A Comfortable Wife (30 page)

Henry’s eagerness was tempered by caution. “But if the Countess keeps watch on her—Catriona said even the servants spy on her—then what hope has she of winning free?”

“You may leave all to me.” Philip smiled and gathered his reins. “I assure you the Countess herself will speed her on her way.”

Henry managed to look doubtful and grateful simultaneously.

Philip laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Three—don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.” Henry met Philip’s gaze. “And thank you, sir. I can’t think why you should put yourself out for us like this, but I’m extremely grateful for your help.”

“Not at all.” Philip wheeled his mount, collecting Antonia with his gaze. “It’s the obvious solution.”

With a nod, he clicked his reins; with a wave to Henry, Antonia fell in beside him. Together, they cantered back towards the woods. As they neared the entrance to the ride, Philip slowed and glanced at Antonia’s face. She was frowning. “What now?”

From beneath her lashes, she shot him a suspicious glance.

Philip met it, and pointedly raised his brows.

Antonia pulled a face at him. “If you must know,” she declared, her accents repressive, “I was recalling telling Catriona that you were a past master at arranging clandestine meetings.” With that, she tossed her head, setting her curls dancing, then flicked her reins and entered the ride.

Following on her horse’s heels, Philip smiled. Wolfishly.

O
perating under strict instructions, Antonia said nothing to Catriona regarding her impending salvation. “Her dramatic talents hardly lend themselves to concealment,” Philip had drily observed. “The Countess will take one look at her and our goose will be cooked.”

Hence, when she took her seat at the luncheon table, Catriona was still in the grip of morose despair. Slipping into the chair beside Philip’s, Antonia shot him a reproving glance.

He met it with bland imperturbability, then, turning, addressed the Countess.

The meal passed much as its predecessor, with one notable exception. The previous evening, the conversation had been dominated by the Countess and the Marchioness. Today, Philip set himself to engage, then artfully divert their attention. Applying herself to her meal, Antonia wondered if their ladyships would see the danger therein.

“Indeed.” Philip leaned back in his chair, gesturing languidly in response to a comment by the Marchioness on the immaturity of young gentlemen. “It’s my contention that until the age of thirty-four, gentlemen understand very little of the real forces extant in the
ton
—the forces, indeed, that will shape their lives.”

Antonia choked; glancing up, she caught Henrietta’s eye—they both quickly looked elsewhere.

“Quite so.” The Countess nodded grimly, her gaze on Ambrose. “Until they have reached the age of wisdom, it behoves them to take all heed of the advice of their elders.”

“Indubitably.” Across the table, Philip met Henrietta’s gaze. He smiled urbanely, a smile his stepmother was unlikely to misconstrue. “So helpful, when others point out the reality of things.”

“I can only say I wish more gentlemen had your insight, Ruthven.” With that, the Marchioness embarked on a succession of anecdotes illustrating the varied horrors that had befallen young gentlemen lacking such discernment.

By the time the platters were empty, Ambrose was sulking while Catriona had sunk even deeper into gloom. Only Geoffrey, Antonia noticed, appeared oblivious of Philip’s defection. She concluded her brother was either too fly to the time of day to believe any such thing, or was already appraised of Philip’s plan.

The latter seemed most likely when the Countess leaned forward to demand, “Now—what are your plans for the afternoon?”

“Mr Mannering,” Philip replied, “is for his books, I believe?” His gaze rested on Geoffrey, who nodded equably. Philip turned to the Countess. “We discussed the point you made regarding his presence here, rather than at Oxford, and concluded a few hours study each day would be a sound investment against the time when he goes up.”

The Countess glowed. “I’m very glad you saw fit to take my advice.”

Philip inclined his head. “As for the rest, Miss Mannering and I are for the gardens. They appear quite extensive—a pity to waste this weather indoors. I wondered if the Marquess and Miss Dalling would like to accompany us?”

“I’m sure they would.” The Marchioness nodded approvingly, her compelling gaze fixed on her hapless son.

Ambrose hid a grimace, then glanced at Catriona, mute, beside him. “Perhaps…”

“Of course!
Just
the thing!” The Countess weighed in to stamp her seal on the plan. “Catriona will be thrilled to accompany you.”

When everyone looked her way, Catriona nodded dully.

Ten minutes later, they left the house by the morning-room windows and headed into the rose gardens. Strolling on Philip’s arm, Antonia studied Catriona and Ambrose, drifting aimlessly ahead, feet trailing, shoulders slumped.

“So—what did you think of my superlative strategy?”

Glancing up, she met Philip’s eye. “It was, quite definitely, the most sickeningly cloying exhibition of humbug I have ever witnessed.”

Philip looked ahead. “There were a few grains of truth concealed amidst the dross.”

Antonia snorted. “Flummery, pure flummery, from start to finish. I’m surprised it didn’t stick in your throat.”

“I have to admit the whole was rather too sweet for my liking, but their ladyships lapped it up, which was, after all, my purpose.”

“Ah, yes—your purpose.” Antonia longed to ask, pointblank, what that was. It was not, after all, Catriona and Ambrose’s problem which had brought him here.

The thought focused her mind on what lay, ignored yet unresolved, between them. As they strolled in the sunlight, largely without words, she had ample time to consider the possibilities and the actualities—and whether she could convert the former to the latter.

Beneath her fingers, she could feel the strength in Philip’s arm; as their shoulders brushed, awareness of him enveloped her. Like a well-remembered scent laid down in her memories, he was part of her at some deep, uncomprehended level. And just like such a scent, she longed to capture and hold him, his attention, his affection, precisely as laid down in her mind.

“There you are!”

They halted; turning, they saw Geoffrey striding towards them. “You’ve been with your books barely an hour,” Antonia exclaimed.

“Time enough.” Grinning, Geoffrey joined them in the middle of the formal garden. “The three
grande dames
are snoring fit to shake the rafters.”

“Good.” Philip shifted his gaze to Catriona as she and Ambrose, alerted by Geoffrey’s appearance, joined them. “It’s time, I believe, that we headed for the shrubbery.”

“The shrubbery?” Ambrose frowned. “Why there?”

“So that Miss Dalling can meet with Mr Fortescue and help him with his plan to apply to Lady Copely for aid.”

“Henry?” Catriona’s eyes blazed. “He’s here?” Her die-away dismals dropped from her like a cloak; eyes sparkling, colour flowing into her cheeks, she positively vibrated with suppressed energy. “Where?”

Gesturing towards the shrubbery, Philip raised a cynical brow. “We’ll meet him shortly. However, remembering your aunt’s servitors—namely the gardener over there—” with a nonchalant wave he indicated a man on a ladder clipping a weeping cherry “—I suggest you restrain your transports until we’re in more shielded surrounds.”

Catriona, all but dancing with impatience, led the way.

Following more sedately on Philip’s arm, Antonia humphed. “You would be hard-pressed to believe that only this morning she was on the brink of a decline.”

Entering the shrubbery, screened from prying eyes by the high clipped hedges, Catriona stopped and waited. Philip shooed her on, consenting to halt and explain only when they were well within the protection of the walks.

“The field at the back of the shrubbery,” he eventually deigned to inform her. “He’ll be there at three.” Pulling his watch from his pocket, he consulted it. “Which is now.”

With a squeal of delight, Catriona whirled.

“But—” Philip waited until she looked back at him. “Ambrose and Geoffrey will naturally go with you.”

That, of course, presented no problem to Catriona. “Come on!” Lifting her skirts, she ran off.

With a laugh, Geoffrey loped in pursuit; dazed, Ambrose hurried after them.

“Just a minute!” Antonia looked at Philip. “Catriona needs a chaperon. She and Ambrose should not be alone at any time—especially now.”

Philip took her elbow. “Geoffrey is gooseberry enough. Our appointment lies elsewhere.”

“Appointment?” Antonia looked up to see his mask fall away, revealing features hard and uncompromising. His fingers were a steel vice about her elbow. As he guided her inexorably into the maze, she narrowed her eyes. “
This
was what you were planning all along! Not Catriona’s meeting, but ours.”

Philip shot her a glance. “I’m surprised it took you so long to work that out. While I’m sympathetic enough to Catriona and even Ambrose, though for my money he’d do well to develop a bit more gumption, I have and always have had only
one
purpose in crossing the Countess’s benighted threshold.”

That declaration and the promise it held—the idea of their impending, very private interview—crystallised Antonia’s thoughts and gave strength to her decision—the decision she had only that instant made. They reached the centre of the maze in a suspiciously short space of time. Impelled by a sense of certainty, she barely glanced at the neat lawns of the central square, at the small dolphin gracing the marble fountain at its heart. Determined to have her say—to retain control of the situation long enough to do so—she abruptly halted. Pulling back against Philip’s hold, she waited until he turned to face her, brows rising impatiently. Lifting her chin, she declared, “As it happens, I’m
very glad of this chance to speak with you alone, for I have to inform you that I’ve suffered a change of heart.”

She looked up—and saw his face drain of all expression. His fingers fell from her elbow. He stilled; she sensed in his immobility the energy of some turbulent force severely restrained.

One of his brows slowly rose. “Indeed?”

Decisively, Antonia nodded. “I would remind you of the agreement we made—”

“I’m relieved you haven’t forgotten it.”

His flinty accents made her frown. “Of course I haven’t. At that time, if you recall, we discussed the role you wished me to fulfil—in essence, the role of a conventional wife.”

“A role you agreed to take on.”

His voice had deepened; his expression was starkly aggressive. Her lips firming, Antonia stiffly inclined her head. “Precisely. I have also to acknowledge your chivalrous behaviour in allowing me to come to London without formalising or making known our agreement.” Gliding towards the fountain, she clasped her hands and turned. Raising her head, she met Philip’s gaze, now opaque and impenetrable, squarely. “As it happens, that was likely very wise.”

Mute, Philip looked into her wide eyes—and knew what he thought of that earlier decision. He should have kept her at the Manor—acted the tyrant and married her regardless—anything to have avoided this. He could hardly think—he certainly didn’t trust himself to speak. He couldn’t, in fact, believe what she was saying; his mind refused to take it in. His emotions, however, were already on the rampage.

“Very wise,” Antonia affirmed. “For I have to tell you, my lord—”

“Philip.”

She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. “Philip—that on greater acquaintance with the mores of the
ton,
I
have come to the conclusion that I am fundamentally ill-suited to be your wife—at least along the lines we agreed.”

That last, thoroughly confusing phrase was, Philip was convinced, the only thing that allowed him to retain any semblance of reason. “What the devil do you mean?” Hands rising to his hips, he glowered at her. “What other lines are there?”

Lifting her chin, Antonia gave him back stare for hard stare. “As I was
about
to explain, I have discovered there are certain…criteria—essential prerequisites, if you will—for carrying off the position of a
ton
nishly comfortable wife. In short, I do not possess them, nor, I have decided, am I willing to develop them. No.” Eyes glinting, she defiantly concluded, “Indeed, on the subject of marriage I find I have my
own
criteria—criteria I would require to be fulfilled
absolutely.
”

Philip’s eyes had not left hers. “Which are?”

Antonia didn’t blink. “First,” she declared, raising one hand to tick off her points on her fingers. “The gentleman I marry
must
love me—
without reservation.
”

Philip blinked. He hesitated, his eyes searching her face, chest swelling as he drew in a slow breath. Then he frowned. “Second?”

Antonia tapped her next finger. “He will
not
have any mistresses.”

“Ever?”

She hesitated. “After we are wed,” she eventually conceded.

The tension in Philip’s shoulders eased. “Third?”

“He cannot waltz with
any other lady.
”

Philip’s lips twitched; he fought to straighten them. “Not at all?”

“Never.”
There was no doubt in Antonia’s mind on that point. “And last but not least, he should
never
seek to be private with any other lady.
Ever.
” Eyes narrowed, she looked up and met Philip’s gaze challengingly, indeed bel
ligerently. “Those are my criteria—if you do not feel you can meet them, then I will, of course, understand.” Abruptly, the reality of that alternative struck home; Antonia caught her breath; pain unexpectedly speared through her.

She looked away, disguising her faltering as a gracious nod. Swinging about to gaze at the fountain, she concluded, her voice suddenly tight, “Just as long as you understand that if such is the case, then I cannot marry you.”

Philip had never felt so giddy in his life. Relief so strong it left him weak clashed with a possessiveness he had never thought to feel. Emotions rose and fell like surging waves within him, all dwarfed, subsumed, by one steadfast, rocklike reality. The reality that, despite his understanding, still shook him to the core. Recollection of his customary imperturbability, of the unshakeable impassivity that had, until now—until Antonia—been his hallmark, drifted mockingly through his mind.