The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable Wife\A Lady by Day (22 page)

Antonia promptly drew in a deep breath; lips lifting, Philip bent his head.

“Philip!”
Antonia’s eyes flew open again; this time she was even more shocked. Her indrawn breath was trapped in her chest; her fingers tangled in Philip’s hair as he continued his shocking caress. She was suddenly very glad of the
chaise;
if they’d been standing, she was quite sure she would have swooned. As his lips, his tongue, continued their play, her wits whirled.
“Good God.”

Hearing the weakness in her voice, Philip drew back, softly chuckling. “There’s no need to be so shocked.” He considered the evidence of her agitation, the rapid rise and fall of her bare breasts, with a certain masculine satisfaction. Looking up, he met her befuddled gaze. “We are, after all, going to be married shortly. Thereafter, we’ll be doing precisely this rather often.”

Antonia’s lips formed a silent “Oh.”

Philip felt the tremor that rippled through her. Puzzled, he looked into her eyes, only to discover the most peculiar expression—surely it couldn’t be anguish?—darkening the hazel depths. He frowned. “What is it?”

She didn’t reply. Instead, her eyes glazed as, of their own volition, his fingers caressed the rosy nipple that had been the focus of his attentions thus far. He forced his fingers to stillness but could not bring himself to withdraw his hand from the soft fullness of her breast. Bending his head, he touched his lips to her temple. “You trust me, remember? So tell me.”

Her gaze slowly focusing, Antonia blinked up at him. She parted her lips, then had to moisten them before she could speak. Speech, explanations, were imperative—before events got completely out of hand. “I... That is...” With an effort, she drew in a deep breath. “When you kiss me passionately—” She broke off, blushing vividly.

Philip felt the heat spread through the skin beneath his fingers; he fought to keep them still.

Antonia swallowed, battling the vice about her chest, struggling to steady her voice. “When you touch me.” Her hand rose flutteringly to touch his. She looked down, then abruptly hauled her gaze up and dragged in a shattering breath. “I can’t control how I respond,” she rushed on. “I feel...” Her eyes darkening, she sought his; briefly, her tongue touched her lips. “Quite wanton.”

Desire surged; Philip fought to shackle it. Before he could respond, Antonia continued, her eyes locked on his. “Such unseemly behaviour will give you a disgust of me.” Her gaze fell. “I know it’s no way for a lady to behave.”

The agonised sincerity in her eyes, in her voice, slew any impulse to levity. Philip recognized the dictum to which she alluded, to which she apparently expected to be forced to subscribe. He had long ago concluded that that particular stricture was primarily responsible for making so many married ladies such easy prey for rakes—men who encouraged rather than suppressed their passions. That his wife might, through such reasoning, fall victim to his peers was not a situation he was prepared to countenance. His lips thinned. “At the risk of shocking you further, I’ve a confession to make.”

Dazed hazel eyes met his.

Reluctantly, Philip withdrew his hand from its warm haven and let the halves of her bodice fall shut. “Naturally, I hesitate to make a point of the matter, but I would hardly bear the reputation I do if women’s passions—or passionate women—disgusted me.” Gazing into her eyes, he added, “Indeed, I can assure you the very opposite is the case.”

She continued to look uncertain. His eyes on hers, Philip raised a worldly brow. “It’s a well-known fact gentlemen such as I tend to marry late. We wait, hoping to find a lady who responds in the ways we’ve learned to value—one whose passions are honest and direct, whose delight is natural and unfeigned.” He hesitated, then went on, his voice deepening, “You know what I am, what I’ve been—I see no purpose in any fashionable deceit. Given that background, can you possibly imagine I would be satisfied with mild passions—with the tepid response of a merely complaisant wife—when I know of the fire that flows through your veins?”

His eyes were dark, clouded grey; Antonia struggled to suppress the shudder of awareness his words provoked. Befuddled, uncertain as to whether she should be scandalised or in alt, she shook her head.

Ignoring the tension building within him, Philip continued, “I want you to be wild and wanton, at least in private.” His lips twisted into a provocative smile. “I happen to like you that way.” Antonia stiffened; he quickly added, his tone tending acerbic, “And I assure you it’s perfectly acceptable for a wife to be wild and wanton with her husband.”

Antonia threw him a sceptical look.

Philip lifted one hand and tapped her nose with one finger. “I promise I’m not bamming you for my own, nefarious ends.” He fought to lighten his tone. “Within the
ton,
there are two sides to any successful marriage—the social and the private. Given the evidence of their Graces of Eversleigh, as well as Jack and Sophie Lester, not to mention Harry and Lucinda—all of whom you have yet to meet but whose marriages I, for one, envy—there’s no gainsaying the fact that—” He paused, caught by the tide of his own eloquence. “Marriages based on...” Philip hesitated, then continued, “Deep mutual attraction have a great deal to recommend them.”

He looked down and met Antonia’s searching gaze.

“I thought you wanted a comfortable wife—one who would not make any...” Antonia blushed again. Irritated, she lifted her chin. “Any demands on your time.”

Philip smiled, the gesture strained. “You mean one who would
not
be a constant distraction?” With one tug, he pulled the ribbon from her hair. The heavy mass cascaded down, scattering pins on the cushions. His smile tightened as he plunged one hand into the golden wave. “Who would
not
leave me daydreaming of how she will look, how she will feel, when I have her naked beneath my hands?” His eyes on the golden curls, he spread his fingers, then drew them through the thick mane, laying it across Antonia’s shoulder. Then he trapped her gaze in his. “Is that what you thought I wanted?”

Wide-eyed, barely able to breathe, Antonia nodded.

Philip’s gaze dropped, fastening on her lips. “Then you were wrong.”

His head lowered, his lips found hers. He kissed her and kept kissing her, whirling her back into the mesmerising world of desire and delight, commanding her senses and her responses, murmuring encouragements in gravelly tones whenever her preconceived notions threatened to intrude.

The logs he had earlier placed on the fire were glowing embers when he finally lifted his head. Satisfied with Antonia’s regretful sigh, he drew back.

Wits still adrift, her senses swimming, Antonia heard him murmur, “Lady
mine.
”

* * *

“I
HADN
’
T
THOUGHT
to see so many here today.” One hand on her bonnet, anchoring it against the stiff breeze, Antonia looked ahead to where the usual congestion of carriages constricted the main avenue of the Park.

Beside her on the box-seat of his phaeton, Philip smothered a snort. “Nothing less than a deluge will serve to keep them away. Mere threats—” his glance took in the lowering clouds scudding across the leaden sky “—have no power to intimidate the
grandes dames
of the
ton.
”

“Obviously.” Sinking her fingers into the swansdown lining of her new muff, Antonia returned the gracious nods of the matrons they passed, her smile serenely confident. Inwardly, she remained amazed at her assurance, at the steady, unruffled beat of her heart.

After last night, and their interlude following Lady Darcy-d’Lisle’s ball, she had expected to feel distinctly ruffled when next she set eyes on Philip. Instead, unexpectedly meeting over the breakfast table, they had fallen into their usual friendly banter; there had been nothing in their interaction to unnerve her. Not even the gleam that occasionally lit his eyes, and the understanding she detected behind it, had served to disrupt the deep happiness that had laid hold of her.

Her fingers gently flexed; Antonia glanced down at her muff. Philip’s latest present. She eyed it consideringly, then slanted him a glance. “I’ve noticed, my lord, that any item I admire has a tendency to become mine. Parasols, bonnets, even emeralds.”

Engrossed with managing his greys, Philip merely arched a brow.

“Will it work if I admire a high-perch phaeton?”

She had quickly lost her fear of the lightweight carriage, she now revelled in its power and speed.

“No.” Philip’s answer was unequivocal. Stealing a moment from his cattle, he frowned at Antonia. “I will never consent to letting you risk your neck—don’t even
think
it.”

Antonia opened her eyes wide.

Philip humphed and turned back to his horses. His tone marginally less severe, he added, “If you behave yourself and don’t tease me, you can have a pair of high-steppers for your carriage. I’ll speak to Harry when next I see him.”

The comment diverted Antonia. “Harry?” He had mentioned a Harry before.

Philip nodded. “Harry Lester—brother of Jack.” After a second’s pause, he added, “Both good friends of mine.”

“Ah.” Antonia knew what she was supposed to make of that. “Does this Harry have horses to sell?”

“Possibly.” Philip glanced at her, a smile in his eyes. “Harry Lester is the owner of one of the country’s foremost studs. That stallion you claimed at the Manor—Raker—is a colt of one of his champions. When it comes to quality horseflesh, you can’t go past Harry.”

“I see.” As they slowed to join the line of carriages waiting to turn and retrace their route along the avenue, Antonia asked, “Is this the same Harry who married a Lucinda?”

Philip nodded. “Lucinda—Mrs Babbacombe that was. They married a few months ago, towards the end of the Season.”

“Is there some reason they aren’t in London?”

“Knowing Harry,” Philip replied, wheeling his horses, “I assume they’re too busy amusing themselves at home.”

Antonia slanted him a glance. “Amusing themselves?”

Setting his horses to a trot, Philip turned to meet her gaze. “Strange to tell, there’s one attraction guaranteed to hold greater allure for rakes than the
ton
in all its glory.”

Antonia opened her eyes wide. “What?”

“Their wives in all their glory.”

Blushing furiously, she threw him a speaking look, then switched her attention to the approaching carriages.

Hiding a grin, Philip looked to his horses. Antonia blushing was a sight very much to his liking; the response was not one to which she had previously been particularly susceptible. He was becoming adept at making her blush—yet another talent that improved with practice.

He waited until they passed the last of the stationary carriages before glancing her way again. “With the weather turning, the ranks will start to thin soon. There’s really only a week more of the Little Season to go.”

Antonia met his gaze, her own open and direct. “And then?”

Philip felt a fierce tension close like a fist about his heart. He kept all hint of the compelling force within him from his expression, from his eyes. “If you’re agreeable, we’ll return to the Manor. And then—” He broke off, quickly glancing at his horses. When he looked back, his expression was mild. “And then, my dear, we’ll proceed as planned.”

Antonia’s gaze remained steady. She searched his eyes, then, her smile serene, inclined her head. “As we agreed, my lord.”

* * *

T
WO
NIGHTS
LATER
,
Philip stood by the side of Lady Carstairs’s ballroom and wondered if there was any way he could make the Little Season end sooner. There were still five full nights of balls and parties to be endured; he wasn’t sure his patience was up to it—up to the challenge of toeing the line he had drawn, the line beyond which he would not step. Given they were to wed and wed soon, he was not particularly averse to seducing Antonia. Seducing her while she resided under his roof, essentially under his protection, was another matter entirely, one which impinged on his honour, rather than simply his morals.

Swallowing a disgusted “humph,” he resisted the urge to cross his arms and glower at the delightful picture she made, swirling down the room in the Roger de Clovely. Lord Ashby, one of his peers, was her partner; despite that, Philip felt no qualms. The fact gave him pause.

He was, now he thought of it, totally, unshakeably, sure of Antonia—sure of her affection, sure of her loyalty, sure of her wish to marry him. Why, then, was he torturing himself by standing here, watching over her?

None who saw her could doubt her assurance. If she should need any help, Henrietta was there, gossiping avidly with her intimates. Geoffrey, too, was somewhere in the throng, almost certainly with the Marquess, Miss Dalling and Mr Fortescue.

As the music swirled towards its conclusion, Philip cast one last glance about. There was no reason he couldn’t do as husbands did and leave the room. Antonia didn’t need him; he, however, could use the time to consider an urgent problem—what additional steps he could introduce, what byways they could explore, to lengthen her road to seduction.

Given the unexpected violence of his feelings, and her passionate response, that was an increasingly pertinent requirement.

As she rose from her final curtsy, Antonia laughed gaily at Lord Ashby, then automatically scanned the room. She saw Philip’s back as he passed through the main door; smiling, she assumed he had gone to get some air.

Confident, buoyed by content, she chatted with Lord Ashby and the others who gathered around. Ten minutes of artless, on her part distracted, prattle convinced her that her thoughts had gone with Philip. Idly glancing around, she decided there was really no reason she, too, couldn’t slip out to get some air. The blustery weather outside had meant the terrace doors were firmly shut; the temperature in the ballroom was steadily rising.

Smiling sweetly, she turned to Lord Ashby. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I believe I must have a word with my aunt.”