For one stunned instant, Philip watched her rush towards the barrel. Then, with a comprehensive oath, he flung aside his tankard and went after her.
She slowed as she drew in line with the oncoming barrel, deaf to the cries of warning. Close on her heels, Philip wrapped one arm about her waist and swung her out of harm's way, pulling her hard against him.
"Who.—!"
Her strangled exclamation was music to his ears.
“Philip!'' Antonia eventually got out, all in a breathless rush. "Put me down! The barrel—!"
"Weighs at least three times as much as you and would have flattened you into the ground." Philip heard it rumble past them.
His terse words came from directly behind Antonia's right ear. Horrified, she waggled her toes but couldn't touch the grass. He had scooped her up, holding her with her back against his chest, one large hand splayed across her middle, easily supporting her weight. He made no move to obey her injunction. She considered struggling—and blushed. The realisation of her predicament sent shock waves to merge with the odd heat spiralling through her.
Men had rushed from all around to slow the rolling barrel. Antonia watched as they brought it under control, then turned it and rolled it towards the stall which would serve the ale.
Only then did Philip consent to set her feet back on solid earth.
Antonia immediately drew in a deep breath. She drew in another before she turned around.
Philip got in first. "You would never have stopped it."
Antonia put her nose in the air. "I hadn't intended to try—I would merely have slowed it until the men reached it—then they could have managed it as they did."
Philip narrowed his eyes. "After it had rolled right over you."
Antonia eyed his set chin, then lifted her eyes to his. Her jaw slowly set. "In that case," she said, determinedly gracious although she spoke through clenched teeth. "I suspect I must thank you, my lord."
"Indeed. You can thank me by coming for a ride."
"A ride?"
Philip caught her hand. Lifting his head, he scanned the scene. "Everything's finished here, isn't it?"
Casting about for relief, Antonia found none. "Perhaps the Punch and Judy—"
"Geoffrey's got that in hand. I don't think it would be wise for you to undermine his authority."
Antonia's jaw dropped. "I wouldn't—" she began hotly.
"Good. Let's go." Philip started for the booth where he'd left his coat, towing her along, not caring who saw. His jaw set, he swiped up his coat but didn't stop, tugging Antonia up so he could trap her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Stunned, Antonia blinked free of the masculine web that held her. Her eyes narrowed. "I believe you've forgotten one point, my lord."
Philip glanced frowningly down at her. “What?''
Antonia smiled sweetly. "I can't ride in this dress."
She shut her ears against his muttered curse. He abruptly changed direction; in seconds, they were through the side door and into the hall.
Philip halted at the foot of the stairs. "You've got five minutes," he said, releasing her. "I'll wait here."
Antonia sent him a furiously disbelieving look. And watched his eyes slowly narrow.
With an exaggerated sniff, she tossed her head and headed up the stairs.
It took longer than five minutes to scramble into her habit but Philip was still waiting, pacing at the foot of the stairs, when she came down. He looked up, nodded, then waved her on.
Her chin defiantly high, Antonia sailed ahead.
The grooms had their horses ready; Philip must have sent word. He gripped her waist and tossed her up, then swung up to his chestnut's back. He wheeled; Antonia fell in beside him. As usual, they rode before the wind, streaking across his fields.
Philip had decided where to stage their talk. Somewhere they would be assured of being pavate. Hardly in line with accepted precepts, but he was beyond such considerations. He led her deep into the Manor woods, to a cool glade where a stream widened into a pool.
He swung down and tethered Pegasus to a low-hanging branch. A jay shrilled. Sunshine dappled the grass, growing thick and lush by the water's edge. Enclosed by old oaks, the glade was still and silent—entirely theirs.
Antonia frowned as Philip lifted her down; the catch in her breath, the need to still her heart, no longer even registered. Her hand in his, he strode away from the horses, towards the pool. He was moving far too fast for her liking.
"What is it?" she asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She glanced up at his face. "Is something amiss?"
Abruptly, Philip halted. Jaw clenched, he swung to face her. "As to that, I'm not sure."
His eyes, Antonia saw, were patterns of roiling grey. Throughout the day, his abrupt movements, his clipped accents, had undermined her confidence—now he was talking in riddles. Taking advantage of his slackened grasp, she pulled her hand from his. Standing her ground, she lifted her chin. "There's something bothering you—that much is plain."
"There is indeed," he replied, his hands rising to his hips, his eyes boring into hers.
When she simply continued to stare at him, waiting, open challenge in her gaze, Philip muttered a curse. Tense as a bowstring, he glanced away, then abruptly turned back. Capturing her gaze, he caught her hand; he lifted it, deftly turned it and placed a kiss on her wrist, on the pulse point exposed by her glove.
And felt her reaction, the quick shiver she tried to suppress, stiffening against it. Her eyes widened but not with amazement. The rise and fall of the lace ruffle at her breast increased.
Philip's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Antonia. Am I seducing you—or are you seducing me?"
For an instant, Antonia was sure the world had spun. She blinked. "Seducing. . .?" Stunned, she stared at him.
"Seducing." Ruthlessly, Philip held her gaze. "As in capitalising on the age-old attraction that sometimes flares between a man and a woman."
Antonia strangled the impulse to repeat the word attraction—she could hardly deny its existence. She could feel it shimmering between them. Dazed, she blinked again. What was he suggesting? "I. . .?"
"Don't know what I'm talking about?" Philip supphed, catching her chin in one hand.
The cynicism in his tone stung. Antonia's eyes flashed. "I wouldn't know how to begin seducing you!"
"Know?" Philip pretended to consider the point while the tension that had held him all day wound tight. "I don't suppose you would actually need to know how—you could do it by instinct alone." Looking down at her, at her wide green-gold eyes, her softly curved lips, he felt the tumult inside him swell. The urge to surrender to it waxed strong— he who never permitted himself to be driven, compelled, coerced, frustrated, aggravated or obsessed.
"Whatever," he said, his voice deepening, darkening. "You've succeeded." If he took what was offered, would he know peace again? On the thought, he bent his head and set his lips to hers.
And felt, as he had known he would, her instantaneous response. It rose to his touch, to his caress, easily overriding her equally instinctive stiffening. Her unfettered reaction was balm to his bruised ego—at least she was, at this level, as helpless as he. Her lips softened; at his subtle urging, hesitant, beguiling, they parted under his.
Antonia felt the whirlpool rise and snatch her up, so strong she could only ride its tide. Her wits scattered, her senses stretched, heightened by excitement, eager, clamouring for experience. She felt his arms slide around her; as her limbs softened, they tightened and locked, crushing her to him.
Wanting more of his caress, she tilted her head and felt his lips firm. Driven, she pressed closer. The magic of his kiss had her firmly in thrall; tentatively, she returned it, revelhng in the shocking intimacy, marvelling at the sensations crowding her mind. The seductive hardness of the muscles surrounding her, the tempting heat of his large body—all were new discoveries; the slow crescendo building within her, the swelling tempo of her heart, were f
ascinating, novel perceptions.
His strength surrounded her, his kiss intoxicated her. The feel of him, the taste of him, overwhelmed and excited her. Dragging her hands from where they had been trapped against his chest, she wound them about his neck, returning his kiss with an ardent fervour she hadn't known she possessed.
Philip groaned and crushed her even more tightly to him, her breasts firm and swollen against his chest. He let one hand roam over her hips, urging her against him, moulding her to him.
The whirlpool had caught him, too.
He was too experienced to let it pull them down. Nevertheless, dragging them both free of its turbulent power took all the strength he possessed. When he finally managed to raise his head, soothing her hungry lips with a gentle brush of his, they were both breathing raggedly.
Tense, his muscles locked tight, he waited for common sense to return and save them. Very slowly, Antonia's lids rose. Mesmerised, he watched as her eyes were revealed, the gold flecks blazing, the green more deeply jewel-like than he had ever seen. Then darkness swam in, dulling the brilliance. Her breath caught; she caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes widening with what could only be alarm.
She stiffened in his arms.
Philip felt the panic grip her. "Don't," he said, in the instant before she started struggling.
To his relief, she stilled, a frightened bird locked in the cage of his arms, tense and quivering.
Holding her gaze, Philip dragged in a deep breath, his chest swelling, making him unwillingly aware of the softness pressed against it—and took a firm grip on the reins. "I'm not about to ravish you."
She was an innocent; he had frightened her.
The expression in her wide, shadowed eyes was not one he could read but he thought he detected a hint of scepticism. Exasperation drove him to say, "Oh, I'm thinking about it." Pressed to him as she was from shoulders to knees, she could hardly miss the evidence of his desire. "But I'm not about to do it—all right?"
His jaw ached, as did the rest of him; experience was not enough to hide his frustration. He concentrated on keeping still—he had no intention of moving until the dangerous moment had passed, until the compulsion driving them both had faded.
Antonia had no breath with which to answer. Her heart was still thudding in her ears. For a long moment, she simply held his gaze, wondering dazedly how much he could see. Had he noticed how unrestrained her ardour had been—how wantonly she had kissed him? Was the aching need still pulsing within her visible in her eyes?
She could only pray it wasn't.
Stunned, staggered, shocked beyond measure, she felt heat rise to her cheeks. When he raised one brow, she recalled his question and forced herself to nod. Then blushed even more.
"We've got to go back." Once more in control, Philip forced his arms from her and caught her hand.
"Back?" Before she could say more, Antonia found herself towed unceremoniously back to her horse. Recollections returning, her mind was awhirl. "But—"
With a muted snarl, Philip rounded on her, trapping her with her back against her horse. He towered over her, muscles locked, jaw clenched, his eyes a steely grey. "Antonia—do you want to be ravished here and now?"
She actively considered the question—then caught herself and blushed furiously. She felt like sinking. The effort it took to make herself shake her head was even more damning.
"Then we go back," Philip said through clenched teeth. "Immediately." He grasped her waist and tossed her up to her saddle, then pulled her reins free and threw them up to her. In seconds, he had Pegasus free and was mounting.
Without further words, he led the way back to the Manor.
As the miles sped past, Antonia's memory cleared; by the time they reached the Manor, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering.
They pulled up in the stableyard, but no one came running. Philip glanced about, then remembered he had given the stablehands permission to visit the local inn in compensation for their sterling efforts in organising another of Antonia's entertainments—pony rides for the younger children, with a series of low jumps in the nearest paddock for the older children to attempt. Smothering an oath, he dismounted. "We'll have to take care of the horses ourselves."
Her lips compressed, Antonia kicked free of her stirrups, slid down from her perch—and rounded on him.
"After accusing me of attempting to seduce you, you expect me to—?'' Words failed her; her eyes blazed. With a smothered scream, she flung her reins at his head, swung on her heel and marched out of the yard.
Chapter Five
Seducing him? As if that was possible.
Smothering a snort, Antonia dragged her brush through her thick wavy hair. Sunshine streamed in through her bedchamber window; the morning breeze came with it, bringing the crisp tang of grass and dew-washed greenery. The day of the fete had dawned bright and clear; unable to sleep, she had risen and donned her sprig muslin, then sat down to tend her curls.
And consider how best to deal with her host.
She might have tried to make him notice her, she might have tried to make him see her as a potential wife. But to accuse her of seducing him?
"Hah!" Frowning direfully at the mirror, she gritted her teeth and ruthlessly dealt with a tangle. She was not such a scheming female!
The very notion that a lady such as she, of severely restricted experience, could seduce a gendeman of his vast and, she had no doubt, varied background, was ludicrous. None of the seducing that had been done to date could be laid at her door.
She knew very well who had been seducing whom.
Those moments in the woods had opened her eyes; until then she had been too distracted by her reactions, too caught up with suppressing them, to focus on what drew them forth. Now she knew. The Lord only knew what she was going to do about it.
The hand holding her brush stilled; Antonia studied the face that looked back at her from her mirror, the trim figure displayed therein. It had never occurred to her that Philip, with all the accommodating ladies of the ton from whom to choose, would fix any real part of his interest on her
She had thought to be his wife but had envisaged he would feel nothing beyond mere affection for her—that and the lingering warmth of long-standing friendship. That was what she had expected, what she had steeled herself to accept—the position of a conventional wife.
His actions in the woods suggested she had miscalculated.
He wanted her—desired her. A delicious thrill ran through her. For an instant, she savoured it, then, frowning again, resumed her brushing. A serious problem had surfaced with his ardour—namely, hers. Or, more specifically, how, given a gentleman's expectations of his wife, she was supposed to keep her feelings hidden or, at the very least, acceptably disguised.
The door opened; Nell walked in, stopping in amazement at the sight of her.
"Great heavens! And here I'd thought to wake you."
Antonia brushed more vigorously. "There's still a lot to do—I don't wish to be rushed at the last."
Nell snorted and came to take the brush. "Seemingly you're not the only one. I just saw his lordship downstairs. Thought he must be going riding, but then I noticed he wasn't in top boots. Very natty, he looked, I must say."
"Indeed." Clasping her hands in her lap, Antonia infused the word with the utmost disinterest. Philip had tried to speak with her last night, first in the drawing-room before dinner, when Geoffrey's enthusiasm had saved her, then later, when she was pouring the tea. She had affected deafness to his low-voiced “Antonia?'' and handed him a brimming cup.
She was not about to forgive him, to let him close again, not until the panicky feelings inside subsided, not until she was again confident of carrying off their interaction with the assurance expected of a prospective wife.
"Dare say you'll have your hands full today, acting as hostess in her ladyship's stead." Nell deftly wound the golden mass of Antonia's hair into a tigh
t bun, teasing tendrils free to wreathe about her ears and nape. "She told Trant she intends going no further than the terrace."
Antonia shifted on the stool. "She's getting too old to stand up to the crowds—I'm only glad I can help her in this way."
"Aye—and his lordship, too. Can't think that he'd appreciate having to face it all by himself."
Antonia glanced searchingly at Nell but there was no evidence of intent in her maid's homely features. "Naturally I'll be on hand to aid his lordship in any way I can."
A role she could hardly escape, having worked so diligently to earn it. Being at odds with Philip on today of all days was going to be simply impossible. They would have to make their peace before the guests arrived.
As soon as Nell pronounced her fit to face the day, Antonia headed downstairs. As she descended the last flight, her nemesis strolled into the hall. Looking up, he stopped at the foot of the stairs—and waited. Antonia paused, meeting his gaze. In the hall above, a door opened then slowly closed. Drawing in a steadying breath, Antonia continued her descent, her expression determinedly aloof.
Philip turned to face her, effectively blocking her way. As Nell had intimated, he was precise to a pin in a grey morning coat, his cravat tied in a simple but elegant knot. A subdued waistcoat, form-fitting breeches and glossy Hessians completed the outfit—perfect for a wealthy gentleman about to greet his neighbours. His movements, Antonia noted, were once again lazy; his habitual air of languid indolence hung like a cloak about him. She stopped on the last step, her eyes level with his. "Good morning, my lord." She kept her tone coolly polite.
Only his eyes, his grey gaze sharply intent as it met hers, gave evidence of yesterday's turmoil.
"Good morning, Antonia." Holding her gaze, Philip raised a brow. "Pax?"
Antonia narrowed her eyes. "You accused me of seducing you."
"A momentary aberration." Philip kept his eyes on hers. "I know you didn't." He had managed that all by himself.
She was, after all, an innocent; regardless of any scheme she and Henrietta had concocted, what had flared between them was more his doing than hers.
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