Page 3 of A Comfortable Wife

  "My lord." Graciously, Antonia inclined her head, her eyes going to her brother. "Geoffrey." Her serene smile faded slightly. "I see you two have met." Inwardly, An­tonia prayed Geoffrey hadn't developed one of his instant dislikes—something he was distressingly prone to do when confronted with gentlemen.

  Philip returned her smile. "We've been discussing Geoffrey's impending adventure in joining the academic estab­lishment."

  "Adventure?" Antonia blinked, her gaze shifting to Geoffrey, then back to Philip.

  "Adventure indeed," Philip assured her. "Or so it was when I went up. I doubt it's changed. High drama, high jinks, life in all its varied forms. All the experience neces­sary to set a young gentleman's feet on the road to worldly confidence."

  Antonia's eyes widened. "Worldly confidence?"

  "Savoir faire, the ability to be at home in any company, the knowledge with which to face the world." Philip ges­tured broadly; his grey eyes quizzed her. "How else do you imagine gentlemen such as I learned to be as we are, my dear?"

  The words were on the tip of Antonia's tongue—she only just managed to swallow them. "I dare say," she replied, in as repressive a tone as she could. The teasing light in Philip's eyes was doing the most uncomfortable things to her stomach. A swift glance at Geoffrey confirmed that her precocious brother was not ignorant of the purport of their host's sallies. Tilting her chin, she caught Philip's eye. "I'm sure Geoffrey will find the academic pursuits all absorb­ing."

  Whether Philip would have capped her comment she was destined never to know; the door opened again, this time admitting Henrietta, closely followed by Hugo.

  As she turned to her aunt, Antonia surprised a fleeting look of chagrin on Philip's face. It was there and then gone so rapidly she was not, in truth, entirely certain she had interpreted his expression correctly. Before she could pon­der the point, Fenton entered to make his announcement.

  "My honour, I believe?"

  Antonia turned to find Philip's arm before her. Glancing across, she saw Henrietta being supported by Mr Satterly, the pair already deep in conversation. With a regally ac­quiescent glance, Antonia placed her hand on Philip's sleeve. "If you will, my lord."

  Philip sighed. "Ah, what it is to be master in one's own house."

  Antonia's lips twitched but she made no reply. Together, they led the way to the dining-room. They were five, leav­ing Philip at the head of the table and Henrietta at the foot with Hugo Satterly on one side and Geoffrey on the other. With a subtle smile, Philip delivered Antonia to the chair next to Geoffrey, the one closest to his own.

  The conversation was at first general, with Hugo relating a succession of on dits. Having heard them all before, Philip bided his time until Henrietta, eager for gossip, predictably buttonholed Hugo, demanding further details. Equally eager to learn of the world he had yet to join, Geoffrey drank in Hugo's entertaining replies.

  With a faint smile, Philip shifted in his chair, bringing Antonia directly under his gaze. “I understand, from what Henrietta let fall, that you've lived the last eight years very quietly."

  Antonia met his gaze directly, her expression serious and, he thought, a touch sombre. She shrugged lightly. "Mama was unwell. There was little time for frivolities. Naturally, once I was of an age, the ladies about invited me to join their parties." She looked away as Fenton removed her soup plate. "To the Assemblies at Harrogate."

  "Harrogate." Philip kept his expression impassive. She might as well have been buried alive. He waited until Fen­ton laid the next course before venturing, “But your mother must have entertained to some degree?"

  Sampling a morsel of turbot cloaked in rich sweetbread sauce, Antonia shook her head. "Not after Papa's death. We received, of course, but more often than not, when the ladies arrived, Mama was too ill to come down."

  "I see."

  The quiet comment drew a quick glance from Antonia.

  "You must not imagine I've been pining away, dreaming of a gay life." Reaching for a dish of morels, she offered them to Philip. “I had more than enough to occupy myself, what with running the household and the estate. Mama was never well enough to tend to such matters. And there was Geoffrey, of course. Mama was always in a fret that he was sickly, which, of course, he never was. But she was sure he had inherited her constitution. Nothing would convince her otherwise."

  Philip looked past Antonia; Geoffrey was wholly im­mersed in the conversation at the other end of the table. "Speaking of Geoffrey, how did you manage to find tutors to keep up with him? He must have been quite a handful."

  Instantly, he realised he'd discovered the key to An­tonia's confidence. Her eyes fairly glowed. "He certainly was. Why, by the time he was nine, he had outstripped the curate."

  There followed an animated catalogue of Geoffrey's suc­cesses, liberally sprinkled with tales of misdeeds, catastro­phes and simple country pleasures. In between the high­lights of Geoffrey's life, Philip heard enough to gauge what manner of existence had been Antonia's lot. What encour­agement was needed to keep her revelations flowing, he artfully supplied. As her history unfolded, he realised the unnamed curate was featuring remarkably often.

  Laying aside his fork, he reached for his wineglass. "This curate of yours seems to have taken his duties very seriously."

  Antonia's smile was fond. "Indeed. Mr Smothingham was always a great support. He really is a true knight—a most chivalrous soul." With a small sigh, she gave her attention to the gooseberry fool Fenton had placed before her.

  Leaving Philip to wonder how he could possibly feel so aggressive towards a probably perfectly innocent curate whom he had never met. He cleared his throat. "Henrietta mentioned she was thinking of going up to town for the Little Season."

  "Indeed." Savouring the tartness of the gooseberry treat, Antonia slanted him a glance. "She's invited me to accom­pany her. I hope you don't disapprove?"

  "Disapprove?" Philip forced his eyes wide. "Not at all." Picking up his spoon, he attacked the frothy concoc­tion before him. "In fact, I'll be relieved to know she'll have your company."

  Antonia smiled and gave her attention to her dessert.

  Philip rejected his, reaching instead for his wineglass. He took a long sip, his gaze on Antonia. "Am I to understand you're looking forward to taking the ton by storm?"

  She met his gaze with another of her disconcertingly di­rect looks. "I don't know." Her brows rose; her lips curved lightly. "Do you think I would find it diverting?"

  Beyond his will, Philip's gaze was drawn to her lips, to the rich fullness of the ripe curves. He watched as the tip of her tongue traced their contours, leaving them sheening. His expression rigidly impassive, Philip drew in a deep breath. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and met Antonia's steady gaze. "As to that, my dear, I would not dare hazard a guess."

  He had only questioned her intentions in London to as­sure himself she was a willing partner in Henrietta's schemes. His motives, Philip assured himself, were entirely altruistic. Henrietta could be a battleship when she was so moved. Unless he had misread the signs, when it came to Antonia's future, Henrietta was definitely moved.

  "I'm not in the mood for billiards." Tossing back the last of his port, he stood and settled his coat. "Let's join the ladies, shall we?"

  Geoffrey, for the first time elevated to the rank of gen­tleman to the extent of remaining to pass the port, saw noth­ing odd in the suggestion.

  Hugo was not so innocent. He turned a face of amazed incomprehension on Philip.

  Philip ignored it, leading the way to the drawing-room without further comment.

  If Henrietta was surprised by his unheralded break with long established habit, she gave no sign. Seated on the chaise, she looked up from her needlework to smile be­nignly. "Wonderful—just what we need. Geoffrey, do go and sing a duet with Antonia."

  Henrietta waved towards the pianoforte, which stood be­fore the long windows, presently open to the terrace. An­tonia sat at the instrument, her fingers on the keys. A gentle, elusi
ve air hung faint in the evening breeze.

  With an obedient nod, Geoffrey headed for his sister. Antonia smiled a welcome, breaking off her playing to reach for the pile of music sheets resting on the piano's edge. With his customary lazy grace, Philip strolled in Geoffrey's wake. Left standing by the chaise, Hugo studied the small procession, then shrugged and brought up the rear.

  "Let's try this, shall we?" Antonia placed a sheet on the stand.

  Geoffrey scanned the fines, then nodded.

  Philip took up a position by the side of the grand piano from where he could watch Antonia's face. As her fingers ranged the keys and the first chords of an old ballad filled the room, she looked up and met his gaze. A slight smile touched her lips; for an instant, their gazes held. Then she looked down and the music swept on.

  She and Geoffrey sang in unison, Geoffrey's pure tenor weaving in and about her fuller tones. For one stanza, she sang alone; Philip briefly closed his eyes, listening, not to the song, but to the music of her voice. It was not the light voice of the girl he remembered but richer, a warm contralto with an undercurrent of huskiness.

  As Geoffrey's voice blended once more with hers, Philip opened his eyes. He saw Antonia glance encouragingly up at Geoffrey, then they launched into the last verse. As the final chords died, he, Henrietta and Hugo burst into spon­taneous applause.

  Almost squirming, Geoffrey blushed and disclaimed. Her expression one of affectionate exasperation, Antonia turned and deliberately met Philip's gaze. Lips curving, she arched a delicate brow. "Are you game, my lord?"

  Philip detected at least two meanings in her challenge; he was uncertain if there was a third. Languidly, he inclined his head and straightened, responding to the more obvious of her prompts. Coming around the piano, he dropped a hand on Geoffrey's shoulder. "After that masterful effort, I fear my poor talents will be a disappointment to you all, but if you can find a simple ballad, I'll endeavour to do my poor best." He took up his stance behind Antonia's shoul­der; Hugo took his place by the side of the piano.

  With an approving smile, Antonia obliged with a rolling country ballad; Philip's strong baritone managed the chang­ing cadences with ease. Unexpectedly caught up in the sim­ple entertainment, Hugo consented to favour them with a rollicking shanty with a repeating refrain; Antonia made the performance even more humourous by consistently length­ening the long note at the end of the second last line of the reprieve. The shanty had a full twenty verses. First Geof­frey, then Philip, joined in, assisting Hugo through the in­creasingly jocular song. By the end of it, they were all laughing, very much out of breath.

  A smile wreathing her face, Henrietta applauded vigor­ously, then summoned them to take tea.

  Laughter lighting her eyes, Antonia swivelled on the stool to find Philip beside her. Deliberately, she looked up and met his eyes. Despite his easy expression, the grey orbs were veiled. Calmly, she raised a brow, then watched as the chiselled line of his lips lengthened into a definite smile.

  He held out his hand. "Tea, my dear?"

  "Indeed, my lord." Tilting her chin, Antonia laid her fingers in his palm and felt his hand close about them. A peculiar shiver shot up her arm, then slithered slowly down her spine. Ignoring it, she rose; side by side, they crossed the room to where Henrietta was dispensing the tea.

  With studied calm, Antonia accepted her cup but made no move to quit her aunt's side. A host of unfamiliar sen­sations flickered along her nerves; her heart was thudding distractingly. Such unexpected susceptibility was not, to her mind, a helpful development. She had never before been so afflicted—she hoped the effect would fade quickly.

  To her relief, Henrietta kept up a steady spate of inconsequentialities, abetted by Hugo Satterly. Geoffrey, having gulped his tea, wandered back to the piano. Sipping slowly, Antonia concentrated on settling her nerves.

  From behind his languid mask, Philip watched her.

  "Actually, Ruthven—" Henrietta turned from Hugo "—I had meant to consult you as soon as you appeared about holding some entertainment for the neighbours. We haven't done anything in years. Now Antonia's here to help me, I really feel I should grasp the nettle with both hands."

  Philip raised a brow. "Indeed?" None who heard those two syllables could doubt his reluctance.

  Henrietta nodded imperiously. "It's one's duty, after all. I had been thinking of a grand ball—musicians, dancing, all the trimmings."

  "Oh?" Philip's tone grew steadily more distant. He ex­changed a glance with Hugo.

  "Yes." Henrietta frowned, then grimaced. "But Antonia pointed out that, after all this time, we should really do something for our tenants as well."

  Philip glanced at Antonia; she was sipping her tea, her eyes demurely cast down. He swallowed a disbelieving "humph".

  "All things considered—and I really do not feel I can let this opportunity slide, Ruthven—I do believe dear An­tonia's suggestion is the best." Folding her hands in her lap, Henrietta nodded decisively.

  "And what," Philip asked, his tone deliberately even "is dear Antonia's suggestion?"

  "Why, a fete-champetre—didn't I say?" Henrietta re­garded him wide-eyed. "A positively inspired idea, as I'm sure even you will allow. We can set everything up on the lawns. Battledore and shuttlecock, races, bobbing for ap­ples, archery, a play for the children—you know how these things go. We can have the food and ale set up on trestles for the tenants and entertain our neighbours on the terrace, overlooking all the fun."

  Henrietta gestured grandly. "A whole afternoon in which everyone can enjoy themselves. I rather think we should hold it in the next week or so, before the weather turns, but naturally you'd have to be present. Shall we say next Sat­urday—a week from now?"

  Philip held her enquiring gaze, his expression as inform­ative as a blank wall. A garden party was infinitely pref­erable to a local ball—but at what price? A vision of hordes of farmers and their wives tramping across his lawns swam through his mind; in his imagination he could hear the high-pitched shrieks of multitudes of children and the screams as some, inevitably, fell in the lake. But worse than all that, he could clearly see the bevy of simpering, silly, local young misses to whom he would, perforce, have to be civil.

  "Naturally, I'll assist in any way I can."

  Antonia's soft words cut across Philip's thoughts. He glanced her way, then, one brow slowly rising, turned back to Henrietta. "I admit to reservations that acting as hostess at such a large and varied gathering will overly tire you."

  Henrietta's grin was triumphant. "No need to worry over me. Antonia can stand in my stead for the most part—I'm looking forward to sitting on the terrace with the other dow­agers, keeping an eye on it all from a suitable elevation."

  "I can imagine," Philip returned drily. He shifted his gaze to Antonia. "Yet your 'most part' is not precisely a light load."

  Antonia's chin came up; she shot him a distinctly haughty glance. "I think you'll discover, my lord, that I'm more than up to snuff. I've managed such gatherings at Mannering for years—I anticipate no great difficulty in overseeing my aunt's entertainment."

  Philip ensured his expression held just enough scepticism to make her eyes flash. "I see."

  "Good." Henrietta thumped the floor with her cane. "So it's Saturday. We'll send out the invitations tomorrow."

  Philip blinked. Hugo, he noticed, looked vaguely stunned. Henrietta, of course, was beaming happily up at him. Drawing in a deep breath, he hesitated, then inclined his head. "Very well."

  As he straightened, he deliberately caught Antonia's eye. Her expression was innocent but her eyes, tapestries of green and gold, were infinitely harder to read. She raised her brows slightly, then reached for his empty cup.

  Eyes narrowing, Philip surrendered it. "I intend to hold you to your offer."

  She treated him to a sunny, utterly confident smile, then moved away to straighten the tea trolley.

  Suppressing a snort, Philip turned to find Hugo beside him.

  "Think I'll g
o join Geoffrey." Hugo wriggled his shoul­ders. "In case you haven't noticed, there's an aura about here that's addling wits."

  The dew was still on the grass when Antonia headed for the stables the next morning. Early morning rides had been a long-ago treat; Philip's return had resurrected pleasant memories.

  Entering the long stable, she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Rising on her toes, she looked along the glossy backs, trying to ascertain whether the chestnut gelding the headgroom, Martin, had told her was Philip's favourite, was still in his box.

  "Still an intrepid horsewoman, I see."

  Antonia smothered her gasp and swung about. The velvet skirts of her habit swirled, brushing Philip's boots. He was so close, she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, one hand on her riding hat to keep it in place.

  "I didn't hear you." The words were breathless; in­wardly, Antonia cursed.

  "I noticed. You seemed absorbed in some search." Philip's eyes held hers. "What were you looking for?"

  For an instant, Antonia's mind went blank; prodded by sheer irritation, she replied, "I was looking for Martin." She turned to survey the empty stable, then slanted a glance at Philip. "I wanted him to saddle a horse for me."

  Philip's jaw firmed. He hesitated, then asked, "Which of my nags have you been using?"

  "I haven't been out yet." Picking up her skirts, Antonia strolled down the aisle, knowledgeably gauging the tall hunters and hacks.

  Philip followed. "Take your pick," he said, knowing very well she would.

  "Thank you." Antonia stopped before a stall housing a long-tailed roan, a raking, raw-boned stallion Philip pri­vately considered had a chip on his shoulder—he was per­ennially in a bad mood. "This one, I think."

  With any other woman, Philip's veto would have been automatic. Instead, he simply snorted and strode on to the tack room. Returning with a side-saddle, bridle and reins, he found Antonia crooning sweet nothings to the giant horse. The stallion appeared as docile as the most matronly mare.