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 Geoffr
ey 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, Carring.”
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.
Philip 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, Carring 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 upwards. “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?”
Antonia smiled. “While it certainly did not rival Astley’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 upwards, 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.” Carring 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?”
The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day Page 15