A Comfortable Wife

by Stephanie Laurens

  Antonia's eyes widened. She looked down at the herbs she was snipping. "I—"

  "I missed you this morning." Philip lifted a brow as her head came up; he trapped her gaze with his. "Can it be you've grown tired of riding?"

  "No—of course not." Antonia blinked, then looked down. "I was merely worn out by the fete."

  "Not still stiff after your collision with Miss Mimms?"

  "Indeed not. That was barely a bruise." Gathering up her chopped herbs, she dumped them into a bowl. "It's entirely gone, now."

  "I'm glad to hear it. I finished with Banks earlier than I'd expected—I wondered if you were wishful of chancing your skill with my greys?"

  Brushing her hands on her apron, Antonia considered the prospect. It was definitely enticing. And she'd have to take the first step some time—chancing her skill in an entirely new arena.

  "If you can hold them in style," Philip mused, "perhaps

  I could demonstrate the basics of handling a whip?'' Brows lifting, he met her gaze.

  Antonia did not miss the subtle challenge in his eyes. Just how much he truly saw she did not know, but the only way of testing her developing defences was to risk some time in his company. "Very well." She nodded briskly, then stretched on tiptoe to peer through the high windows.

  Philip straightened. "It's a beautiful day—you'll just need your hat." Capturing her hand, he drew her to the door. "I'll have the horses put to while you fetch it."

  Before she could blink, Antonia found herself by the stairs. Released, she threw a speaking look at her would-be instructor before, determinedly regal, she went up to find her hat.

  Ten minutes later, they were bowling down the gravelled sweep, the greys pacing in prime style. The drive, through leafy lanes to the nearby village of Fernhurst, was un­eventful; despite her stretched nerves, Antonia could detect not the slightest hint of intent in the figure lounging grace­fully by her side. He appeared at ease with the world, with­out a thought beyond the lazy warmth of the bright sunshine and the anticipation of an excellent dinner.

  Quelling an unhelpful spurt of disappointment, she lifted her chin. "As I've taken you this far without landing you in a ditch, perhaps you'd consent to instruct me on handling the whip?"

  "Ah, yes." Philip straightened. "Put the reins in your left hand, then take the whip in your right. You need to loop the lash through your fingers." After she had fumbled for a minute, he held out a hand. "Here—let me show you."

  The rest of the drive passed with the horses pacing steadily, equally oblivious to Philip's expert and intention­ally undistracting wielding of the lash and her less-than-successful attempts to direct them with a flick to their ears.

  Indeed, by the time they reached the Manor drive, she would have given a considerable sum just to be able to nick their ears. Philip's stylish expertise with the long whip, sending the lash reaching out to just tickle a leaf then twitching it back so it hissed up the handle, back to his waiting fingers, was not at all easy to emulate.

  She was frowning when he lifted her down.

  "Never mind—like many skills, it's one that comes with practice."

  Antonia looked up—and wondered where he'd left his mask. His eyes had taken on the darker hue she had first recognized in the glade, his hands were firm about her waist, long fingers flexing gently. Cambric was thicker than muslin but even combined with her chemise, the fabric was insufficient to protect her from the heat of his touch.

  He held her before him, his gaze on hers; she felt in­tensely vulnerable, deliciously so. Her wits were drifting, her breath slowly seizing.

  His gaze sharpened, the grey darkening even more.

  For one pounding heartbeat, Antonia was convinced he was going to kiss her—there, in the middle of his forecourt. Then the planes of his face, until then hard and angular, shifted. His lips curved lightly, gently mocking. He reached for her hand, his fingers twining with hers. His eyes still on hers, he raised her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

  Philip's smile was wry. "Another accomplishment re­quiring practice, I fear."

  The sound of hurrying footsteps heralded the arrival of a stable lad, apologetic and breathless. Philip benignly waved aside the lad's stuttered excuses; as the carriage was re­moved, he settled Antonia's hand on his sleeve. She glanced up, suspicion and uncertainty warring in her eyes.

  One brow rising in unconscious arrogance, Philip turned her towards the house. "We've made definite progress, my dear, don't you think?"

  "That's better!" Perched at her window high above the forecourt, Henrietta heaved a sigh and turned back into the room. "I tell you, Trant, I was beginning to get seriously worried."

  "I know." Trant's gaze was sharp as she scanned her mistress's features.

  “After the fete—well!—you have to admit no prospect could have looked brighter. Ruthven was so pointedly at­tentive, so insistent on remaining by Antonia's side, no mat­ter the lures thrown at his head."

  Trant sniffed. "I never heard it said he had bad taste. Seemed to me those 'lures' would more rightly send him in the opposite direction. Miss Antonia, no doubt, seemed a veritable haven."

  Henrietta humphed. "To you and me, Trant, Miss Cas­tleton and her ilk may appear quite impossibly ill-bred but, while I have nothing but the highest regard for Ruthven's intelligence, there's no question that gentlemen see such matters in a different light. All too prone to overlook sub­stance in favour of the obvious—and you have to admit Miss Castleton had a great deal of the obvious on view. I must say I was greatly relieved that Ruthven appeared un­impressed."

  Busy mending, Trant couldn't suppress a snort. "Unim­pressed? More properly a case of being distracted."

  "Distracted?" Henrietta stared at her maid. "Whatever do you mean?"

  Trant stabbed her needle into her work. "Miss Antonia's not precisely unendowed, even if she isn't one as flaunts her wares. Looked to me like the master's eye was already fixed." Trant glanced up from beneath her heavy brows, watching to see how her mistress reacted to that suggestion.

  Henrietta's considering expression slowly dissolved into one of smug content. "Well," she said, reaching for her cane. "They're together again, no doubt of that, and if Philip's inclination is engaged, so much the better. I've been worrying that something had gone amiss—Antonia's been on edge, positively skulking about the house." Her eyes narrowed. "I dare say that might be nerves on her part—and Philip, of course, is simply taking things at his usual pace."

  Snorting, Henrietta stood, a martial light in her eyes. "Time to shake the reins. I believe, Trant, that it's high time we planned our removal to London."

  Parting from Philip in the hall, Antonia sought her cham­ber. Nell was elsewhere; Antonia sent her hat skimming to land on the bed, then crossed to the window. Leaning on the wide sill, she breathed in the warm scented air.

  She'd survived.

  More importantly, despite the unnerving sensation that, within the landscape of their relationship, she had yet to gain a proper footing, that she might stumble at any step and was not certain he would catch her if she did, there seemed little doubt that she and Philip were intent on walk­ing the same path.

  Thankfully, he plainly understood her need for time— time to develop her defences, to develop a proper, wifely demeanour, to learn how not to embarrass him and herself with any excess of emotion. How else could she interpret his words? Sinking onto the window-seat, Antonia propped an elbow on the sill and rested her chin in her palm.

  A cloud drifted over the sun; sudden coolness touched her. An echo dark with warning, her mother's voice re­played in her head. "If you're wise, my girl, you won't look for love. Believe me, it's not worth the pain."

  Subduing a shiver, Antonia grimaced. Her mother had uttered those words on her deathbed, a conclusion drawn from experience, from a badly broken if selfish heart. In pursuing her present course, was she risking all her mother had lost? Being Philip's wife was what she wanted to be, had al­ways wanted to be; she had
not come to Ruthven Manor seeking love.

  But what if love found her?Ten minutes' wary pondering brought no answer.

  With a disgruntled grimace, Antonia banished her uncer­tainty—and focused her mind on her immediate goal.

  Before they went to London, she was determined to be sufficiently accustomed to Philip's attentions to have the confidence to appear with him in public. The accumulated wisdom on which she had to rely—the few strictures her mother had deigned to bestow plus the snippets of advice gleaned from the Yorkshire ladies—was scant and very likely provincial; she would, however, learn quickly. Philip himself was an excellent model, coolly sophisticated, al­ways in control. Parading through the ton on his arm would, she felt sure, be the ultimate test.

  Once she had conquered her reactions and demonstrated her ability to be the charming, polished, coolly serene lady he required as his wife, then he would ask for her hand.

  The road before her was straight—as Philip had inti­mated, it was simply a matter of learning to handle the reins.

  Lips lifting, confidence welling, she rose and crossed to the bellpull.

  She slept in the next morning; she was almost running when she rushed into the stableyard, her skirts over one arm, her crop clutched in one hand, the other holding on to her hat. Only to see Philip leading out both Pegasus and her mount, the tall roan, Raker. Both horses were saddled. Halting precipitously, Antonia stared. Philip saw her and raised a brow; lowering her hand from her hat, Antonia lifted her chin and calmly walked to Raker's side.

  Philip came to lift her up; she turned towards him, raising her hands to his shoulders as she felt his slide, then firm, about her waist. Wide-eyed, she met his gaze—and saw his brows lift, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

  She opened her mouth—and realized how he would an­swer her question. She clamped her lips shut, debating the wisdom of a glare.

  Philip's lips twitched. "I saw no reason why you wouldn't." With that, he lifted her to her saddle.

  Antonia made a production of arranging her skirts. By the time she was ready, Geoffrey had joined them; with a nod, Philip led the way out.

  A three-mile gallop was precisely what she needed to shake her wits into place. Riding never failed to soothe her; atop a fine horse, she could fly over the fields, beyond the touch of time, beyond the present. It was an escape she had sorely missed over the past eight years; she knew very well no man alive bar Philip would permit her to ride in such a way.

  She glanced at him, to her left a half-length in advance, his body flowing easily with the big gelding's stride. Man and horse were both strong; combined they presented a pic­ture of harnessed power.

  Quelling a shiver, Antonia looked ahead.

  They pulled up on a knoll overlooking green meadows; they had not previously ridden this way. A stone cottage sat in the midst of a small garden, a narrow lane leading to its gate.

  "Who lives there?" Antonia leaned forward to pat Raker's sleek neck. "This is still your land, isn't it?"

  Philip nodded. “But that patch—'' with his crop, he tran­scribed the boundaries of what Antonia estimated was a twenty-acre block "—belongs to a recently bereaved widow, a Mrs Mortingdale."

  Wheeling slowly, Antonia checked her bearings. "Wouldn't it be sensible for you to purchase it—incorpo­rate it with your holdings? She couldn't be getting much return on such a small piece."

  "Yes and no in that order. I've made her an offer but she's yet to come to terms with selling up. I've told Banks to increase the offer slightly and let it stand. She has family elsewhere; she'll come around in time."

  Geoffrey was eager to investigate a nearby ridge; Philip nodded and he left with a whoop.

  Antonia clicked her reins and set Raker to ford the nar­row stream by which they'd paused. "You seem very busy of late." He had spent most of the last two days with Banks. "Surely the estate doesn't normally take so much of your time?"

  "No." Slanting her a glance, Philip brought Pegasus alongside. “But it seemed a propitious time to get the books to order."

  Antonia frowned. "I would have thought after harvest would be more useful. That's when I did the tallies at Man­nering."

  Philip's lips quirked; he forced them straight. "Indeed? I rather think, however, that the exigencies I presently face are somewhat different to those you encountered at Man­nering."

  Puzzled, Antonia glanced at him. "I'm sure they are—I didn't mean to criticise."

  Philip's answering glance was distinctly wry. "For which forbearance, my dear, I am truly grateful."

  Antonia straightened. "You're talking in riddles."

  "Not intentionally." Meeting her sceptical gaze, Philip raised a languid brow. "What do you think of Henrietta's plans for London?''

  Antonia hesitated, then shrugged and obediently turned her mind to her aunt's projections. "Leaving in a week seems wise. I would certainly appreciate a little time to accustom myself to the pace before the balls begin—and there's Geoffrey, too." Her brow clouded. "Once the par­ties start, I doubt I'll have much time to spend with him."

  Philip's gaze was on Geoffrey, heading back at a gallop. "Once he finds his way about, I doubt you'll need worry your head over him. I can't see him as a slow-top." Glanc­ing at Antonia, he saw the concern in her eyes. "Of course, given he'll be under my roof, I will, naturally, be keeping an eye on him."

  Antonia shot him a surprised look as Geoffrey thundered up. "Oh?"

  "Indeed." Wheeling to head home, Philip met her gaze. "The least I can do. In the circumstances."

  Antonia blinked. With a brisk nod for Geoffrey, Philip tapped his heels to Pegasus's sides; the chestnut surged. Raker followed. By the time they regained the stables, An­tonia had thought better of enquiring as to precisely what circumstances he referred—she wasn't, she decided, ready to deal with his likely answer.

  London and the ton—her proving ground—was, after all, still before her.

  Philip decided to precede his stepmother and her guests to town, ostensibly to ensure Ruthven House was ready to receive them, in reality to take a quick look-in at his clubs and test the waters of the ton before permitting Antonia or Geoffrey to take a dip in society's sea. Departing one day before them would be enough; leaving early and driving his curricle, he would reach Grosvenor Square by midday, giv­ing him two full days in which to gauge the tide before they arrived on the scene.

  He did not, however, intend to leave the Manor before settling one significant point with his stepmother's niece. Time and place were crucial to his cause; he waited until the night before he was to leave, until tea had been taken and the cups stacked on the tray.

  Antonia set the tray on the trolley then, turning, headed for the bellpull. Standing before the fireplace, Philip reached out as she passed him, capturing her hand before she reached her objective. Ignoring her surprised look, he spoke to Geoffrey, yawning by the chaise. "I left that book you wanted on the desk in the library."

  Geoffrey's eyes brightened. "Oh, good! I'll take it up to bed."

  He was already turning to the door. Philip raised a re­signed brow—and raised his voice. "Perhaps, when you cross the hall, you could send Fenton in?"

  Without turning, Geoffrey waved. "I will." He paused in the doorway to beam a belated smile at them all. "Good night."

  As the door clicked shut, Philip glanced briefly at An­tonia, then shifted his gaze to Henrietta, comfortably en­sconced on the chaise. "I had thought to show your niece the beauties of the sunset. I believe I've heard you extoll its splendours when viewed from the terrace at this time of year?"

  Transfixed by a gaze far too sharp for her comfort, Hen­rietta shifted. "Ah—yes." When Philip's gaze remained pointedly upon her, she shook her wits into order. "Yes, indeed! The effect can be quite. . ." she gestured airily ". . .breathtaking."

  Philip smiled. Approvingly. Any doubt in Henrietta's mind that he had divined her secret purpose was firmly laid to rest.

  “I believe you intend retiring early?''<
br />
  Caution and curiosity warred in Henrietta's breast. Cau­tion won. "Indeed," she said. Affecting a die-away air, she reclined against the cushions and waved listlessly. "If you'll ring for Trant, I think I'll go up immediately."

  "An excellent notion." Philip crossed to the bellpull and tugged it twice. "You wouldn't want to overdo things."

  Henrietta did not risk a reply. With a mildly affectionate smile, she waved dismissal to them both.

  Intrigued, Antonia bobbed a respectful curtsy. Philip bowed with his customary grace, then, taking Antonia's arm, turned her towards the long windows which stood open to the terrace. "Come—give me your opinion."

  Guided irresistibly through the gently billowing curtains, Antonia dutifully lifted her eyes to the western sky. "On the sunset?"

  "Among other things."

  Philip's tone, clipped and dry, had her shifting her gaze to his face.

  Looking down into her wide eyes, he saw speculation leap into being, only to be replaced by a certain wariness. He halted by the balustrade, his gaze locked on hers. "I believe, my dear, that it's time for a little plain speaking."

  Antonia felt giddy. Searching his eyes, she asked, "On what subject?"

  "On the subject of the future. Specifically, ours." In an endeavour to disguise the tension that had, somewhat un­expectedly, gripped him, Philip sat on the stone balustrade. Meeting Antonia's gaze levelly, he raised an impatient brow. “It can hardly come as a surprise to you that I hope you will consent to be my wife?"

  "No." The word was out before she had considered it; Antonia blushed furiously and tried to erase the admission with a wave. "That is. . ."

  The look on Philip's face halted her.

  "Plain speaking I believe I said?"

  Antonia lifted her chin. “I had hoped—''

  "You and Henrietta planned.'''

  "Henrietta?" Utterly bemused, Antonia stared at him. "What has Henrietta to do with it?" She blinked. "What plans?"

  Faced with her patent bewilderment, Philip had to accept his error. "Never mind."

  Antonia stiffened; her eyes flared. "But I do mind! You thought—"