The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable Wife\A Lady by Day (14 page)

“Indeed?” Determinedly bright, Antonia flashed him a brittle smile. “I’d better go up or I’ll be late. I wish you a good night, my lord.” With another fleeting smile and a nod, she went past him and on up the stairs. She was, she sternly lectured herself, being foolish beyond permission. To feel rejection when none was intended, to feel downhearted just because he was behaving as he usually did. This was, after all, what she had come to London to learn—how she would fit into his life.

She reached the upper gallery and all but ran to her room.

Philip listened to her footsteps fade. Slowly, he resumed his descent. By the time he reached the hall, the planes of his face had hardened. She had said not a word out of place, said nothing to make him suspect she was wishful of his company. Not once had she made the mistake of trying to make him feel guilty; she had made no demands of him whatever.

Why, then, did he feel so dissatisfied? So certain something was, if not precisely wrong, then very definitely not right?

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
T
HALF
PAST
ONE
the following afternoon, Philip stood in his hall and watched Antonia descend the stairs. She was wearing a new carriage dress delivered that morning from Madame Lafarge’s workshop, a creation in leaf-green twill that emphasized her slender shape and set off the gold of her hair. The bodice and skirt were edged with forest-green ribbon, the same shade as the parasol Philip held furled in one hand.

It, too, had come from Madame Lafarge, expressly chosen on his instructions and delivered by one of Madame’s lackeys at precisely one o’clock.

The parasol held behind his back, Philip strolled forward, taking Antonia’s hand to help her down the last steps. “You look positively enchanting.”

Buoyed by the confidence stemming from her first London gown, Antonia returned his smile. When Philip’s gaze dropped, shrewdly judging, she obligingly twirled, her skirts flaring about her. “Madame’s skill is beyond question.”

“True.” Philip recaptured her hand. “But as I am sure she would tell you, perfection can only be attained when one works with the very best of raw materials.”

His eyes met Antonia’s; her heart skittered alarmingly. She lowered her gaze and bobbed a curtsy. “I fear you flatter me, my lord.”

A frown fleetingly crossed Philip’s face. “Philip.” He held up the parasol, then presented it with a flourish.

Antonia put out a hand to the carved wooden handle, her expression a study in surprise. “For me?” Taking it, she held the parasol as if it were glass. Mesmerised, she stared, then threw Philip a wavering smile. “Thank you.” Her voice was husky. “I’m sorry—you must think me a fool.” Blinking rapidly, she looked down. “It’s been a long time since anyone gave me anything like this—for no real reason.”

Philip’s mask slipped. It took effort to wrestle it back into place, to hide his reaction to her words. “I would gladly give you more, Antonia—but until we make our relationship public, I’m reduced to such trumpery to win your smiles.”

She gave a shaky laugh, then held the parasol against her gown. “It’s a perfect match.”

“Indeed.” Philip smiled. “Obviously an inspired choice.”

Antonia’s expression immediately turned suspicious. Philip laughed. Taking her arm, he guided her to the door.

Once in his curricle, bowling along behind his greys, the awkwardness Antonia found herself all too often a prey to evaporated. Unfurling the parasol, she deployed it to protect her complexion, then hit upon the notion of asking Philip’s advice on how to most elegantly dispose it. His suggestions were half serious, half teasing. She enjoyed the drive, and his company, relaxing enough to let her pleasure show.

The outing passed off without a hitch; Philip returned well content.

T
HEREAFTER
,
HE
MADE
a point of spending some part of every day by Antonia’s side, trying with all the skill at his command to ease the reticence he sensed behind her smiles. He escorted both Mannerings to Astley’s Amphitheatre, spending most of the performance in pleasant contemplation of the emotions flickering across Antonia’s face. The following afternoon, he yielded to their entreaties and took them on a tour of St Paul’s and the city, surprising himself with how much he remembered of the history of the town.

Throughout, Antonia appeared serenely content, yet her underlying hesitancy disturbed him. Aside from anything else, she frequently reverted to addressing him as “my lord,” something, he had noticed, she only did when trying to keep him at a distance.

Then came the first of the informal parties.

Philip had already changed for the evening but had yet to quit the house. He was in the library, idly flicking through the stack of invitations on his desk when he heard voices in the hall. Lifting his head, he identified Geoffrey’s voice raised in a bantering tone; Antonia answered with a laugh, gayer than any he’d heard in a long while.

Intrigued, he strolled to the door.

The sight that met his eyes as he paused in the doorway locked the breath in his chest. Antonia stood in the centre of his hall, her hair burnished guinea-gold by the chandelier above. Bright curls clustered in artful disarray on the top of her head; a few gilded wisps wreathed about her delicate ears and nape, drawing attention to her slender neck. Her shoulders, warmly tinted ivory, were quite bare, entirely revealed by a stunningly elegant gown of the palest green. Lafarge’s hand was easily discerned in the long, flattering lines, in the smooth sweeps of the skirt, in the subtle way the bodice emphasized the contours beneath. Tiny puffed sleeves were set well off the shoulders, so small they in no way distracted from the long, graceful curves of Antonia’s arms.

Her face was uptilted; as he watched, she laughed, responding to Geoffrey, out of sight up the stairs. Deep inside, Philip felt something tighten, harden, clarifying and coalescing into one, crystal-clear emotion. Antonia’s cheeks were delicately flushed, her eyes alight; her lips, rose tinted, parted as she smiled, raising her hands, not yet covered by the regulation long gloves, palms upwards.

“I assure you I am very definitely your sister—if you come down here I’ll demonstrate that my unique technique for boxing your ears is very much intact.”

Geoffrey answered; Philip didn’t register his words. Compelled, he moved slowly forward, out of the shadows that had thus far hidden him.

Antonia heard him; she turned and her eyes met his. His gaze held her as she held his attention, absolutely, completely.

He sensed the swift intake of her breath, saw her eyes widen then darken. Her arms slowly drifted together, as if to fold about her, responding to some age-old instinct to protect her body from his gaze. Moving with slow deliberation, Philip reached for her hands, taking them in his to hold them wide. Then, slowly, he raised one to his lips.

He felt his chest swell against the vice clamped so powerfully about it. “You are beauty personified, Antonia.”

His voice was deep, darkly enticing; Antonia felt it reverberate through her, felt its seductive quality sink to her marrow. Still moving like one in a dream, he raised one of her arms high; obediently, she twirled, compelled to turn her head to keep her eyes on his. The normally shimmering grey was dark with storm clouds, harbingers of passion. She couldn’t tear her gaze from them, from the promise in their depths.

He moved with her; for a moment, it was as if they were dancing, twirling about each other, gazes locked. Then he stopped; her silk skirts shushed softly about her legs, then settled as she halted, facing him.

An age seemed to pass as, eyes locked, they stood, tensed, quivering, as if balanced on the edge of some invisible precipice. Antonia couldn’t breathe, dared not blink.

Geoffrey’s clattering footsteps as he came down the stairs broke the spell.

“Don’t think you
can
reach my ears anymore.” Grinning widely, he strode towards them.

Smoothly, Philip released Antonia’s hand; turning, he noted Geoffrey’s dark coat and neat but simple cravat. “From your sartorial elegance, I take it you’re to make one of the party tonight?”

Geoffrey pulled a face. “Aunt Henrietta thought that seeing I was here, I might as well broaden my horizons.”

“It’s just an informal gathering of family and friends at the Mountfords in Brook Street.” Still breathless, Antonia struggled to keep her tone even. “Nothing too elaborate. According to Henrietta it’ll be mostly genteel conversation with some country dances to help the less experienced ladies get accustomed to
ton
nish ways.”

Philip had heard of such mild affairs. “I believe it’s the regulation way one commences one’s first season.” He glanced at Antonia; excitement glowed in her eyes. “Tell me, do you dine in Brook Street or here?”

“Here.” Antonia gestured. “I was just on my way to the drawing-room.”

“And I was following, intending to get in a little practice.” Frowning, Geoffrey shook his head. “Cotillions and quadrilles are all the same to me.”

“Nonsense.” Antonia linked her arm through his. “If you think to slide out of standing up with such comments you’ll have to think again.” Glancing at Philip, she smiled. Politely. “But you were on your way out—we’re holding you up.”

“No,” Philip lied. “I’m dining in tonight.”

“Oh?” Antonia blinked in surprise.

“Indeed. Why don’t you make a start putting your brother through his paces? I’ll join you in a moment and adjudicate.”

The smile Antonia flashed him was as bright as the sun. Inventively grumbling, Geoffrey allowed her to drag him away.

Amused, Philip watched. When the drawing-room door shut behind them, he turned towards the library. Only then did he see his major-domo standing in the shadows of the stairs. Philip’s expression blanked. “Carring.” He wondered how much Carring had seen. “Just the one I want.”

In the library, Philip crossed to his desk. He scrawled a note to Hugo, informing him that he had been unexpectedly detained but would join him later. Sealing the missive, he directed it then handed it to Carring. “Have that delivered to Brooks.”

“Immediately, m’lord. And shall I instruct Cook you’ve changed your mind?”

Ten full seconds of silence ensued. “Yes. And I expect you should also instruct a footman to lay an extra place at table.” Philip eyed his henchman straitly. “Was there anything else?”

“No, indeed, m’lord.” Carring’s expression was smugly benign. “As far as I can tell, all’s well with the world.” On that cryptic utterance, he departed, Philip’s note in hand.

Philip wasted no more than a moment glowering at Carring’s black back before rising and heading for the drawing-room.

When, fifteen minutes later, Henrietta entered the drawing-room, she discovered her stepson dancing a cotillion with her niece. Geoffrey was perched on a nearby chair, grinning delightedly.

* * *

T
HE
GATHERING
AT
the Mountfords’ was much as Antonia had imagined it.

“So glad to see you again, my dear.” Lady Mountford greeted Henrietta fondly; she acknowledged Antonia’s curtsy and Geoffrey’s bow with a matronly nod. “You’ll find there’s no need to stand on ceremony tonight. My girls are about—you’ve already met, but introduce yourselves and chat as you please. Getting to know your peers is what the night’s for—the musicians won’t arrive until later.” Her ladyship waved them into a spacious salon already well-filled with young ladies and, in the main, equally young gentlemen.

“You can help me over there.” With her cane, Henrietta indicated a large grouping of comfortable chairs at one end of the salon. “Plenty of old friends there for me to catch up with while you two learn the ropes.”

Geoffrey assisted her to a chair in the middle of the group. Antonia helped settle her shawls, then, when Henrietta waved them away, turned back into the room.

“Well!” she murmured, anticipation in her voice. “Where to start?”

“Where indeed?” Geoffrey had already scanned the room. “Here—take my arm.” Antonia threw him a surprised look. He grimaced. “It’ll make me less conspicuous.”

Smiling affectionately, Antonia did as he asked. “You don’t look conspicuous at all.” With his Mannering height and Mannering build, set off by his relatively restrained attire, Geoffrey looked, if anything, a few years older than some of the young sprigs currently gracing her ladyship’s floor. Some, indeed, decked out in the height of fashion, looked far younger than they doubtless wished.

“Hmm.” Geoffrey’s gaze was fixed on a gentleman to their left. “Just look at that silly bounder over there. His collar’s so high he can’t turn his head.”

Antonia raised her brows. “You being such an expert on fashion?”

“Not me,” Geoffrey answered, busy scanning the crowd for further spectacles. “But Philip said no true gentleman would be caught dead sporting such extreme affectations—restrained elegance is the hallmark of the out-and-outers.”

“The out-and-outers?”

Geoffrey glanced at her. “Top o’ the trees. The Corinthians. You know.”

Antonia hid a grin. “No—but I suspect I can imagine. Am I to take it you aspire to such heady heights?”

Geoffrey considered, then shrugged. “I can’t say I’d mind being top o’ the trees some day, but I’ve decided to concentrate on getting a working notion of this
ton
business for now—I’ll be going up in a few weeks after all.”

Antonia nodded. “A wise idea, I’m sure.”

“Philip thought so, too.” Geoffrey was looking over the room. “What’s say we do as we were bid and go introduce ourselves to some fellow sufferers?”

“Just as long as you refrain from informing them of their status.” When he looked expectantly down at her, Antonia raised a brow. “I’m on your arm, remember? You’re supposed to lead.”

“Oh, good!” Geoffrey grinned and lifted his head. “That means I get to choose.”

Predictably, he chose the group gathered about the prettiest girl in the room. Luckily, this included Cecily Mountford who, mindful of her mama’s strictures, promptly introduced them to the three ladies and four gentlemen loosely grouped before the fireplace. None was more than twenty. Geoffrey was immediately included as one of the group; Antonia, her age declared not only by her innate poise but also by the elegant lines of Lafarge’s creation, stood on its outskirts, metaphorically if not literally. Not that any attempted to exclude her—indeed, they treated her so deferentially she felt quite ancient. The young gentlemen blushed, stuttered and bowed while the young ladies leaned forward to shake hands, casting glances of muted envy at her gown.

It rapidly became apparent that their hostess’s injunction to set formal restraint aside had been enthusiastically embraced; with the customary facility of youth, the company quickly got down to brass tacks.

The beauty, a sweet-faced young miss in a pale blue gown with dark ringlets bobbing on her shoulders, proved to be a Miss Catriona Dalling, an orphan from east Yorkshire who was in town under the aegis of her aunt, the Countess of Ticehurst.