A Comfortable Wife (11 page)

The emotions the day had stirred still whirled and clashed within him, too novel to be easily dismissed, too strong to simply ignore. Protectiveness, jealousy, concern—he was hardly a stranger to such feelings but never before had he felt them so acutely nor in so focused a fashion.

Superimposed over all was a frustrated irritation, a dislike of being compelled even though the compulsion sprang from within him.

In its way, it was all new to him.

He took a long sip of his brandy and stared into the night.

It was impossible to pretend that he didn’t understand. He knew, unequivocally, that if it had been any other woman, he would have found some excuse, some fashionable reason, for being elsewhere, far distant, entirely out of reach.

Instead, he was still here.

Philip drained his glass and felt the fumes wreathe through his head. Presumably this was part of being thirty-four.

T
wo days later, Philip stood at the library windows, looking out over the sun-washed gardens. The business that had kept him inside on such a glorious day was concluded; behind him, Banks, his steward, shuffled his papers.

“I’ll take the offer in to Mrs Mortingdale’s man then, m’lord, though heaven knows if she’ll accept it.” Banks’ tone turned peevish. “Smiggins has been doing his best to persuade her to it but she just can’t seem to come at putting her signature to the deed.”

Philip’s gaze roamed the gardens; he wondered where Antonia was hiding today. “She’ll sign in the end—she just needs time to decide.” At Banks’s snort, he swung about. “Patience, Banks. Lower Farm isn’t going anywhere—and all but surrounded by my land as it is, there’ll be precious few others willing to make an offer, let alone one to match mine.”

“Aye—I know,” Banks grumbled. “If you want the truth it’s that that sticks. It’s nothing but senseless female shilly-shallying that’s holding us up.”

Philip’s brows rose. “Shilly-shallying, unfortunately, is what one must endure when dealing with females.”

With a disapproving grunt, Banks took himself off.

After a long, assessing glance at his gardens, Philip followed him out.

She wasn’t in the rose garden, the formal garden was empty. Deserted, the peony walk slumbered beneath the afternoon sun. The shrubbery was cool and inviting but disappointingly uninhabited. Eyes narrowed, Philip paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the known characteristics of his quarry. Then, with a grunt to rival Banks’s, he strode towards the house.

He ran her to earth in the still-room.

Antonia looked up, blinking in surprise as he strolled into the dimly lit room. “Hello.” Hands stilling, she hesitated, her gaze shifting to the shelves of bottles and jars ranged along the walls. “Were you after something?”

“As it happens, I was.” Philip leaned against the bench at which she was working. “You.”

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
fête.
”

“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 flick 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
fête—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 al
ways 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.