A Comfortable Wife (21 page)

“Cow-handed clunch!” Philip deftly avoided the ensuing mêlée. “Now cut line. Remember, I’ve made myself responsible for your brother.”

“Very well.” Settling more comfortably beside him, shielded from the light wind by his shoulder, Antonia related the latest developments. “Mr Fortescue has not yet shown his face, but as I gather he must come up from Somerset, I don’t believe we can hold that against him.”

Philip shook his head. “He may be a true knight but he obviously lacks a ghostly steed. Or should that be an errant charger?”

“Mr Fortescue, I gather, is a model of decorum.”

“Good lord!” Philip shot her a disbelieving glance. “And Miss Dalling wishes to marry him?”

“Most definitely.” Antonia paused, then diffidently added, “Actually, while I originally thought some of Miss Dalling’s tales might owe more to her imagination than to fact, the latest involve Ambrose as well and he is undeniably not given to flights of fancy.”

“By which you mean he’s a slow-top.” Philip glanced down at her. “But what are these latest exploits?”

“Not so much exploits as experiences. It seems the Countess of Ticehurst and the Marchioness have taken to engineering interludes when Catriona and Ambrose are left alone.”

Philip raised his brows. “I see.”

“Catriona and Ambrose are both trying quite desperately to ensure there’s nothing improper that can be used to force their consent, but the situation is daily becoming more difficult.”

Philip was silent for some minutes, then said, “It’s hard to see what they can do, short of Mr Fortescue coming to the rescue. Even then, given Miss Dalling is under age, the situation’s likely to be messy.”

“Indeed. I raised that very point, but Catriona’s convinced all will be well once Mr Fortescue arrives.”

Philip raised his brows. “Which event, I suppose, we should all devoutly pray for.” He cast a glance at Antonia’s pensive face. “Having dispensed with that subject, perhaps we can move to some more interesting topic?”

Antonia opened her eyes wide. “That depends on what you consider
interesting,
my lord.”

For one pregnant instant, Philip held her gaze; when she coloured, he smiled and looked ahead. “How about your observations on town life and the Little Season? I dare say I would find those quite fascinating.”

“Indeed?” Antonia stifled the urge to fan her face. “Very well.” On her mettle, she cast about for inspiration. She found it in a pair of strutting Macaronis, so gaily garbed they resembled walking pansies. “The strongest impression I have of the
ton
is of things being other than they seem. There is, to my mind, a great deal of obfuscation and round-aboutation—a great deal of hiding the truth.”

The brief look Philip cast her held a gratifying degree of surprise. Then a curve forced him to give his attention to his greys. Antonia saw his lips firm, then twist in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.

“Remind me, my dear, not to ask such a question of you again.”

“Why not?” Tilting her head, she studied his face. “I didn’t find it impertinent.”

“No—but I’d forgotten your intelligence. Your answers go too deep.” Philip shot her a quick glance. “The trick with flirtatious repartee is to keep the tone light.”

Antonia blinked. “Flirtatious repartee?”

“Indeed. What else? Now concentrate. Are you intending to grace Lady Gisborne’s ballroom tonight?”

“What-ho, Miss Mannering! Dare I claim this cotillion?”

Antonia turned and, laughing, gave her hand to Hugo Satterly. “Indeed, sir. I had begun to wonder if you had forgotten me.”

“Never.” Straightening from his bow, Hugo placed a hand over his heart. “After all the trouble I went to to get my name in your card? Fie, my dear—I’m not such a slow-top.”

“You are, however, a rattlepate,” Philip put in from beside Antonia. “If you don’t make a move soon, you’ll miss out on the sets.”

“Don’t mind him.” Hugo tucked Antonia’s hand into his arm and turned her towards the floor. “He’s just jealous.”

Antonia responded with an ingenuous look and a confident smile. She felt entirely at ease with Hugo; he was the perfect companion, always charming, never one to take offence or become difficult over some imagined slight. Like all Philip’s set, he was an excellent dancer and could be counted on to fill her ears with the latest
on dits.

As they took their places in the nearest set forming on the floor of Lady Gisborne’s ballroom, Hugo winked at her. “Hope you don’t mind me trying for a rise out of Ruthven? All innocent fun, y’know.”

Antonia smiled and sank into the first curtsy. “I don’t mind at all.” Rising, she gave Hugo her hand. “I dare say being twitted is good for him.”

Hugo grinned back as the dance parted them.

As she dipped and swayed through the measure, Antonia considered his words. He was one of Philip’s closest friends; thus far, he was the only one she had encountered who accurately understood Philip’s interest in her. Certainly no one would guess it from Philip’s behaviour; while he was always by her side, he made no effort to monopolise her company, either in the ballrooms or the supper rooms where, admittedly under his watchful eye, her entire court would adjourn to refresh themselves.

His behaviour, overtly aloof with but the subtlest undercurrent of possessiveness, was, she decided, intended to be instructive. Presumably, this was how she was to comport herself after they were wed. He would be about, but she
was not to rely on him for her entertainment nor her male company. Her court, comprised of gentlemen of whom he approved, would provide that.

Discovering her gaze scanning the surrounding crowd, searching for Philip’s chestnut locks, Antonia sternly refocused on Hugo, currently on the opposite side of the set. If overtly aloof was the correct image to project, then it was past time she started practising.

“What the devil’s the matter? Is my cravat askew or what?”

Philip’s words, delivered in a growled mutter, succeeded in hauling Antonia’s gaze to his face.

Wide-eyed, she blinked up at him, oblivious of the other dancers about them. “What on earth do you mean? Your cravat’s perfect—as it always is. The Oriental, isn’t it?”

“The Mathematical—and don’t try to change the subject.”

Astounded, she stared at him. “I wasn’t!” She blinked, then added, “I don’t even know what the subject is.”

Exceedingly irritated, even more so because his rational mind could find no reasonable cause, Philip whirled her into a complex series of turns, supposedly to negotiate the end of Lady Gisborne’s ballroom, in reality purely as an excuse to hold her tighter. “The subject is,” he said through clenched teeth, “why it is you suddenly seem to find me invisible. You’ve hardly glanced my way all night. I’m beginning to feel like a ghost.”

Antonia felt dizzy and wondered if it was the waltz. He was certainly whirling her around with rather more concerted force than was his custom. “I thought that was what you wanted me to do—that I shouldn’t…” To her annoyance, she felt a blush steal into her cheeks.

Philip studied the evidence of her confusion and felt his own grow. “That you shouldn’t look at me?”

Antonia flicked him an exasperated glance, then fixed her
gaze over his right shoulder. “That I should not display any overt awareness of your presence. As I understand it, such behaviour is construed as wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. I would not wish to embarrass you.” She paused, then added, “Your own behaviour is very correct—I naturally took my lead from you.”

Philip frowned down at her. “Yes—well.” He hesitated, not quite certain which way to step. Then his lips firmed. “Might I suggest that there’s a viable path between, on the one hand, clinging to my arm and making sheep’s eyes at me, and, on the other, behaving as if I was literally not there?”

Antonia’s gaze slid sideways, meeting his. “You know perfectly well I always know you’re there.”

Looking down into her eyes, Philip felt the dark cloud that had enshrouded him all evening melt away. He held her gaze, then his lips twisted wryly. “A few of your smiles and a few lingering glances wouldn’t go astray.”

For an instant longer, Antonia studied his eyes—then she smiled up at him. “If you wish it, my lord.”

Philip tightened his hold as they went into the turn. “I do.”

Two days later, Philip, strolling the broad verges in the Park, happened upon the Ruthven barouche. Languidly coming abreast of it, he discovered Henrietta deep in discussion with two other ladies,
grande dames
both.

“Ah, Ruthven!
Just
the one we need.” Catching sight of him, Henrietta beamed him a smile. “I was just saying to the Countess here, that what we need is a reliable gentleman, one who knows the ropes, to keep an eye on our little party.”

“Indeed?” Raising his brows, Philip let his tone convey his utter antipathy to the idea that he might be such a specimen.

“But I don’t believe you’ve met the Countess of Tice
hurst?” Blithely oblivious, Henrietta indicated the lady beside her. “And, of course, the Dowager Marchioness of Hammersley.”

His expression fashionably distant, Philip bowed gracefully, inwardly conceding that both the Countess, with her sharply angular features and frizzed red curls, and the Dowager Marchioness, heavy and portly with three chins to her credit, bade fair to living up to the varied descriptions he had had of them.

“Indeed, Ruthven, nothing could be more fortunate than your appearance here. The Countess and I haven’t seen each other for years—we’re keen to have a comfortable coze but her ladyship is uneasy over her niece.” Raising her head, Henrietta looked out over the lawns. “She’s over there somewhere,” she said, waving one plump hand in the general direction of the flower walks. “She’s walking with Antonia and Geoffrey. And the Marquess, of course.” Apparently realizing that this last needed further clarification, Henrietta exchanged quick glances with the other two ladies, then leaned to the side of the carriage. Lowering her voice, she fixed Philip with a sapient eye. “There’s an understanding between the Marquess and Miss Dalling, the Countess’s niece, but there seems to be some slight hitch in the works. Nothing serious but you know how these things go.” Assured that all was now crystal clear, Henrietta sat back and waved a dismissal. “Sure you’ll want to join them.”

Philip hesitated, then bowed. “Indeed, ma’am. Ladies.” They let him go with thin smiles and magisterial nods. As he strode across the lawns, Philip found himself sympathizing with Miss Dalling and the Marquess.

He discovered Antonia strolling arm in arm with Catriona. The heiress’s eyes were alight, her cheeks glowing; it was almost as if Antonia was physically restraining her but from what action Philip could not tell.

Antonia looked up as he approached; she smiled warmly and held out her hand. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Philip took her hand; unable to deny the compulsion, he raised it to his lips, his eyes quizzing her as he said, his voice too deep for even Catriona to hear, “My lady.” Antonia blushed delightfully; Philip switched his gaze to Catriona, who bobbed a curtsy then flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. Philip smiled back. “I fear I should warn you that I’ve been dispatched as an envoy to keep an eye on you all.”

Catriona’s eyes widened. “How…? Who…?”

“As I understand it,” Philip said, smoothly claiming Antonia’s arm, thus separating her from Catriona, “my stepmother and your aunt are long-standing bosom-bows. At the moment, they’re in Henrietta’s barouche, exchanging their recent histories, with Ambrose’s fond mama looking on.”

“Indeed?” Catriona was hanging on his words. “And they sent you to watch over us?”

“Precisely.”

“Behold—the hand of fate!” Hands clasped to her bosom, Catriona pirouetted dramatically. Halting, she fixed glowing eyes on Philip. “
Nothing
could be more fortunate!”

The declaration set Philip’s teeth on edge. “I do hope,” he said, “that you’ll allow me to be the judge of that. Why the transports?”

Noting the absence of his drawl, Antonia quickly explained, “Mr Fortescue has arrived. He’s arranged to join us here, but we were worried the Countess would interfere.”

Glancing back over the lawns to the distant carriage, Philip humphed. “Not much chance of that at this point.” He looked back at Catriona. “But where’s this beau of yours?”

He was not about to assist in any havey-cavey affair.

But Henry Fortescue proved to be a great relief. Philip’s hackles settled the instant he laid eyes on him, striding along between Geoffrey and Ambrose. Antonia had hurriedly explained their plan—they had sent Ambrose and Geoffrey to fetch Mr Fortescue so as to make it appear he was one of Ambrose’s or Geoffrey’s acquaintances. Quite what Mr Fortescue had thought of the arrangement Philip found himself dying to know.

Introduced, he shook hands.

In his early twenties, of middle height and powerful build, Henry Fortescue was readily identifiable as a scion of the noble family of that name; he bashfully acknowledged Philip’s supposition. “Distant cousin of m’father’s.”

Catriona, clinging to his arm, declared, “We must be very careful, Henry, or Aunt Ticehurst will descend like the dragon she is and tear us apart.”