The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day
Page 17
“The trick is to keep strolling.” Philip caught her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “That way, you don’t end up collecting so much extraneous baggage.”
His hand closed over hers, his intention plain; Antonia held firm. “No!” she hissed. “I can’t leave here—I’m waiting for someone.”
Philip’s eyes locked on hers. The arrested look in them made Antonia’s heart skip a beat. “Oh?” he said. One brown brow slowly arched. “Who?”
Antonia cast a distracted glance at her companions; their discussion was slowly winding down. “I’ll explain it all later—but we have to stay here.” With that, she gave her attention to Sir Frederick.
“Tell me, my dear Miss Mannering.” Sir Frederick smiled engagingly. “What do you say to the age of these gold cups?” He gestured to a large display in the centre of the room. “Are we really to believe such workmanship dates from before Christ?”
Philip raised his eyes to the ceiling. Resisting the urge to simply haul Antonia away, he clenched his jaw and endured fifteen minutes of the most utterly inane discussions. Having very little to do with younger gentlemen, he had never before suffered any similar experience. By the time Antonia abruptly straightened, he was ready to admit that young ladies of the ton might have a cross to bear he had not hitherto appreciated.
Scanning the room, his gaze passed over a stunningly pretty girl strolling forward on the arm of a pasty-faced youth. Failing to discover any likely candidate for Antonia’s attention, he was rescanning their surroundings when Antonia broke off her conversation. “Ah—here’s Miss Dalling.”
Miss Dalling and her companion were well-known to the other gentlemen; introduced, Philip exchanged greetings. He did not need Antonia’s swift glance to realize it was Miss Dalling and the Marquess for whom she’d been waiting. Her reasons, however, remained a mystery.
Miss Dalling turned wide lavender-blue eyes upon the assembled company. “All these old things are quite fascinating, are they not?”
While Catriona chattered animatedly, Antonia, somewhat distractedly, considered her court. When she had planned this excursion, she had imagined strolling quietly about the displays on Geoffrey’s arm while Catriona with Ambrose in attendance composed her missive. But no sooner had she set foot in the museum than gentlemen had appeared as if sprouting from the woodwork, all intent on passing the time by her side. Luckily, Mr Broadside and Sir Eric Malley had had previous engagements which had forced them to leave; that still left her with five unexpected cavaliers to dismiss.
She had not the first idea how to accomplish the deed.
“Perhaps,” she said, smiling meaningfully at Catriona, “we should stroll about the rooms?”
“Oh, yes! I expect I should take particular note of some of the displays.” Eyes twinkling, Catriona took Ambrose’s arm. Antonia surmised the summons to Henry Fortescue had been successfully inscribed and handed into Ambrose’s care.
Her hand on Philip’s sleeve, Antonia smiled upon her court. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your company. Perchance we’ll meet tonight?”
“Yes, indeed—but no need to break up the party.” Sir Frederick gestured expansively.
“No—indeed no,” came from Mr Dashwood. “Haven’t actually looked at anything in the museum for years—only too pleased to take a squint around.”
“I’ll come too—just in case you need some information on the artifacts.” Mr Carruthers nodded benignly.
Antonia’s answering smile was weak. When they strolled from the room, all five gentlemen ambled in their wake. As they wended their way between the display cases, she bit her lip—then slanted a glance up at Philip. He met it with an expression she was coming to know well—pure cynicism combined with insufferable male superiority. He arched a distinctly supercilious brow at her. Antonia narrowed her eyes at him, then, head high, shifted her gaze forward.
Philip hid his smile. He saw Geoffrey and shot him a glance sharp enough to bring him to heel. When they reached the centre of the main room, he halted and pulled out his watch. Consulting it, he grimaced. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we’ve run out of time. If you want your surprise, we’ll have to leave now.”
Antonia stared at him, her lips forming a silent “Oh.”
“Surprise?” Geoffrey asked.
“The surprise I promised you all,” Philip glibly replied. “Remember?”
Geoffrey met his gaze. “Oh! That surprise.”
“Indeed.” Smoothly turning to Antonia’s trailing court, Philip raised a languid brow. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that you’ll have to excuse us.”
“Oh—yes. Naturally!”
“Until next time, Miss Mannering. Miss Dalling.”
To Antonia’s inward disgust, amid a host of similar phrases, her five encumbrances obediently took themselves off. As the last bowed and withdrew, she glanced up at Philip, only to see his jaw firm.
“I suggest we get moving immediately.” Before any of them could question his intent, he had them all outside, Catriona and Ambrose included. A hackney was waiting at the kerb; Philip hailed it and bundled Catriona, Ambrose and Geoffrey aboard. Shutting the door on them, he slapped the side. “Gunters.”
The jarvey nodded and clicked his reins. The old coach lumbered away.
Left standing on the pavement, distinctly bemused, Antonia stared at Philip. “What about us?”
Exasperated, he looked down at her. “Do we have to follow?”
Antonia stiffened. “Yes!”
Philip narrowed his eyes at her, but she refused to retreat. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he called up another hackney.
“Now,” he said, the instant the hackney’s door shut upon them. “You can explain what Miss Dalling and the Marquess are about.”
Antonia was perfectly willing to do so; by the time the hackney drew up outside Gunters, Philip was considering retreating himself. Unfortunately, the sight that met his eyes as he glanced out of the hackney window rendered that course of action impossible.
“Good God!” he said, sitting forward and reaching for the handle. “The silly clunches are standing outside.”
Predictably, Catriona Dalling had started to attract an audience. Gritting his teeth, Philip handed Antonia down, then deftly extricated Miss Dalling and, feeling very like a sheepdog with his sheep, ushered his little group into the shop.
It was hardly a venue at which he was well known. Nevertheless, the waitress took one look at him and immediately found a discreet booth big enough to accommodate the whole party. By the time he sank onto the bench beside Antonia, Philip found he was actually looking forward to an ice.
The waitress took their orders; the ices arrived before they had well caught their breaths. Catriona, Ambrose and Geoffrey attacked theirs in style; Philip and Antonia were rather more circumspect.
Catriona finished first and patted her lips with her napkin. “Ambrose will post my letter tomorrow,” she informed the table at large. “I know Henry will come posthaste to the rescue—just like the true knight he is.” She clasped her napkin to her bosom and affected a romantically distant gaze. Then she sighed. “He’ll know exactly what to do for the best. Everything will be right as a trivet once he arrives.”
When she and Ambrose fell to discussing their respective guardians’ likely plans, Philip caught Antonia’s eye. “I can only hope,” he murmured, “that Mr Fortescue is up to handling Miss Dalling’s dramatic flights. Don’t ever think I’m not grateful for your lack of histrionic tendencies.”
Antonia blinked, then smiled and looked down at her ice. As she took another mouthful, her smile grew. She had wondered if Philip would prove at all susceptible to Catriona’s undeniable beauty. Apparently not. His comment, indeed, suggested quite otherwise; she couldn’t help feeling pleased.
Watching her, Philip narrowed his eyes, astute enough to guess what
lay behind her smug smile. He attacked his ice, inwardly humphing at the implied slight to his taste. To any with experience, certainly any of his ilk, Miss Dalling’s mere prettiness could not hold a candle to Antonia’s mature beauty. The heiress might be a handful in her own way but she was very definitely not the same sort of handful his bride-to-be obviously was. He glanced at Antonia, then, all but automatically, scanned the room.
Four gentlemen rapidly averted their eyes. Philip’s expression hardened. At the museum, all five gentlemen had had Antonia in their sights, a fact that had not escaped him.
Shifting in his seat, Philip let his gaze rest on her face.
She felt it; turning, she briefly studied his eyes, then lifted a brow. “I think perhaps it’s time we left. We have Lady Griswald’s musical soirée this evening.”
As they left the shop, Philip found himself wondering who would be at Lady Griswald’s tonight. Antonia shook his arm.
“Catriona and Ambrose are leaving.”
Philip duly took his leave of the pair, who intended visiting Hatchard’s before returning to Ticehurst House. With Antonia on his arm and Geoffrey ambling behind, Philip headed in the opposite direction. Absorbed with thoroughly unwelcome considerations, he stared, unseeing, straight ahead.
Antonia cast a puzzled glance up at him. She opened her lips to comment on his brown study, simultaneously following his gaze. Her words froze on her lips.
Ten yards ahead stood two ladies, both exquisitely gowned and coiffed. Both were ogling Philip shamelessly.
She might have been raised in Yorkshire but Antonia knew immediately exactly what sort of ladies the two were. She stiffened; her eyes flashed. She was about to bestow a chillingly haughty glance when she caught herself up—and glanced at Philip.
In the same instant, Philip refocused and saw the two Cyprians. Absentminded still, he idly took stock of their wares, then felt Antonia’s gaze. He glanced down at her, just in time to see her lids veil her eyes. She stiffened and pointedly looked away, every line infused with haughty condemnation.
Philip opened his mouth—eyes narrowing, he bit back his words. He had, he reminded himself, no need to excuse himself over something she should not, by rights, even have noticed. He halted. “We’ll take a cab.”
He hailed a passing hackney. The three of them climbed in; Antonia sat beside him, cloaked in chilly dignity. Philip stared out of the window, his lips a thin line. He had had to put up with her being ogled all afternoon, let alone what might happen tonight. She had no right to take umbrage just because two ladybirds had cast their eyes his way.
By the time the hackney turned into Grosvenor Square, he had, somewhat grudgingly, calmed. Her sensitivity might irritate but her intelligence was, to him, one of her attractions. It was, he supposed, unreasonable to expect her to be ignorant on specific topics—such as his past history or potential inclinations.
The hackney pulled up; he let Geoffrey jump down, then descended leisurely and helped Antonia to the pavement, affecting indifference when she refused to meet his eyes. He tossed a half-crown to the jarvey then, studiously urbane, escorted her in, pausing in the hall to hand his cane to Carring.
“So,” he said, coming up with her as she removed her bonnet. “You’re bound for Lady Griswald’s tonight?”
Still avoiding his gaze, Antonia nodded. “A musical soirée, as I said. Hordes of innocently reticent young ladies pressed to entertain the company with their musical talents.” Looking down, she unbuttoned her gloves. “Not, I believe, your cup of tea.”
Her words stung; ruthlessly, Philip clamped down on his reaction, shocked by its strength. His polite mask firmly in place, he waited patiently beside her—and let the silence stretch.
Eventually, she glanced up at him, haughty wariness in her eyes.
Trapping her gaze, he smiled—charmingly. “I hope you enjoy yourself, my dear.”
Briefly, her eyes scanned his, then, stiffly, she inclined her head. “I hope your evening is equally enjoyable, my lord.”
With that she glided away; regally erect, she climbed the stairs.
Philip watched her ascend, then turned to his library, his smile converting to a wry grimace. He was too old a hand to try to melt her ice; he’d wait for the thaw.
CHAPTER TEN
THREE NIGHTS LATER, the atmosphere was still sub-zero.
Following Henrietta and Geoffrey up Lady Caldecott’s stairs, Antonia on his arm, Philip cast a jaundiced glance over the crowd about them. Their first two evenings of the Little Season had been spent at mere parties, relatively quiet affairs at which the guests had concentrated on catching up with the summer’s developments rather than actively embarking on any new intrigues. Lady Caldecott’s Grand Ball marked the end of such simple entertainments.
They had yet to gain the ballroom door, but at least three of his peers had already taken due note of Antonia, serenely beautiful if somewhat tense by his side. Even at a distance, he could detect the gleam in their eyes. He didn’t need to look to know she presented a stunning spectacle, garbed in another of Lafarge’s creations, a shimmering sheath of pale gold silk trimmed at neckline and hem with delicate lace edged with tiny pearls. Despite his intentions, his eyes were drawn to where her mother’s pearls lay about her throat, their priceless sheen matched by her ivory skin.
She glanced up, cool distance in her gaze. “It’s dreadfully crowded. I hope Henrietta will manage.”
Philip’s gaze flicked forward to where Henrietta doggedly stumped upwards, leaning heavily on Geoffrey’s arm. “I think you’ll discover she’s made of stern stuff. She won’t wilt in this climate.”
Antonia hoped he was right. The crowd was dense, the press of bodies up the stairs disconcerting. It was her first experience of this degree of enthusiasm. “Is this what they term a ‘crush’?” Glancing up, she surprised an arrogant, almost aggressive look on Philip’s face. It disappeared as he looked down at her.
“Indeed.” Philip shackled the urge to draw her closer. “The epitome of every hostess’s ambitions. That said, I suspect Lady Caldecott has overstepped her mark. Her ballroom, I hesitate to inform you, is not this,” he gestured at the crowd surging about them, “large.”
The accuracy of his prediction was confirmed when, fifteen cramped minutes later, they passed down the receiving line and gained the ballroom.
Henrietta, too short to see beyond the shoulders surrounding them, jabbed Geoffrey in the arm. “There should be a group of three or four chaises somewhere about. Where?”
Geoffrey lifted his head.
“To the left,” Philip said.
“Good! That’s where my set will gather. You—” Henrietta poked Geoffrey again “—can escort me there and then you may take yourself off. As for you two—” she cast a glance at Philip and Antonia “—you’ll have to take care of yourselves.” Henrietta smiled, decidedly smug. “In this crush, we’ll never find each other—you can fetch me when it’s time to leave.”
Philip’s brows rose but he made no demur. He bowed gracefully. “As you wish, ma’am.”
Antonia bobbed a curtsy. Henrietta shuffled into the crowd and was immediately lost to sight. As Philip resettled her hand on his sleeve, Antonia looked about, taking stock of her first Grand Ball. Silks and satins, ribbons and lace, paraded before her. A hundred voices were raised in avid chatter; perfumes drifted and mingled into a heady haze, wafting as bejeweled ladies nodded and curtsied. Elegant gentlemen in superbly cut evening coats inclined their heads; comforted by the hardness of Philip’s arm beneath her hand, Antonia smiled coolly back.
“Before we go any further,” Philip said, interrupting her reconnaissance, “I would be greatly obliged if you would write my name in your card against the first waltz.” A number of gentlemen were headed their way.
Antonia looked up at him. “The first waltz?”
Reading as much in his eyes, Antonia resigned herself to the inevitable. Lips compressed, she opened the small card Lady Caldecott had handed her. The first waltz was the third dance; under Philip’s watchful eye, she duly inscribed his name in the space beside it—then showed him the card.
He actually read it before nodding. Antonia set her teeth. She would have caught his eye and glared—she was distracted by Hugo Satterly who appeared through the ranks before them.
“A great pleasure to welcome you to town, Miss Mannering.” Hugo bowed with ready grace, his pleasant smile creasing his face.
He was but the first to express that sentiment. To Antonia’s surprise, they were rapidly surrounded by a select group of elegant gentlemen, none of whom bore any relation to her relatively innocuous, easy-to-manage cavaliers of the past weeks. These gentlemen were all contemporaries of Philip’s, many his friends, smoothly claiming his offices in making the introductions. At first, she wondered if it was he rather than she with whom they had stopped to chat. They were, however, assiduous in claiming the blank spaces in her dance card; long before the first cotillion, her card was gratifyingly full.
Surrounded by broad shoulders, she waited for the musicians to start up, not entirely sure if she was relieved or otherwise when her circle of gentlemen plainly set themselves to entertain her. Philip, however, large and relatively silent by her side, gave her no hint he saw anything remarkable in their attentions; lifting her chin, Antonia smiled graciously on her would-be cavaliers.
A lull in the conversation brought Hugo Satterley’s voice to her ears; he was standing beyond Philip—a quick glance confirmed it was to Philip he spoke.
“Meant to thank you for coming out that night—dashed awkward, but it saved my hide.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed. “If I’d known it was simply a matter of making a fourth at whist I wouldn’t have set foot beyond my door. From your note, I’d imagined some life-threatening situation.”