A Comfortable Wife (26 page)

“Have you seen Lady Hatchcock’s new quizzing glass? Hugo said it made her eye big beyond belief.”

“I have not the slightest interest in Lady Hatchcock’s quizzing glass.”

“No?” Antonia opened her eyes wide. “Then perhaps you have heard of the latest
on dit.
It seems…” She babbled on, barely pausing for breath.

Philip heard the brittleness in her voice; he noted her
wide eyes and too-rapid breathing. Frustration mounting, he desisted, only to be forced to listen to her run on without pause until he handed her back into the bosom of her court.

Breathlessly, she thanked him. Philip bestowed upon her a look she should have felt all the way to her bones, then turned on his heel and headed for the cardroom.

He ran her to earth the following afternoon; she had taken refuge in the back parlour, her maid in close attendance.

Antonia looked up as he entered. She was seated at the round table in the centre of the room; thick papers and board, swatches of brocade and silk, ribbons, braids, silk cords and fringes lay scattered across its surface. Her fingers plying a large needle, she was engaged in fastening a circle of brocade over a piece of thick paper.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Blinking in surprise, Antonia succumbed to the temptation to drink in his elegance—then she noticed the gloves he was carrying. “Are you going driving?”

“Indeed.” Determinedly languid, Philip halted before the table. “I had wondered, my dear, whether you might care to accompany me? You seem to have been hiding yourself away of late—some fresh air will do you good.”

Her gaze fixed safely on his cravat, Antonia blinked again, then looked down. “Unfortunately, my lord, you catch me at an inopportune moment.” With a wave of her hand, she indicated the materials spread before her. “I broke my reticule last evening and needs must fashion another to match my gown before Lady Hemminghurst’s ball tonight.”

“How unfortunate.” Philip’s polite smile did not waver. “Particularly as I had thought that, perhaps, the day being remarkably calm, I might hand the ribbons to you for a short spell.”

Antonia’s fingers stilled. Slowly she raised her head until her eyes met Philip’s.

Philip hid his triumph; it was the first time since Lady Ardale’s unwelcome intrusion into their lives that she had gifted him with one of her wonderfully direct glances.

Then he saw the reproach in her gaze.

“In your phaeton?” she asked.

Philip hesitated, then nodded.

Antonia sighed and looked down. “I have to confess, my lord, that I’m not feeling quite the thing this afternoon—just a mite queasy—I suspect Lady Harris’s salmon patties are to blame. So difficult, these days, to be certain of one’s salmon.” Laying out a piece of silk fringe, she airily continued, “So I’m afraid I must decline your kind—indeed, your very
tempting
invitation. I really could not trust myself to the rocking of a phaeton.” Her face artfully brightening, she glanced upwards, not quite meeting Philip’s eyes. “Perhaps if we went in your curricle?”

Philip felt his mask harden, he fought not to narrow his eyes. It was a moment before he replied, his tone determinedly even, “I regret to say I left my curricle at the Manor.” A fact he was certain she knew.

Regretfully, Antonia sighed. “In that case, my lord, I fear I must decline your offer.” Directing a sweet smile his way, she added, “Do convey my respects to Mr Satterly, should you see him.”

Philip looked but she would not meet his eyes again. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, he said, his tone flat, “In that case, my dear, I will bid you a good afternoon.” He bowed, the action lacking his customary grace, then swiftly strode from the room.

When, two nights later, Philip took refuge in his library, alone yet again, he was ready to freely curse Antonia’s quick wits.

Every move he made, she blocked. Every tried and true strategy ever devised for getting a young lady alone, she,
an innocent from the wilds of the north, had somehow developed a counter for.

She never went anywhere within the house without her maid; she never went anywhere outside except on social engagements and, while in society, was always either surrounded by her court or anchored by Miss Dalling’s side. Short of creating an almighty scene in some
grande dame
’s ballroom, he had to acknowledge himself stymied. And, given Antonia knew he would not create a public fuss, he couldn’t even use that as a threat!

He didn’t bother with a brandy, but fell to pacing before the hearth.

What could he do? Enact a melodrama in the middle of his hall with Carring and her po-faced maid as audience? The thought made him grind his teeth. He’d be dammed if he’d fall so low. To his knees if need be—but no further.

Overhead, a beam creaked. Pausing, Philip glanced up. His gaze lingered on the ceiling; his irate expression slowly turned considering. Then he frowned and resumed his pacing.

That particular avenue remained open but taking their quarrel—it now figured as such in his mind—to her bedchamber would qualify, he felt sure, as an act of outright lunacy. The potential, not to say likely ramifications, even should she prove willing to listen, were altogether too damning.

However, the alternative—of returning to the Manor, present situation intact and ongoing—was too bleak to contemplate. She had withdrawn from him in a way he could never have foreseen—he’d had no idea that the simple absence of the warmth behind her smiles would affect him so deeply.

Halting, he drew in a breath, battling the now permanent constriction about his chest. Closing his eyes, he focused on his problem. Society had long ago labelled him hedonistic—even now, he knew what he wanted.

He wanted to put the brightness back in Antonia’s eyes, wanted to experience again the teasing glances they used to share. He wanted to make her blush again. More than anything else, he wanted her to look at him as she always had before—openly, directly, honestly—with her love shining in her eyes.

Abruptly, Philip opened his eyes. A log settled in the grate—he frowned at it. His lady love was too clever for her own good—and for his—but there was one front on which he had never approached her—in deference to her innocence and some deeply ingrained chivalrous instinct.

The time for chivalry had passed.

Slowly, his expression considering, Philip sank into his usual chair. As always, his gaze settled on its mate, this time with clear calculation in his eyes.

He had never pursued Antonia.

Next morning, seated beside Henrietta at the breakfast table, Antonia attacked a poached pear with single-minded ruthlessness. The same relentless, dogged destruction she would like to visit upon a certain overblown harlot who made a habit of appearing in public in too-tight silk gowns. Indeed, if Lady Ardale—she had learned the woman’s name the very next evening—stood anywhere near a duckpond, the outcome would be beyond doubt.

And the only guilt she would feel was for the startled ducks.

Crunching a mouthful of toast, Antonia mulled on the possibilities of a horse trough.

“No—I’m more than convinced!” Beside Antonia, Henrietta nodded pugnaciously. “My dears, we simply
cannot
let this happen.”

“Seems a thoroughly rum set-up,” Geoffrey opined, reaching for the marmalade. “The way the gorgon’s been talking, if Catriona and Ambrose don’t toe the line, they’ll be left with no choice. Stuck away in the country with only
those two old tartars and a bunch of servants—well, any fool can see how the thing’ll be done.”

“Hmm.” Henrietta frowned. “Such a pity the Earl is so…” She grimaced. “Well—
ineffectual.
”

“According to Henry,” Geoffrey said, “the poor old toper’s been living under the cat’s paw for so long he daren’t sneeze without permission.”

“Yes, well—he never was a forceful character.” Leaning one elbow on the table, Henrietta gestured with her butter knife. “Which is all the more reason we must accept this invitation. If there’s any chance of deflecting Ticehurst’s intentions, I really feel we owe it to those two poor young things to do our best.”

“No doubt about it,” Geoffrey concurred. “Got to spike her guns somehow.”

“Precisely.” Henrietta turned to Antonia. “What say you, my dear?”

“Hmm?” Antonia blinked, then nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Her expression resolute, Henrietta turned back to Geoffrey; Antonia turned back to her plate—and her thoughts. On a superficial level, she had remained abreast of the developments in Catriona’s drama. The majority of her reflections, however, revolved about her own.

When she had decided how she should respond to what she mentally termed Philip’s unfortunate tendency, when she had initially set out to be his comfortable wife, she had been under the impression her emotions would be content to be ruled by her intellect, rather than the other way about.

The reality, consequently, was requiring a degree of adjustment. Indeed, she wasn’t sure she would not need to completely rescript her role.

Given the anger that welled within her every time she even thought of Lady Ardale, given the almost overwhelming impulse to march into Philip’s library and demand an explanation in a more flagrantly histrionic style than Ca
triona could even imagine, given that, combined with the determination that had sprung from nowhere, the determination to insist that he was hers and hers alone, the absolute conviction that she could, if she dared, reform even such a rake as he, she was no longer at all sure she was cut out to be a comfortable wife.

She frowned at her plate—then reached for a boiled egg.

The door opened and Philip entered. In keeping with her recent habit, Antonia allowed her gaze to rise only as far as the diamond pin in his cravat. It was an effort not to scowl at it. The smile she did manage was decidedly tight.

“Ah, good morning, Ruthven. I trust you slept well?”

Philip shifted his gaze from Antonia to Henrietta; his stepmother’s fond smile fed the instant suspicion her words had evoked. “Tolerably well, thank you.” Taking his seat at the table’s head, Philip nodded to Carring, proffering the coffee pot. “I had intended, ma’am, to ask when you intended to remove to the country.”

“Indeed—and that’s precisely the point I wish to discuss with you, my lord.” Henrietta sat back in her chair. “We have all received an invitation to a houseparty—three or four days in Sussex, just the thing to round off the season.”

Philip’s hand, carrying his coffee cup, halted in mid-air. “Sussex?”

“Sussex,” Henrietta confirmed. “You’re included in the invitation, naturally.”

“Naturally?” Philip met his stepmother’s eye. “Do I know our hosts, by any chance?”

Slightly flustered, Henrietta fluffed her shawls. “You’ve met the Countess. The party’s at Ticehurst Place.” She looked up, prepared to be belligerent, fully expecting to have to do battle to gain her ends.

Philip’s slowly raised brows, his unexpectedly considering expression, held her silent.

“Ticehurst Place?” Settling back in his chair, Philip sipped his coffee, and cast a quick glance at Antonia’s bent
head. Her attention appeared wholly focused on a boiled egg, which she was decapitating with military precision. Philip’s gaze sharpened. “Three days, I believe you said?”

“Three—possibly four. Starting tomorrow.” Henrietta regarded him a trifle warily. “I understand it’s to be a smallish gathering.”

Philip’s gaze flicked her way. “How small?”

Henrietta waved dismissively. “Just the four of us—and the Hammersleys, of course.”

“Of course.”

When Philip said nothing more, his gaze resting thoughtfully on Antonia, who remained apparently oblivious, Henrietta humphed. “I dare say, if you don’t wish to go, we can get along without you.”

“On the contrary.” Abruptly, Philip sat forward. Setting his cup down, he reached for the platter of ham. “I confess to being somewhat at a loose end. I see no reason I cannot accompany you to Sussex, if you wish it.”

Henrietta blinked in amazement; she quickly grabbed the offer. “Indeed—nothing would please me more. I won’t conceal from you, my lord, that affairs might become rather touchy—it would be a great relief to me if you were by.”

“Consider it settled, then.” As he helped himself to three slices of ham, Philip was conscious of Antonia’s swift, appraising, distinctly suspicious glance. He resisted the urge to smile wolfishly at her. Time enough for that once he had her at Ticehurst Place—at a houseparty without the party, in what would doubtless prove to be a huge rambling mansion, mostly empty, with large grounds likewise free of unwanted spectators—all of it glorying in one significant advantage.

None of it would be his.

He had spent half the night and all the morning considering the constraints his honour dictated while Antonia remained under his roof, on his lands.

Ticehurst Place was neither. Not his roof, not his grounds.

Open season.

He slanted a quick glance at Antonia, engrossed in slicing a piece of ham to ribbons. Returning his gaze to his plate, Philip allowed himself a smug smile.

At last, at long last, fate had dealt him an ace.