The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day

by Stephanie Laurens

  She gave a brittle laugh, drawing attention back to them.

  “I greatly fear, my lord, that my dance card is full.” On pretext of displaying her card, she slipped her right wrist from his hold. “See?” Without looking at him, she held the card up for his perusal, then she beamed upon her court. “Indeed, I couldn’t disappoint so many earnest cavaliers.”

  Her court immediately came to her rescue, decrying his right to take her from them. Gritting his teeth, Philip was forced to acquiesce with a semblance of grace. He had waltzed with her earlier; as usual, she had no further dances free.

  With that avenue blocked, he remained by her side, increasingly aware of how tenuous, how flimsy, her blithely gay facade truly was. The knowledge stayed his hand from any further attempt to gain time alone with her; after all her hard work, after all her trepidations, to push her to the brink of some hysterical outburst here, in a ton ballroom, would be the act of a cad. The same consideration kept him where he was; if she did stumble and fall, he was one of the few he would trust to catch her.

  And, after all, they would shortly be home; the library fire would already be lit.

  With that objective in mind, he escorted her smoothly from the ballroom at the close of the evening, shielding her as best he could from any too-observant eyes. Helpfully, Henrietta proved greatly distracted by Miss Dalling’s prospects; Geoffrey, drawn into the discussion, filled the gap Antonia left.

  She followed Henrietta from the carriage, leaving him to descend in her wake. But Henrietta’s slow progress up the steps held her back; coming up beside Antonia, Philip caught her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She started at his touch, then acquiesced, allowing him to lead her to the door.

  Henrietta, still demanding to know more of Miss Dalling, stumped up the stairs on Geoffrey’s arm. From the hall, Antonia fast by his side, Philip watched until the pair gained the landing.

  “My lord?”

  Carring stood waiting to take his evening cloak. Releasing Antonia, Philip untied the loose ribands and shrugged the cloak from his shoulders. Turning back, he discovered Antonia halfway to the stairs.

  “I greatly fear, my lord,” she said, one hand rising to her brow, “that I have quite the most hideous headache. If you’ll excuse me?”

  With a swirling bob by way of farewell, she turned and sailed on up the stairs, not once meeting his gaze.

  Philip’s eyes narrowed as he watched her ascend; his expression hardened with every step she took.

  When Antonia had passed from sight, Carring coughed, then murmured, “No nightcaps tonight, my lord?”

  His expression like flint, Philip growled, “As you know damned well, I can pour my own brandy. You may lock up.”

  With that, he strode into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  * * *

  UPSTAIRS, ANTONIA REACHED her chamber only to discover she had to ring for Nell, who had grown used to her interludes in the library. Tense as a bowstring, she waited until Nell appeared, then, resigned, submitted to the maid’s ministrations, excusing her departure from the norm with, “I’m merely feeling a bit peaked. A good night’s sleep will no doubt see me right.”

  Busy with her buttons, Nell shot her a searching glance. “Sure you don’t want me to mix up a Blue Powder? Or I could fetch you up the jar of Dr Radcliffe’s Restorative Pork Jelly. A spoonful of that does strengthen one.”

  She could certainly use some strength. “No, thank you.” Antonia held herself stiffly, restraining her thoughts, her emotions, by main force. “Just help me into my nightgown—I’ll do my hair.”

  Mumbling, grumbling, citing the benefits of Dr Radcliffe’s Jelly to the last, Nell eventually took herself off.

  Alone, Antonia drew in a deep, difficult breath, then, her brush in her hand, sank onto the stool before her dressing-table. Like one in a dream, she fell to brushing out her thick curls, her gaze fixed on her image in the mirror. The candelabra to her right threw steady light over her face; briefly, she focused on her image, then reached for the snuffer. Only when the candles were doused, leaving the room wreathed in shadows with the only light coming from the single candle by her bed, did she look back at the mirror.

  She had no need to see the misery in her eyes to know of the misery in her heart.

  For which she had only herself to blame.

  She had let her heart rule her head, let love lead her to believe in miracles. Her mother had warned her—she had warned herself—but she hadn’t listened. Seduced by love, she’d thought herself safe from its pain. Tonight, she had discovered she was not.

  The hold she had maintained over her emotions abruptly shredded; love hit her like a blow, as it had in Lady Carstairs’s library, when concealed by shadows, she had watched Philip respond to some sophisticated harlot. As before, the impact left her reeling; pain speared through her, a vice squeezed her heart. A dull ache filled her, a miasma spreading insidiously through her, swallowing all hope.

  Dully, Antonia blinked at the mirror, then laid aside her brush. She had always been strong, always able to cope. She would cope with this, too, and she would not cry—not even when her mother had sold her mare, the last gift her father had given her, had she given way to tears. Slowly, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly stared at her reflection, all but hidden by the flickering shadows.

  Her hurt, her anguish, was entirely her own fault. Philip had never said he loved her—she had no cause to reproach him. The truth was as it had always been; she had been foolish to imagine otherwise. Her feelings, her unspoken, unacknowledged hopes, were irrelevant. Ruthlessly, she bundled them together, then buried them deep—and spent the next hour sternly repeating all the strictures, the strictures necessary to play the part of Philip’s wife, unexpectedly finding strength in the clear-cut, unemotional edicts. Only when she had regained her sense of purpose did she allow herself to think of other things.

  The rest of the night went in a fruitless endeavour, a futile attempt to mend her broken heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “CAN I FETCH you anything, my lord?”

  Seated behind his desk in the library, Philip looked up. Carring stood in the open doorway. Philip frowned. “No. Not at the moment.”

  Carring bowed and backed out, reaching for the doorknob.

  “And you may leave the door open.”

  Carring bowed again. “Of course, my lord.”

  Smothering a growl, Philip refocused on the Gazette. The weak rays of the midday sun intermittently pierced the clouds, throwing fitful beams across the page.

  The weather was not the only thing to have suddenly turned uncertain.

  Antonia had given him no chance to explain, no chance to set the record straight. He trusted her implicitly; despite her agreement to do so, she obviously didn’t trust him. Admittedly, he carried a certain reputation, one he’d made no effort to hide, but they were friends and had been for years. He had thought that would count for rather more than it had. To his mind, the matter was clear. She should have known better—known him better.

  Rather than believe the evidence of her eyes. And her ears.

  Philip grimaced. His gaze, fixed unseeing on the page, grew more deeply abstracted.

  A faint creak sounded from beyond the library door.

  Instantly, he was out of his chair and rounding the desk. By the time Antonia started down the last flight of stairs, he was waiting to greet her.

  “Good morning, my dear. I missed you at breakfast.”

  The rest of his carefully rehearsed speech, his “I trust you slept well?” followed by a pointed request for a moment of her time, went winging from his head the instant he saw her face.

  Antonia hesitated, one hand clutching the balustrade, her gaze deliberately unfocused. “I’m afraid...” Dragging in a breath, she lifted her
head. “That is, I slept in.” She felt chilled to the marrow, very close to shivering, but if she wished to be his comfortable wife, she had to comport herself appropriately, even at moments like this.

  Stiffly poised, she continued her descent, concentrating on her carriage. Behind her, Nell’s heavier footfalls followed down the stairs. Defiantly, she kept her head high. Nell had ministered with cucumber water and Denmark Lotion; she assumed the worst was disguised. Reaching the last step, she bestowed an unfocused glance on her husband-to-be. “I trust you are well, my lord?”

  “Tolerably,” came the brief answer. Then, after a fractional hesitation, “I wonder, my dear, whether you can spare me a moment of your time?”

  Surprised, not only by the request but by the gentler tone of his voice, Antonia blinked; unintentionally, she focused on Philip’s face. The concern in his eyes had her turning her head away; she disguised the movement by flicking out her skirts. “As it happens, my lord, I was on my way to the back parlour to write letters. I regret to confess I’ve been greatly remiss in my correspondence. There are many ladies in Yorkshire to whom I owe a degree of thanks.”

  She was determined to make no fuss, but the idea of being alone with him just now was simply too much. Her gaze fixed on his cravat, she continued, “I’ve put the matter off unconscionably long. I understand that if I complete my letters by two, Carring will be able to post them.”

  “Carring,” Philip said, acutely aware of his major-domo hovering behind him, “may put them on my desk. I’ll frank them.”

  Antonia inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll begin them immediately.” She made to turn away.

  “Perhaps we could take the air later—a stroll around the square once your correspondence is dealt with?”

  Antonia hesitated. The idea of a walk in the fresh breeze was tempting but the vision her mind supplied—of them, stiff and silent, circumnavigating the square—was more than enough to dissuade her. “Ah—I believe Henrietta and I are due to take tea with Lady Cathie, and then we had thought to look in on Mrs Melcombe’s at-home.”

  The lame excuse hung in the air; Antonia stiffened, her brittle facade tightening. Tension swelled and stretched, holding them all frozen, then Philip bowed with his usual fluid grace.

  “In that case, I’ll see you this evening, my dear.”

  * * *

  UNNERVED BY THE undercurrent she detected in his tone, Antonia cried off from their evening’s engagements. She did not even risk dinner, requesting a tray in her room on the grounds of an incipient headache.

  Ensconced in lonely splendour at the head of the dining-table, Philip sat sunk in thought, his gaze fixed on the empty seat beside him. At the table’s end, Henrietta and Geoffrey were deep in machinations.

  “I have to say that I’m not a great believer in newfangled notions, yet I cannot see my way clear, in this instance, to agree with Meredith Ticehurst.” Henrietta pushed away her soup plate. “There’s nothing the least—well, questionable about Mr Fortescue, is there?”

  “Questionable?” Geoffrey frowned. “Not that I know of. Capital fellow from all I can make out. Drives a neat curricle with a nicely matched pair.”

  Henrietta returned his frown. “That’s not what I meant.” Raising her head, she looked up the table. “Do you know anything against Mr Fortescue, Ruthven?”

  The sound of his name shook Philip from his thoughts. “Fortescue?”

  Henrietta threw him a disgusted look. “Mr Henry Fortescue—Miss Dalling’s would-be suitor. I have to tell you, Philip, that I am not at all happy in my mind about the tack Meredith Ticehurst is taking with her niece. No—and not with the Marquess either, although he is, after all, a man and, one would suppose, capable of taking care of himself.”

  Recalling the Marchioness of Hammersley, Philip considered that last far from certain. “I know nothing against Mr Fortescue—indeed, what I do know would suggest he is an eminently eligible, even desirable, parti.”

  Having delivered himself of that pronouncement, Philip reached for his wineglass. As he sipped, Henrietta’s suppositions and concerns and Geoffrey’s predictably straightforward views drifted past his ears. Their tacit alliance and their half-formed plans to overturn the Countess’s applecart did not even register.

  Then the meal was at an end; Philip could not even recall if he had eaten. He did not particularly care; he had lost his appetite, among other things.

  But when they gathered in the hall preparatory to quitting the house, destined for Lady Arbuthnot’s drum, his gaze sharpened. He glanced at Henrietta, his expression bland. “No doubt you’ll wish to check on Antonia before we leave.”

  “Antonia?” Henrietta looked up in surprise. “Whatever for? She’s not seriously ill, y’know.”

  “I had thought,” Philip returned, steel glimmering in his tone, “that you might wish to reassure yourself that her indisposition is indeed merely that, and not something more alarming. She is, after all, in your care.”

  “Phooh!” Henrietta waved her hand dismissively. “It’s doubtless merely an upset brought on by going at it too hard.” Slanting him a glance, she added, “Have to remember she’s a country girl at heart. She might have adapted well to town life but we’ve been racketing about in grand style these past weeks. She’s entitled to some time to recuperate.” Henrietta patted his arm in a motherly way then, beckoning Geoffrey, stumped towards the front door.

  His expression stony, Philip hesitated, then reluctantly followed.

  They returned from Lady Arbuthnot’s drum at midnight; to Philip’s relief, Henrietta had shown no interest in attending any other of the parties around town. Heads together, thick as thieves, she and Geoffrey negotiated the stairs; frowning, Philip headed for the library. From the corner of his eye, he caught Carring’s expression; he shut the door with a decided click.

  He hesitated, then crossed to the sideboard and poured out a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he returned to sink into his chair, the one on the left of the hearth. Slowly, he sipped the fine brandy, his gaze broodingly fixed on the empty chair opposite.

  Last night he had paced the hearth rug, glowering, possessed by an impotent and thoroughly uncharacteristic anger. Tonight, the anger was still there but tempered by growing concern.

  Antonia was avoiding him; now Carring was regarding him with chilly disapproval.

  Philip directed a steely glare at the empty chair. He wasn’t at fault. Antonia should have been more trusting—ladies were supposed to trust their husbands-to-be. She loved him—

  Philip stopped.

  For one instant, his world wavered—then he snorted impatiently.

  He knew, beyond all doubt, beyond any possibility of error, that Antonia loved him. He had known it for more than eight years. Her love was there in her eyes, a certain wistfully warm expression glowing in the hazel depths. He had not responded to it years ago but he had recognised it nonetheless. It had been there even then.

  Philip let the thought warm him. He took a long sip of his brandy then frowned at the smouldering fire.

  If she loved him, she should have trusted him. She should have had more confidence in him. She should have had the courage of her convictions.

  Again his thoughts faltered and halted; Antonia possessed abundant courage. The courage needed to fearlessly manage high-couraged horses, the courage to face with equanimity eight long years of seclusion and deprivation she had never been raised to expect. Her reservoir of courage could not be questioned; why, then, would she not face him over this? Why had she so readily accepted the obvious and retreated, rather than confronting him and letting him explain?

  Why hadn’t she had the confidence in him that he had in her?

  Philip slowly blinked, then grimaced and took another sip from his glass.

  He had told her he was smitten, th
at they shared a deep mutual attraction—she knew he desired her. Surely it was reasonable to expect a lady of her intelligence to make the appropriate deduction?

  His frown deepening, he shifted restlessly.

  The clock in the corner ticked relentlessly on; when it struck one, he drained his glass. Grimacing, he stood.

  They couldn’t go on like this. The pain he had seen in her face that morning was etched in his mind; her misery lay like a lead weight around his heart. If she needed some more formidable declaration, then she would have it.

  He would talk to her privately—and sort the matter out.

  * * *

  HE HAD FORGOTTEN what a quick learner she was.

  Despite his best endeavours, his next opportunity to speak with Antonia privately occurred the next evening when they took to the floor in the first waltz at Lady Harris’s ball. As he drew her into his arms, Philip felt a distinct tremor ripple through her. Drawing her closer still, he deftly swung them into the swirling throng.

  “Antonia—”

  “Lady Harris’s decor is positively inspired, don’t you think, my lord? Whoever would have thought of a fairy grotto lined with miniature cannon?”

  Philip’s lips thinned. “Lord Harris was a naval man—something to do with Ordnance. But I wanted to—”

  “Do they fire, do you suppose?” Her features animated, Antonia raised her brows. “I wouldn’t think that would be too wise, what with young sprigs like Geoffrey about.”

  “I doubt anyone else has considered the matter. Antonia—”

  “Now there I am sure you are wrong, my lord. I’m perfectly certain the idea of firing one would have occurred to Geoffrey by now.”

  Philip drew in a slow, steady breath. “Antonia, I want to explain—”

  “There is, my lord, absolutely no reason you should.” Resolutely, Antonia lifted her chin, her gaze fixed beyond Philip’s right shoulder. “There is nothing you have to explain—it is I who should beg your pardon. I assure you such an incident will not occur again. I’m fully conscious of my indiscretion. I assure you there’s no reason we need discuss the matter further.”