she turned away. He watched her go, saw her glance back, once, at the door, then slip through it, shutting it softly behind her.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Philip turned towards the fire. Bracing one arm against the mantelpiece, he gazed into the flames. Wonderingly, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips—and fought to quell a shudder.

  He had never imagined milk could taste erotic.

  Chapter Nine

  At noon the next day, Philip returned to his home after breakfasting with friends at a coffee house in Jermyn Street. His expression unruffled, his disposition one of calm ex­pectation, he entered the cool dimness of his hall.

  Carring rolled forward to relieve him of his greatcoat and cane.

  Philip resettled his sleeves. “Is Miss Mannering about?''

  "Indeed, m'lord." Caning fixed his gaze on the wall beyond Philip's right shoulder. "Miss Mannering is pres­ently in the ballroom receiving instruction from the dancing master. Maestro Vincente."

  Philip studied his major-domo's eloquently blank expres­sion. "The ballroom?"

  Carring inclined his head.

  The ballroom lay beyond the drawing-room. The familiar chords of a waltz reached Philip's ears as he neared the door. Like all his doors, it opened noiselessly; crossing the threshold, he swiftly scanned the room.

  The curtains had been drawn back along one side; sun­light spilled in wide beams across the floor. Geoffrey sat at the piano at the far end, industriously providing the music, frowning as he squinted at the music sheets. In the centre of the polished parquetry, Antonia, distinctly stiff, revolved awkwardly in the arms of a middle-aged man Philip unhes­itatingly classed as an ageing roué.

  Maestro Vincente showed little evidence of Italian blood. Short and rotund, he sported a florid, suspiciously English complexion. He was wearing a brown tie-wig and a bottle-green coat of similarly ancient vintage; his spindle shanks were clad in knitted hose. Most damning of all, Maestro Vincente possessed a distinctly lecherous eye.

  Philip strode forward, letting his boot-heels ring on the boards. The music abruptly halted. Antonia looked up; Philip saw the relief in her eyes. His jaw hardened. "I fear there has been a misunderstanding."

  Maestro Vincente's eyes started. He hurriedly released Antonia. "A misunderstanding?" His high-pitched voice rendered the exclamation a squeak. "No, no. I was hired, dear sir, I assure you."

  Halting by Antonia's side, Philip looked down on the hapless maestro. "In that case, I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required." Without looking at the door, he raised his voice. "Carring?"

  "M'lord?"

  "Maestro Vincente is leaving." "Indeed, m'lord."

  "But. . .really! I must insist. . .!" Hands outspread, Maes­tro Vincente appealed to Philip.

  Philip ignored him; gripping Antonia's elbow, he guided her down the room.

  "If you'll just come this way, sir?" Carring's heavy tones left no room for argument. As always, he had the final word, efficiently ushering the deflated maestro out of the room.

  The door shut; Antonia stared at Philip. "Why did you do that?"

  Halting by the piano, Philip raised a supercilious brow. "He was hardly a proper person to instruct you in any­thing."

  “Precisely what I said,'' Geoffrey interjected.

  Antonia ignored her brother. She fixed Philip with an exasperated look. “Be that as it may, how, pray tell, am I now supposed to learn to waltz? In case it's escaped your notice, these days, every young lady must be able to waltz. The ton will expect it of—" Abruptly, she broke off. She glanced at Geoffrey, then continued, "Of me."

  Philip nodded. "Indeed. So, having dismissed your ap­pointed instructor, it would seem only fair that I take his place."

  Antonia's eyes widened. "But—"

  Exuberant chords drowned out her protest. Before she could marshal her wits, they were effectively scattered as Philip drew her into his arms.

  "I assure you I'm every bit as competent as Maestro Vincente."

  Antonia threw him a speaking look.

  Philip met it with an improbably humble expression. "I've been waltzing around the ton's ballrooms for . . .let me see." He frowned, then raised his brows. "More years than I can recall."

  Antonia humphed and straightened her spine. As usual, she felt breathless; as he effortlessly steered her into the first gliding steps, a definite giddiness took hold. She wasn't at all sure this was a good idea but the challenge in his grey eyes made demurring unthinkable. Tilting her chin, she tried to concentrate on where he was headed.

  "Relax." Philip looked down at her. "Stop thinking and you'll follow my lead easily enough." When she looked her uncertainty, he raised one brow. "I'll even forgive you should you scuff my Hessians."

  An
tonia widened her eyes at him. "Given you've just high-handedly dismissed my dancing master, who came with quite remarkable recommendations I'll have you know, then I should think you must accept whatever consequences follow." As she capped the haughty comment with a toss of her curls, Antonia was struck by the oddity of the situ­ation. Philip's intervention had been an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment reaction, unquestionably out of character. She cast a glance up at him—he was frowning.

  He caught her eye. "Who recommended Maestro Vin­cente?"

  Antonia grimaced. “Lady Castleton and Miss Castleton. They were full of his praises, so Henrietta said."

  Philip's expression turned cynical. "The Castleton ladies appear to have a definite predilection for toads. Sir Miles has my sympathy."

  Antonia wrinkled her nose. "I did wonder how they had stood him." She shuddered expressively. "He was decid­edly slimy."

  Philip's smile was fleeting, quickly superseded by a frown. He glanced at Geoffrey, busy with the keys, then captured Antonia's eye. "Kindly understand you have no cause whatever, henceforth, to have any dealings with toads, fish, or any other amphibian or reptilian species." He held her gaze steadily. “Do I make myself clear?''

  Antonia stared at him. "But what if—?"

  "There are no circumstances I can imagine that would make acquaintance nor even contact with such persons nec­essary." His gaze fixed on her face, Philip steered them through a turn. "Henceforth, should you be approached by any such persons, I would take it kindly if you referred them to me." He paused, his imagination playing with the possibilities. "No—let me rephrase that." His jaw hard­ened; again he trapped Antonia's gaze. "Should any such approach you, I will expect you to refer them to me."

  "Indeed?"

  "Indeed. In fact," Philip continued, spurred on by mem­ories of her wilful confidence, “if you do not call any such incidents to my notice, I will not be held accountable for my reactions."

  "Philip—he was only a dancing master."

  He frowned at her, noting the affectionate laughter lurk­ing in her eyes. The sight soothed the aggressive compul­sion gripping him. "It's not the dancing master I'm worried about," he acidly informed her. "Incidentally, you're waltzing quite creditably."

  Antonia's eyes flew wide; she nearly missed her step but Philip's arm tightened, holding her steady. "So I am," she said, distinctly breathless. She lowered her gaze to his shoulder. Distracted by his conversation, she had not been directing her limbs at all. Of their own volition, they had followed his assured lead; as the music flowed, they con­tinued to do so. Freed, her mind opened to the sensations of the dance, to the subtle play of her skirts about her legs, to the hardness of his thighs as they brushed hers through the turns.

  The seductive swirl of the music was mirrored in their movements; the smooth swoop and sway was a sensual delight. Philip's hand at her waist was firm, his touch con­fident as he guided her where he willed. Tentatively, she shifted the fingers of her right hand and felt his clasp tighten possessively.

  Quelling a shiver of pure awareness, Antonia had a fleet­ing, distinctly scarifying vision of waltzing like this, held captive in Philip's arms, under the long noses of the ton. How on earth would she manage with every nerve-ending afire? Appalled, she banished the vision—she did not need to deal with that potential calamity today. Today, she was here, waltzing with Philip, with none—not even Geoffrey, too busy at the piano—to watch. Today, she could enjoy herself.

  Unexpectedly, she felt a sense of warmth and triumph steal through her. A soft smile curved her lips. Raising her head, she let her gaze touch Philip's. "I have to admit that your. . .technique is a great improvement over Maestro Vin­cente's."

  Philip humphed.

  "That aside," she smoothly continued, "I had meant to thank you for your gift—the reticule." Today's gift—the latest in a long line. Ever since he had given her the parasol, no day had passed without some small token appearing in her room—a pair of gloves to match the parasol, a big bunch of satin ribbon in the same shade, a fashionable new bonnet, a pair of exquisite half-boots. This morning, a small beaded reticule she had admired in a Bond Street window had found its way to her dresser. "It goes perfectly with my new gold silk—I'll carry it tonight to the Quartermains."

  Philip studied her smile, pleased yet exasperated, too. "Mere trumpery, as I said, but if it finds favour in your eyes, then I'll rest content." For now. He was irritatingly aware that, could he behave as he wished, he would shower her with jewels, furs and all manner of expensive tokens of an affection he was prepared to admit was very real. But while she wished their liaison to remain unacknowledged, trumpery was all he could afford. He was finding the re­striction unexpectedly irksome.

  The piece they had been waltzing to drew to its conclu­sion. "That's it!" Geoffrey declared. "All very well for you," he said, as both Antonia and Philip glanced his way. "But my fingers are cramping."

  Philip grinned. Reluctantly releasing Antonia, he caught her hand, drawing her with him as he strolled towards the pianoforte. “What time did you start? Half past eleven?''

  Flexing his fingers, Geoffrey nodded.

  "Very well—we'll meet again tomorrow at the same time."

  Geoffrey nodded again; it was Antonia who protested. "Tomorrow?"

  Turning, Philip raised her hand and placed a quick, pro­prietorial kiss on her knuckles. "Indeed." He raised a brow at her. "You can hardly imagine you're an expert already?"

  "No-oo." Looking up into his eyes, Antonia hesitated.

  Here in his ballroom, they'd be essentially alone; she was increasingly confident of behaving appropriately while they were private. And practice was surely needed to strengthen her defences against the evening when she would waltz with him in public, in a crowded ballroom under the glare of the chandeliers. Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded. "No doubt you're right."

  The look Philip sent her made her arch her brows haugh­tily.

  Antonia lifted her chin. "Until tomorrow at eleven-thirty, my lord."

  Later that afternoon, Antonia with Geoffrey in tow again crossed the path of Catriona Dalling and the Marquess of Hammersley.

  Together with Henrietta, they had taken advantage of the bright autumnal sunshine and driven forth in the Ruthven barouche to see and be seen in the Park. Tempted by the clemency of the weather, they had left Henrietta in the ba­rouche, chatting to Lady Osbaldestone, and descended to join the numerous couples fashionably strolling the lawns. They were halfway down the Serpentine Walk when they came upon Miss Dalling and the Marquess.

  Heads together, voices lowered, the pair broke off what appeared to be frantic plotting to greet Antonia and Geof­frey. Shaking hands, Miss Dalling declared, "Fate has clearly sent you to us, for we stand greatly in need of sup­port."

  "Oh?" Geoffrey's eyes lit.

  "Why do you need support, Miss Dalling?" Antonia felt rather more reticent over leaping to Miss Dalling's conclu­sions.

  "Please call me Catriona," Miss Dalling said, smiling radiantly. "I truly believe we were meant to be friends."

  Antonia could not help responding with a smile. "Very well—and you must call me Antonia. But why do you need aid?"

  "My mama." Ambrose, who had already exchanged names with Geoffrey, looked dejected. "She's arrived in town, deadly keen to see the knot tied."

  "More than keen," Catriona decried. "Positively insis­tent! What with Aunt Ticehurst on one side and the Mar­chioness on the other, we're being hounded into marriage! We were just deciding what to do when you came up."

  "Nothing too drastic, I hope. You would not wish to bring any scandal down upon your head."

  "Indeed not." Catriona shook her head so vigorously her dark ringlets danced. "Any breath of scandal would avail us nought, for they would simply use that to force our hands. No—whatever we do must be done in such a way that there's no possibility Aunt Ticehurst and Ambrose's mama can use it against us."

  "So what do you plan to do?" Geoffrey asked.

&n
bsp; Catriona's brow clouded. "I don't know." For an instant, her lips quivered, then she blinked and lifted her chin. "That's why I've decided to send for Henry."

  "Henry?"

  "Henry Fortescue, my intended." Catriona's lips firmed. "He'll know what to do."

  "A capital idea, I think." Ambrose looked hopefully at Geoffrey.

  "But there's one problem." Catriona frowned. "I cannot write a letter to Henry for Aunt Ticehurst keeps a very close watch on me. We're not even out of her sight here—she's in her brougham, watching from the carriageway. I was just telling Ambrose he'll have to write for me."

  "Ah. . ." Ambrose shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "No one more eager than I to be free of this coil." He looked pleadingly at Catriona. "But you can see, can't you, that it's not really the thing? Me writing to your intended telling him to come and see you?"

  Catriona's expression turned mulish. "I don't see—"

  "By Jove, yes!" Geoffrey looked horror-struck. "Dashed awkward."

  "Precisely." Ambrose nodded rapidly. "Won't do—the poor fellow won't know what's afoot."

  Antonia managed to keep her lips straight. "Indeed, Ca­triona, I do feel that any note would be better coming from you."

  Catriona sighed. "But that's the problem—how can we manage it?"

  No one had an answer. At Antonia's suggestion, they strolled the path, all racking their brains for a solution.

  "The museum!" Geoffrey halted; the others swung to face him. Eyes alight, he grinned at them. "I read some­where that they have desks at the museum for scholars— you bring paper and pen and they provide the desk and inkwell for a small fee."

  Catriona beamed. "We can go there tomorrow—" She broke off; her smile faded. "No, we can't. Aunt Ticehurst would insist on coming too."

  Geoffrey glanced at Antonia. "Perhaps. . .?"

  Antonia read his look and inwardly sighed. Shifting her gaze to the scenery, she considered. “Not tomorrow—that would appear too precipitous. But perhaps we could arrange to make a party to visit the museum the day after tomorrow? I understand Lord Elgin's marbles are a sight not to be missed."