A Comfortable Wife

by Stephanie Laurens

  Philip's arm had loosened yet still lay protectively about her. Although still watchful, he sat back beside her, his gaze idly scanning the fields. They were in a lane, bordered by hedges, meandering along a rolling ridge. Glimpses of dis­tant woods beyond emerald fields, of orchards and of wil­lows lining streams, beckoned; Antonia saw none of them, too distracted by the sensation of the solid masculine thigh pressed alongside hers.

  She drew in a deep breath and felt her breasts swell, impossibly sensitive against her fine chemise. If she'd been wearing stays, she would have been sure they were laced too tight. That left only one reason for her giddiness—the same ridiculous sensitivity that had assailed her from the first, from the moment she had met Philip in the hall. She had put it down to simple nervousness—if not that, then merely a dim shadow of the infatuation she had felt for years.

  An infatuation she had convinced herself would fade when confronted with reality.

  Instead, reality had taken her infatuation and turned it into—what?

  A shiver threatened—Antonia struggled to suppress it. She didn't, in fact, succeed.

  Through the arm about her, Philip felt the telltale reac­tion. Lazily, he studied her, his gaze shrewd and penetrat­ing. Her attention was locked on his leader's ears. "I've been thinking—about Geoffrey."

  "Oh?"

  "I was wondering if, considering his age, it might not be advisable to temporarily delay his departure for Oxford. He hasn't seen much of the world—a few weeks in London might be for the best. It would certainly put him on a more even footing with his peers."

  Her gaze on the road, Antonia frowned. After neatly if absentmindedly taking the next corner, she replied, "For myself, I agree." She grimaced and glanced fleetingly at Philip. "But I'm not sure he will—he's very attached to his books. And how can we argue, if the time wasted will put him behind?"

  Philip's lips curved. "Don't worry your head about con­vincing him—you may leave that to me."

  Antonia shot him a glance, clearly not sure whether to encourage him or not.

  Philip pretended not to notice. "As for his studies, his academic performance is, I'm sure, sufficiently strong for him to catch up a few weeks without difficulty. Where's he going?"

  "Trinity."

  "I know the Master." Philip smiled to himself. "If you like, I'll write and ask permission to keep him down until the end of the Little Season."

  Antonia slowed the greys in order to turn and study him. "You know the Master?"

  Philip lifted a haughty brow. "Your family is not the only one with a connection to the college."

  Antonia's eyes narrowed. "You went there?"

  Philip nodded, his expression impassive as he watched her struggle with her uncertainty.

  In the end, convinced there was no subtle way in which to frame her question, Antonia drew in a deep breath and asked, "And what, do you think, will be the Master's re­sponse to such a request—from you?"

  Philip met her gaze with bland incomprehension. "My dear Antonia, whatever do you mean?"

  She shot him a fulminating glance, then turned back to the horses. "I mean—as you very well know—that such a request from one whose reputation is such as yours can be construed in a number of ways, not all of which the Master is likely to approve."

  Philip's deep rumbling laughter had her setting her teeth.

  "Oh, well done!" he eventually said. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

  Antonia glared at him, then clicked the reins, setting the horses to a definite trot.

  Philip straightened his lips. "Rest assured that my stand­ing with the Master is sufficient that such a request will be interpreted in the most favourable light."

  The glance Antonia threw him held enough lingering sus­picion to make him narrow his eyes. "I do not, dear An­tonia, have any reputation for corrupting the innocent."

  She had, he noted, sufficient grace to blush.

  "Very well." Antonia nodded but kept her gaze locked on the leader. "I'll mention the matter to Geoffrey."

  "No—leave that to me. He'll be more receptive to the idea if I suggest it."

  Antonia knew her brother well enough not to argue. Head high, she turned the horses for home, determinedly disre­garding the inward flutter Philip had managed to evoke.

  After studying her profile, Philip said no more until she pulled the horses up before the front steps. Descending, he strolled leisurely around to come up beside her, meeting her watchful, slightly wary gaze with open appreciation. "A commendable first outing. To my mind, you're still holding them a little tight in the curves but that judgement will come with practice."

  Before she could reply, he twitched the reins from her hands and tossed them to the groom who had come running from the stables. While the movement had her distracted, he closed his hands about her waist, well aware of the ten­sion that gripped her as he lifted her down.

  "You'll be pleased to know," he glibly stated, holding her before him and gazing down into suddenly wide eyes, "that I'm completely satisfied that your peculiar ability to communicate with the equine species operates even when you're not perched upon their backs."

  Antonia continued to stare at him blankly. Reluctantly, Philip released her.

  "You—" Antonia blinked wildly. It was an effort to summon not only her voice but the indignation she felt sure she should feel. Breathless, she continued, "Do you mean to say that today was a. . .a test?"

  Philip smiled condescendingly. "My dear Antonia, I know of your talents—it seemed rational to test them. Now I know they're sound, there seems little doubt you'll prove a star pupil."

  Antonia blinked again—and wished there was some phrase in his speech to which she could take exception. In the end, she drew herself up and fixed him with a direct and openly challenging stare. "I assume, my lord, that when we go out tomorrow, you'll permit me to get above a trot?"

  The subtle smile that played about his lips did quite pe­culiar things to her nerves. "I wouldn't suggest you reach for the whip just yet, my dear."

  "Well! That seemed a most successful outing." Henrietta turned from the window high above the drive, having watched her stepson and niece until they'd disappeared into the hall below.

  "That's as may be." Trant continued to fold linens, lay­ing them neatly on the bed. "But I'd reserve judgement if I was you. Early days yet to read anything into things like simple drives in the countryside."

  "Phooh!" Henrietta waved the objection aside. "Ruth­ven rarely drives ladies—let alone lets them drive him. Of course it means something."

  Trant merely sniffed.

  "It means," Henrietta went on, "that our plan has real promise. We must ensure they spend as much time in each other's company as possible—with as little distraction as we can manage."

  "You're planning on encouraging them to be alone?" Trant voiced her query with a suitably hesitant air.

  Henrietta snorted. "Antonia is twenty-four, after all— hardly a green girl. And whatever Ruthven's reputation, he has never, to my certain knowledge, been accused of se­ducing innocents."

  Trant shrugged, unwilling to risk further comment.

  Henrietta frowned, then shifted her shawls. "I'm con­vinced, in this case, that strict adherence to society's dic­tates is not necessary. Aside from anything else, Ruthven will not—would not—seduce any lady residing under his own roof under my protection. We must put our minds to making sure they spend at least some part of every day together. I'm a great believer in propinquity, Trant—if Ruthven is to see what a gem Antonia is, we'll need to keep her before him long enough for him to do so."

  Three days later, Antonia climbed the stairs and entered her bedchamber. She had spent all morning going over the plans for the fete, to be held, as Henrietta had decreed, two days hence; it was now mid-afternoon and Henrietta was napping. As usual, the garden was her destination but she had fallen into the habit of checking her appearance when­ever she ventured forth. Crossing to the dressing-table, she smiled abs
entmindedly at Nell, seated by the window, a pile of darning beside her. "Don't strain your eyes. I'm sure some of the younger maids could lend a hand with that."

  "Aye—no doubt. But I've little confidence in their stitches—I'd rather see to it myself."

  Picking up her brush, Antonia carefully burnished the curls falling in artful disorder from the knot on the top of her head.

  Nell threw her a swift glance. "Seems you've been see­ing a lot of his lordship lately."

  Antonia's hand stilled, then she shrugged. "I wouldn't say a lot. We ride in the mornings, of course. Geoffrey, too." She did not think it necessary to mention that for at least half the time she spent on horseback, she and Philip were alone; Geoffrey, encouraged to try the paces of his mount, was rarely within hailing distance. “Other than that, and the three occasions he's let me drive his curricle, Ruth­ven only seeks me out if he has some matter to discuss."

  "That so?" Nell remarked.

  "Indeed." Antonia tried to keep the irritation from her voice. Although Philip often sought her company during the day, spending half an hour or more by her side, he invari­ably had some reason for doing so. She sank the brush into one curl. "He's a busy man, after all—a serious landowner. He spends hours with his agent and baliff. Like any sensible gentleman, he puts effort into ensuring his estate runs smoothly."

  "Strange—it's not what I'd have thought." Nell shook out a chemise. "He seems so . . .well, lazy."

  Antonia shook her head. "He's not lazy at all—that's just an image, a fashionable affectation. Ruthven's never been truly lazy in his life—not over anything that matters."

  Nell shrugged. "Ah, well—you know him better than most."

  Antonia swallowed a "humph" and continued to tend her curls.

  Five minutes later, she was descending the steps from the terrace when she heard her name called. Looking about, she saw Geoffrey striding up from the stables. One glance at his face was enough to tell her her brother was in alt.

  "A great day, Sis! I had them trotting sweetly from the first. Who knows—next time our teacher might let me take out his greys."

  Antonia grinned, sharing his delight. "Bravo—but I wouldn't get your hopes too high." While Ruthven had entrusted his greys to her, he had started Geoffrey with a pair of match chestnuts, by any standards a well-bred pair but not in the same league with his peerless Irish greys. “In fact," Antonia said, linking her arm in Geoffrey's, "I'd rather you didn't suggest it—he's really been very generous in helping you take the reins."

  "I wasn't about to," Geoffrey replied, fondly conde­scending. "That was just talk." Obediently, he fell in be­side her as she strolled the gravel path. "Ruthven's been far more encouraging than I'd ever looked to see. He's a great gun—one of the best!"

  Antonia heard the fervour in his tone; glancing up, she saw it reflected in his face.

  Unconscious of her scrutiny, Geoffrey went on, "I as­sume you know he's suggested I should accompany you to London? I wasn't too sure at first—but he explained how it would set yours and Henrietta's minds at ease—if you could see me in society a bit, build your confidence in me, that sort of thing."

  "Oh?" When Geoffrey glanced her way, Antonia hur­riedly changed her tone. "I mean—yes, that's right." After a moment, she added, "Ruthven's very good at thinking of such things."

  "He said that's one of the traits that distinguishes a man from a boy—that a man thinks of his actions in the wider context, not just in terms of himself."

  Despite her inclination, Antonia felt a surge of gratitude towards Philip; his subtle mentoring would help to fill the large gap their father's death had left in Geoffrey's life. Any lingering reservations she had regarding Geoffrey's visit to London evaporated. "I think you would be very wise to take Ruthven's hints to heart. I'm certain you can have every confidence in his experience."

  "Oh, I have!" Geoffrey strode along beside her, then recalled he should match his steps to hers. "You know— when you decided to come here, I thought I'd be—well, the odd man out. I didn't think Philip would still be friendly, like he was to you all those years ago. But it's just the same, isn't it? He might be a swell and a gentleman about town and all that, but he still treats us as friends."

  “Indeed." Antonia hid a glum grimace. ”We're very for­tunate to have his regard."

  Grinning, Geoffrey disengaged. "Think I'll take a fowl­ing piece out for the rest of the afternoon."

  Antonia nodded absentmindedly. Alone, she let her feet follow the gravel walks, her mind treading other paths. Geoffrey, unfortunately, was right. While Philip could be counted on to tease and twit her, in all their hours together, whether strolling the gardens or driving his greys, she had never detected anything in his manner to suggest he saw her other than as a friend. An old friend, admittedly—one on whom he need not stand on terms—but nothing more than an agreeable companion.

  It was not what she wanted.

  Looking back, analysing all their interactions, the only change the years had wrought was what she termed her "ridiculous sensitivity"—the leaping, fluttering feeling that afflicted her whenever he was close, the tension that im­mobilized her limbs, the distraction that did the same to her wits, the vice that made breathing so difficult every time he touched her, every time he lifted her down and held her between his strong hands, every time he took her hand in his to help her up a step or over some obstacle.

  As for the times his fingers had inadvertently brushed the back of her hand—they were undoubtedly the worst. But all that came from her, not him. It was simply her reaction to his presence, a reaction that was becoming harder and harder to hide.

  Halting, she looked around and discovered she'd reached the Italian garden. Neat hedges of lavender bordered a long, raised rectangular pool on which white water lillies floated. Gravelled walks surrounded the pool, themselves flanked by cypress and box, neatly clipped. It was a formal, quite austere setting—one which matched her mood. Frowning, Antonia strolled beside the pool, trailing her fingers in the dark water.

  Her "ridiculous sensitivity" was the least of her prob­lems. Philip still saw her as a young girl and the fete was looming; soon after, they would leave for London. If she wanted to succeed in her aim, she would have to do some­thing. Something to readjust his vision of her—to make him see her as a woman, a lady—as a potential wife. And what­ever she was going to do, she would have to do it soon!

  "Well, my lady of the lake—are my goldfish nib-bling your fingers?"

  Antonia whirled and saw the object of her thoughts stroll­ing towards her. He was wearing a flowing ivory shirt, topped with a shooting jacket, a scarf loosely knotted about his tanned throat. His long thighs were clad in buckskin breeches, his feet in highly polished top-boots. One brow rising in gentle raillery, his hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.

  Calmly, Antonia lifted her wet fingers and studied them. "Not noticeably, my lord. I suspect your fish are too well fed to be tempted."

  Philip halted directly before her; Antonia nearly jumped when his fingers slid about her wrist. Lifting her hand, he examined her damp fingers. "Fish, I understand, are not particularly intelligent."

  His heavy lids lifted; his gaze, sky grey with clouds gath­ering, met hers.

  Antonia's heart lurched, her stomach knotted; familiarity didn't make the sensations any easier to bear. His fingers felt strong and steely, his grip on her wrist warm and firm. Her diaphragm seized; she waited, breathless, trapped by his gaze.

  Philip hesitated, then the ends of his lips lifted lightly. Glancing down, he reached into a pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. And proceeded to wipe each finger dry.

  Her heart pounding, Antonia tried to speak. She had to clear her throat before she could. "Ah—did you wish to speak to me about something?"

  Philip's smile deepened. She always asked. On principle, he never prepared an answer; inventing one on the spot ke
pt him on his toes. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you needed for the fete. Do you have all you require?"

  Antonia managed to nod. His stroking of her fingers, even with his touch muted by the fine lawn handkerchief, was sending skittering sensations up her arm. "Everything's under control," she eventually managed.

  "Really?"

  There was just enough amused scepticism in Philip's tone to make her stiffen. She lifted her fingers from his slackened grasp and met his gaze. "Indeed. Your staff have thrown themselves into the spirit of the thing—and I must thank you for the services of your steward and baliff. They've been most helpful."

  "I hope they have." With a gesture, Philip invited her to walk beside him. "I'm sure the entertainments will be a credit to you all."

  Haughtily, Antonia inclined her head and fell into step beside him. Slowly, they paced beside the narrow pool.

  Philip glanced at her face. "What brings you here? You seem. . . pensive."

  Antonia drew in a deep breath and held it. "I was think­ing," she said, tossing back her curls, "of what it would be like when we're in London."

  "London?"

  "Hmm." Looking ahead, she airily explained, "As you know, I've not much experience of society. I understand poetry is much in vogue. I've heard it's common practice for ronnish gentlemen to use poetry, or at least, poetic phrases, to compliment ladies." She slanted an innocent look upwards. "Is that so?"

  Philip's mind raced. "In some circles." He glanced down; Antonia's expression was open, enquiring. "In fact, in certain company it's de rigueur for the ladies to answer in similar vein."

  "It is?" Antonia's surprise was unfeigned.

  "Indeed." Smoothly, Philip captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Perhaps, as you'll shortly be join­ing the throng, we ought to sharpen your rhymes?"

  “Ah—'' Her hand trapped beneath his warm palm, An­tonia struggled to think. His suggestion was a considerable extrapolation of her plan.

  "Here." Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. "Let's sit and try our wits."

  Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia sub­sided. Philip sat beside her, half-turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. "Now—where to start?" His gaze roamed her face. "Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?"