A Comfortable Wife (19 page)

The waitress took their orders; the ices arrived before they had well caught their breaths. Catriona, Ambrose and Geoffrey attacked theirs in style; Philip and Antonia were rather more circumspect.

Catriona finished first and patted her lips with her napkin. “Ambrose will post my letter tomorrow,” she informed the table at large. “I know Henry will come post-haste to the rescue—just like the true knight he is.” She clasped her napkin to her bosom and affected a romantically distant gaze. Then she sighed. “He’ll know exactly what to do for the best. Everything will be right as a trivet once he arrives.”

When she and Ambrose fell to discussing their respective guardians’ likely plans, Philip caught Antonia’s eye. “I can only hope,” he murmured, “that Mr Fortescue is up to handling Miss Dalling’s dramatic flights. Don’t ever think I’m not grateful for your lack of histrionic tendencies.”

Antonia blinked, then smiled and looked down at her ice. As she took another mouthful, her smile grew. She had wondered if Philip would prove at all susceptible to Catriona’s undeniable beauty. Apparently not. His comment,
indeed, suggested quite otherwise; she couldn’t help feeling pleased.

Watching her, Philip narrowed his eyes, astute enough to guess what lay behind her smug smile. He attacked his ice, inwardly humphing at the implied slight to his taste. To any with experience, certainly any of his ilk, Miss Dalling’s mere prettiness could not hold a candle to Antonia’s mature beauty. The heiress might be a handful in her own way but she was very definitely not the same sort of handful his bride-to-be obviously was. He glanced at Antonia, then, all but automatically, scanned the room.

Four gentlemen rapidly averted their eyes. Philip’s expression hardened. At the museum, all five gentlemen had had Antonia in their sights, a fact that had not escaped him.

Shifting in his seat, Philip let his gaze rest on her face.

She felt it; turning, she briefly studied his eyes, then lifted a brow. “I think perhaps it’s time we left. We have Lady Griswald’s musical soirée this evening.”

As they left the shop, Philip found himself wondering who would be at Lady Griswald’s tonight. Antonia shook his arm.

“Catriona and Ambrose are leaving.”

Philip duly took his leave of the pair, who intended visiting Hatchard’s before returning to Ticehurst House. With Antonia on his arm and Geoffrey ambling behind, Philip headed in the opposite direction. Absorbed with thoroughly unwelcome considerations, he stared, unseeing, straight ahead.

Antonia cast a puzzled glance up at him. She opened her lips to comment on his brown study, simultaneously following his gaze. Her words froze on her lips.

Ten yards ahead stood two ladies, both exquisitely gowned and coiffed. Both were ogling Philip shamelessly.

She might have been raised in Yorkshire but Antonia knew immediately exactly what sort of ladies the two were. She stiffened; her eyes flashed. She was about to bestow a
chillingly haughty glance when she caught herself up—and glanced at Philip.

In the same instant, Philip refocused and saw the two Cyprians. Absentminded still, he idly took stock of their wares, then felt Antonia’s gaze. He glanced down at her, just in time to see her lids veil her eyes. She stiffened and pointedly looked away, every line infused with haughty condemnation.

Philip opened his mouth—eyes narrowing, he bit back his words. He had, he reminded himself, no need to excuse himself over something she should not, by rights, even have noticed. He halted. “We’ll take a cab.”

He hailed a passing hackney. The three of them climbed in; Antonia sat beside him, cloaked in chilly dignity. Philip stared out of the window, his lips a thin line. He had had to put up with her being ogled all afternoon, let alone what might happen tonight. She had no right to take umbrage just because two ladybirds had cast their eyes his way.

By the time the hackney turned into Grosvenor Square, he had, somewhat grudgingly, calmed. Her sensitivity might irritate but her intelligence was, to him, one of her attractions. It was, he supposed, unreasonable to expect her to be ignorant on specific topics—such as his past history or potential inclinations.

The hackney pulled up; he let Geoffrey jump down, then descended leisurely and helped Antonia to the pavement, affecting indifference when she refused to meet his eyes. He tossed a half-crown to the jarvey then, studiously urbane, escorted her in, pausing in the hall to hand his cane to Carring.

“So,” he said, coming up with her as she removed her bonnet. “You’re bound for Lady Griswald’s tonight?”

Still avoiding his gaze, Antonia nodded. “A musical soirée, as I said. Hordes of innocently reticent young ladies pressed to entertain the company with their musical tal
ents.” Looking down, she unbuttoned her gloves. “Not, I believe, your cup of tea.”

Her words stung; ruthlessly, Philip clamped down on his reaction, shocked by its strength. His polite mask firmly in place, he waited, patiently, beside her—and let the silence stretch.

Eventually, she glanced up at him, haughty wariness in her eyes.

Trapping her gaze, he smiled—charmingly. “I hope you enjoy yourself, my dear.”

Briefly, her eyes scanned his, then, stiffly, she inclined her head. “I hope your evening is equally enjoyable, my lord.”

With that she glided away; regally erect, she climbed the stairs.

Philip watched her ascend, then turned to his library, his smile converting to a wry grimace. He was too old a hand to try to melt her ice; he’d wait for the thaw.

T
hree nights later, the atmosphere was still sub-zero.

Following Henrietta and Geoffrey up Lady Caldecott’s stairs, Antonia on his arm, Philip cast a jaundiced glance over the crowd about them. Their first two evenings of the Little Season had been spent at mere parties, relatively quiet affairs at which the guests had concentrated on catching up with the summer’s developments rather than actively embarking on any new intrigues. Lady Caldecott’s Grand Ball marked the end of such simple entertainments.

They had yet to gain the ballroom door, but at least three of his peers had already taken due note of Antonia, serenely beautiful if somewhat tense by his side. Even at a distance, he could detect the gleam in their eyes. He didn’t need to look to know she presented a stunning spectacle, garbed in another of Lafarge’s creations, a shimmering sheath of pale gold silk trimmed at neckline and hem with delicate lace edged with tiny pearls. Despite his intentions, his eyes were drawn to where her mother’s pearls lay about her throat, their priceless sheen matched by her ivory skin.

She glanced up, cool distance in her gaze. “It’s dreadfully crowded. I hope Henrietta will manage.”

Philip’s gaze flicked forward to where Henrietta doggedly stumped upwards, leaning heavily on Geoffrey’s arm.
“I think you’ll discover she’s made of stern stuff. She won’t wilt in this climate.”

Antonia hoped he was right. The crowd was dense, the press of bodies up the stairs disconcerting. It was her first experience of this degree of enthusiasm. “Is this what they term a ‘crush’?” Glancing up, she surprised an arrogant, almost aggressive look on Philip’s face. It disappeared as he looked down at her.

“Indeed.” Philip shackled the urge to draw her closer. “The epitome of every hostess’s ambitions. That said, I suspect Lady Caldecott has overstepped her mark. Her ballroom, I hesitate to inform you, is not this,” he gestured at the crowd surging about them, “large.”

The accuracy of his prediction was confirmed when, fifteen cramped minutes later, they passed down the receiving line and gained the ballroom.

Henrietta, too short to see beyond the shoulders surrounding them, jabbed Geoffrey in the arm. “There should be a group of three or four
chaises
somewhere about. Where?”

Geoffrey lifted his head.

“To the left,” Philip said.

“Good! That’s where my set will gather. You,” Henrietta poked Geoffrey again, “can escort me there and then you may take yourself off. As for you two—” she cast a glance at Philip and Antonia “—you’ll have to take care of yourselves.” Henrietta smiled, decidedly smug. “In this crush, we’ll never find each other—you can fetch me when it’s time to leave.”

Philip’s brows rose but he made no demur. He bowed gracefully. “As you wish, ma’am.”

Antonia bobbed a curtsy. Henrietta shuffled into the crowd and was immediately lost to sight. As Philip resettled her hand on his sleeve, Antonia looked about, taking stock of her first Grand Ball. Silks and satins, ribbons and lace, paraded before her. A hundred voices were raised in avid chatter; perfumes drifted and mingled into a heady haze,
wafting as bejeweled ladies nodded and curtsied. Elegant gentlemen in superbly cut evening coats inclined their heads; comforted by the hardness of Philip’s arm beneath her hand, Antonia smiled coolly back.

“Before we go any further,” Philip said, interrupting her reconnaissance, “I would be greatly obliged if you would write my name in your card against the first waltz.” A number of gentlemen were headed their way.

Antonia looked up at him. “The first waltz?”

Philip nodded. “Your first waltz.” There had been only cotillions, quadrilles and country dances over the past two nights; he was determined her first waltz in the capital would be his.

Reading as much in his eyes, Antonia resigned herself to the inevitable. Lips compressed, she opened the small card Lady Caldecott had handed her. The first waltz was the third dance; under Philip’s watchful eye, she duly inscribed his name in the space beside it—then showed him the card.

He actually read it before nodding. Antonia set her teeth. She would have caught his eye and glared—she was distracted by Hugo Satterly who appeared through the ranks before them.

“A great pleasure to welcome you to town, Miss Mannering.” Hugo bowed with ready grace, his pleasant smile creasing his face.

He was but the first to express that sentiment. To Antonia’s surprise, they were rapidly surrounded by a select group of elegant gentlemen, none of whom bore any relation to her relatively innocuous, easy-to-manage cavaliers of the past weeks. These gentlemen were all contemporaries of Philip’s, many his friends, smoothly claiming his offices in making the introductions. At first, she wondered if it was he rather than she with whom they had stopped to chat. They were, however, assiduous in claiming the blank spaces in her dance card; long before the first cotillion, her card was gratifyingly full.

Surrounded by broad shoulders, she waited for the musicians to start up, not entirely sure if she was relieved or otherwise when her circle of gentlemen plainly set themselves to entertain her. Philip, however, large and relatively silent by her side, gave her no hint he saw anything remarkable in their attentions; lifting her chin, Antonia smiled graciously on her would-be cavaliers.

A lull in the conversation brought Hugo Satterley’s voice to her ears; he was standing beyond Philip—a quick glance confirmed it was to Philip he spoke.

“Meant to thank you for coming out that night—dashed awkward, but it saved my hide.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “If I’d known it was simply a matter of making a fourth at whist I wouldn’t have set foot beyond my door. From your note, I’d imagined some life-threatening situation.”

Hugo opened his eyes wide. “If you think engaging oneself to entertain the Bishop of Worcester and then finding oneself one short for the table isn’t life-threatening, you know nothing of the Bishop. Can’t tell you how grateful I was to be saved from excommunication.”

Philip’s snort was drowned by the summoning of the violins.

“Ah!” Eyes brightening, Hugo turned to Antonia. “My dance, I believe, Miss Mannering?”

Antonia smiled and gave him her hand. Hugo deftly cleared a path onto the dance floor; while they waited for the rest of the company to find places in the sets, Antonia turned to him. “I overheard your comment on the Bishop of Worcester. Was it recently you entertained His Grace?”

“Just the other night.” Hugo grimaced. “Deuced awkward, but I had to do it—he’s m’godfather, you know. He’d received a summons from his sister, Lady Griswald, to some musical affair. Old man’s tone deaf—virtually ordered me to rescue him.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. “I see.” She managed a weak
smile. She’d returned from Lady Griswald’s to find Philip absent; that night had been the first on which she’d declined her nightcap.

“At last!” Hugo held out his hand as the music for the cotillion began.

Antonia had danced countless cotillions in recent weeks; habit, she was certain, was all that kept her twirling in the right direction. A horrible suspicion had taken root in her mind; as it grew, a sinking sensation swelled inside her. She was relieved when, at the cotillion’s end, Hugo returned her to Philip’s side. Unfortunately, a gavotte with Lord Dewhurst followed virtually immediately. Raising her from her final curtsy, his lordship guided her around the room. After passing some time in idle, on her part disjointed, conversation, they finally came up with Philip; her heart sank when she saw the steely look in his eyes.

Reclaiming Antonia’s hand, Philip settled it on his sleeve then caught Lord Dewhurst’s eye. “I believe, Dewhurst, that our hostess is searching for you.”

“Heh?” Jerked from contemplation of Antonia’s smile, Lord Dewhurst focused on Philip’s face. His expression turned to one of dismay. “Don’t say that. Dash it all—this is what comes of letting on I’m on the look-out for a wife.” Openly chagrined, he confided to Antonia, “If her ladyship’s after me, it’ll mean she’s got some protégée that she wants me to look over. I’ll have to take refuge in the cardroom.”

His features impassive, Philip scanned the crowds. “If her ladyship’s on the prowl, I wouldn’t waste any time.”

Lord Dewhurst sighed and bowed over Antonia’s hand. “Dashed shame. But no doubt we’ll meet at the next ball, Miss Mannering.” With a hopeful smile, he straightened. “I’ll look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

Antonia smiled with what grace she could muster; his lordship turned away, his eyes on her to the last. Lord Mar-bury stepped in, keen to engage her attention.

Philip gritted his teeth.

Tonight, strolling the rooms, his favoured method for disposing of unwanted encumbrances, was out of the question; Lady Caldecott had outdone herself with a vengeance. There was barely room to stand; the dance floor would be impossibly crowded.

Not that the idea of waltzing with Antonia at excusably close quarters was bothering him. Quite the opposite. But the crowding left him with few options to thin out her court.

He was contemplating a few novel possibilities when the musicians returned and set bow to string. Sternly suppressing a surge of anticipation, he turned to Antonia. “The first waltz. My dance, I believe, my dear.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Straightening her spine, Antonia inwardly cursed the fluster that threatened. Her smile over-bright, she gave Philip her hand. “I rely on you to lead me through this maze.”

With the merest inclination of his head, he led her to where couples were jostling for space on the floor. Tense as she was, the overcrowding claimed all of Antonia’s attention; it was only when they were precessing freely, albeit in distinctly circumscribed circles, that she relaxed enough to think. Only to have her senses rush in; a most peculiar panic gripped her.

Philip was holding her very close, a fact necessitated by the proximity of the surrounding couples. As realization sank in, Antonia felt her breath catch, felt the familiar vice close about her chest. Held against him, the shift and sway of their bodies as they revolved through the dance was a dizzying distraction, a potent inducement to set her wits free and let her senses slide into a world of sensation. Her gaze wide, unseeing, she stiffened, struggling to shackle her wits, to keep her face, her posture, free of any hint of the drugging effect of the dance, of her awareness of Philip.

She felt him glance down at her. She looked up, only to
discover his lips mere inches away; her gaze, beyond her control, focused on them. They twisted wryly.

“Relax. You’re stiff as a poker.”

The comment, spoken in a tone that was clearly private, only made her stiffen further. Forcing her gaze upwards, she met his gaze. She watched a frown gather in his eyes. “I—”

She had no idea how to explain, how to describe the panic mushrooming within her. This was the first waltz of the Little Season, her first public waltz with him—and any second she was going to stumble.

Instinctively, Philip gathered her closer, his hand at her waist reassuringly caressing her spine as he guided her into a turn.

Like a brand, the heat of his hand seared Antonia, exciting skin not accustomed to his touch. At the same moment, his thigh parted hers in the turn, hard muscle impressing itself against her softer flesh.

Her breath caught on a stifled gasp; her feet missed a step.

Philip caught her to him, preventing her stumble. Frowning, very aware of her distress, he deftly stepped clear of the circle of dancers rounding the end of the room. Smoothly releasing Antonia, he took her hand and ushered her before him towards the doors standing open to the terrace, his shoulders effectively screening her from any interested stares. Pale, she cast a wide-eyed glance up at him; he met it with a superficial smile. “This crowd is impossible—a little fresh air will clear your head.”

Antonia hoped it would. She felt dreadful; her head had started to throb. She felt immeasurably grateful when Philip propelled her irresistibly out of the door.

The cool night air hit her like a slap; she stopped dead. “Wait! We can’t—”

“There’s nothing the least improper in our being out
here.” Philip’s accents, warningly clipped, came from directly behind her. “We are, after all, hardly private.”

Glancing about, Antonia discovered he was right. The terrace was a wide, stone-flagged extension of the ballroom floor; other couples, like them, had sought refuge on its uncluttered expanse. There were sufficient others present, strolling and chatting in groups, to nullify any question of impropriety. None, however, were close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Now.” Capturing Antonia’s attention by the simple expedient of putting one finger under her chin and turning her face to him, Philip raised a commanding brow. “What’s wrong?”

Antonia met his gaze, then lifted her chin free of his finger. Her stomach had knotted tight. “I…simply had trouble with the waltz.”

Philip couldn’t help himself. “Strange. I was under the impression you considered yourself something of an expert—certainly in no need of further lessons.” The morning after Lady Griswald’s musical soirée, she had failed to appear in the ballroom. Geoffrey, too, had not shown; when questioned in suitably nonchalant vein, Geoffrey had let fall that his sister had somewhat waspishly informed him that she had learned quite enough.