The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable Wife\A Lady by Day (24 page)

* * *

H
E
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.

* * *

W
HEN
,
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.

* * *

N
EXT
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 Catriona 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 house party—three or four days in Sussex, just the thing to round off the season.”

Philip’s hand, carrying his coffee cup, halted in midair. “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 house party 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L
ATE
THE
NEXT
MORNING
, Antonia descended the stairs, Henrietta in her wake. Both she and her aunt were ready to depart for Ticehurst Place; they had both elected to breakfast in their bedchambers, Henrietta due to her slow preparations, Antonia due to a sudden conviction that facing Philip over the breakfast table with only Geoffrey for protection was not a sensible undertaking.

There’d been something in his demeanour, a certain intentness in his manner during their previous evening’s parade through the ballrooms that had set her senses on edge. She had no real idea what it was she detected—she was not about to hazard a guess.

As they started down the last flight, Antonia keeping a watchful eye on Henrietta’s ponderous progress, the front door opened. Geoffrey strode in, his tall form enveloped in a white drab driving coat sporting quite as many capes as Philip’s.

Antonia halted on the last step. “Where on earth did you get that?”

Geoffrey grinned. “Philip introduced me to his tailor. Quite a dab hand at his trade, don’t you think?” He whirled, setting the capes fluttering.

When he stopped and looked pointedly at her, Antonia nodded. “It’s certainly...” She hesitated, then, beguiled by Geoffrey’s obvious delight, smiled. “Something like.”

Geoffrey glowed with pride. “Philip suggested arriving at Oxford in such togs wouldn’t hurt. And, of course, it’s the perfect garb for today.”

Joining them, Henrietta humphed. “The sun’s decided to remember us—you’ll be too hot in the carriage in that.”

“Indeed.”

Antonia quickly turned as Philip strolled into the hall. His gaze met hers fleetingly, then he glanced down, lips firming as he pulled on his driving gloves. “So it’s as well he’s not travelling in the carriage.”

“Oh?” Henrietta asked the question, much to Antonia’s relief, allowing her to keep her lips shut and her expression satisfyingly distant.

“I’m taking my phaeton.” Philip glanced at Antonia. “Geoffrey may as well come with me.”

It was an effort not to meet his gaze. Determinedly cool, Antonia nodded. “An exceedingly good notion.” Tilting her chin, she added, “It will leave us more space in which to be comfortable.”

For an instant, Philip’s gaze rested on her face, then he smiled—a slow, predatory smile. “It would, perhaps, be wise to gain what rest you might. I suspect you’ll discover this house party unexpectedly exhausting.”

Antonia flicked him a suspicious glance but his expression as he moved forward to help Henrietta down the last steps was bland and uninformative.

The front door bell pealed; Carring came hurrying from the nether regions. He looked out, then set the front door wide. “Your phaeton and the carriage, my lord.”

Between them, Philip and Geoffrey helped Henrietta down the front steps. Marshalling his footmen, Carring saw to the stowing of the luggage, assisted by acid comments from both Trant and Nell. Resembling a pair of black crows, the maids between them got Henrietta settled against the padded cushions, protected by a veritable mountain of shawls. Left on the pavement, Antonia glanced about. Geoffrey was already on the box-seat of the phaeton, the reins in his hands as he helped restrain the restive horses.

The sight stiffened her spine. Unbidden, her memory replayed the three separate excuses she had spent the small hours devising, one for every possible tack Philip might have taken to inveigle her into sharing the phaeton’s box-seat on the long drive to Ticehurst Place.

Excuses she had not needed.

Suppressing a disaffected sniff, Antonia turned, one hand raising her skirts to climb the carriage steps. Philip’s hand appeared before her. For an instant, she regarded it, the long strong fingers and narrow palm. Reminding herself of her role, she lifted her chin and placed her hand in his.

Philip smoothly raised her fingers to his lips, artfully, lingeringly, caressing her fingertips.

Antonia froze, her breathing suspended. She glanced up through her lashes; Philip trapped her gaze in his.

“Enjoy the drive. I’ll be waiting at the other end—to greet you.”

Eyes widening, Antonia took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw—and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his grey eyes. A skittering sensation shivered over her skin. Ignoring it, she set one foot on the carriage step. “I dare say there’ll be many distractions at Ticehurst Place.”

She’d intended the comment as a dismissal of his avowed intention; she expected it to be the conclusion of their exchange. Instead, as he handed her up, Philip’s voice reached her, wickedly low. “You may count on that, my dear.”

The promise in his words distracted her all the way to Ticehurst Place.

Although her gaze remained fixed on the scenery, she did not notice the sunshine beaming down from between fluffy clouds, did not feel the soft touch of the unexpectedly mild breeze. Summer’s last stand had enveloped the country, a final burst of golden weather that had set the doves to cooing again in the trees along the way.

Lulled by the sound, Antonia found her mind treading a circuitous path, forever leaving her facing one unanswerable question: Just what was her prospective husband about?

She had reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a stop on the gravel sweep before Ticehurst Place. As soon as the door was opened and the steps let down, Trant and Nell descended. Two footmen came hurrying down the long flight of steps leading up to the front door; together with the maids, they endeavoured to ease Henrietta from the carriage.

Antonia glanced out of the window—and saw Philip descending the steps, his pace relaxed and leisurely, his expression mild and urbane. Longing to escape the close confines of the carriage, aware of the dull headache its stuffiness had evoked, she gave vent to a disgusted sniff—and struggled to keep her mind from dwelling on how pleasant the drive in his phaeton must have been.

“Heh-me!” Henrietta exclaimed as her feet touched the ground. “My old bones are cramping my style.” Grimacing, she leant heavily on the footmen’s arms and slowly started up the steps.

Her head haughtily high, Antonia shifted along the seat, then moved to the carriage door.

As he had promised, Philip was there to assist her to the gravel. Alighting, her hand in his, Antonia glanced up—only to see him grimace.

“Much as it goes against the grain, I fear I must plead Miss Dalling’s cause. Her situation is more serious than I’d imagined.”

Antonia looked her question.

Drawing her hand through his arm, Philip turned her towards the steps. “To use Geoffrey’s description, it appears the gorgon has entirely fallen off her perch. On arrival, we were treated to what I can only describe as a supremely distasteful scene in which her ladyship endeavoured to impress upon me that her niece has all but accepted the Marquess.”

Outwardly nonchalant, they climbed the broad steps. Philip lifted his gaze to the small knot of people waiting on the porch. “It appears that dramatic flights are a Dalling family trait. The upshot was that Miss Dalling, for whom I must reluctantly concede a certain sympathy, has implored our help in avoiding a marriage by
force majeure.
”

“Great heavens!” Antonia followed Philip’s lead in schooling her features to the semblance of polite conversation. “Is Catriona in a fury?”

“Worse. She’s in a blue funk.”

“Catriona?” Antonia looked up at him, her gaze direct. “You’re bamming me.”

Philip’s brows rose. “Not at all—but see for yourself.” With a nod, he indicated the reception party now a short way before them.

Antonia followed his gaze. A moment later, they reached the porch—and she discovered he’d spoken no less than the truth. The Catriona who stood mute by her aunt’s side was a far cry from the defiantly confident young girl who had first come on the town. Eyes still huge but now filled with die-away despair fastened upon her. As she turned from acknowledging the Countess’s somewhat strident greeting, Catriona stepped forward to clasp her hand.

“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Her accents were hushed, fervent. “Come—I’ll show you to your room.” A quick glance revealed that Henrietta was the focus of the Countess’s attention. “I have to unburden myself to someone who understands—I do not know
what
I would have done if you hadn’t taken pity and travelled thus, into the lion’s den.”

Stifling an impulse to suggest that that last should be the “gorgon’s den,” Antonia allowed herself to be drawn inside. Only to have her nonsensical vision take on real shape. The hall was dark and gloomy; its ceiling was so high it could only be described as cavernous. Panelled in dark wood, the walls were hung with old wooden shields and dark-hued tapestries. A fire smoked and smouldered in a huge stone fireplace; a heavy wooden table stood on the dark flags. The chamber exuded a pervading sense of being the anteroom of some dangerous animal’s lair.

Pulling back against Catriona’s tug, Antonia halted in the centre of the room to stare at the huge, ornately carved staircase filling the end of the hall. Its wide treads led upwards into the shadows of what she assumed was a gallery.

“Welcome to the delights of Ticehurst Place.”

The deep, softly menacing words, uttered from just behind her ear, made her jump. Antonia threw a frowning glance over her shoulder. Philip had followed them in; he stood close behind her, his gaze roving the shadowed walls.

“It possesses a certain cachet, don’t you think?” His eyes lowered to meet hers.

Catriona, apparently inured to the decor, gently tugged Antonia forward. Antonia did not move, anchored by Philip’s hand at her waist.

“Don’t leave her,” he murmured, his eyes holding hers. “Not even when you’re dressing.”

Fleetingly, Antonia searched his eyes, then nodded and yielded to Catriona’s insistent urging. Drawing closer, she tucked her arm in Catriona’s. Together, they climbed the stairs, ascending into the shadows.

Philip watched them go, a frown gathering in his eyes.

With no attempt at her usual chatter, Catriona led Antonia to a large chamber, roomy but somehow oppressive. Nell was there, unpacking Antonia’s bags. Eyeing the maid warily, Catriona towed Antonia to the window seat, pressing her to sit. “My room’s just along the corridor,” she said, her voice close to a whisper. Sinking onto the brocaded cushion beside Antonia, she grimaced. “So is Ambrose’s.”

Antonia blinked. “Ah.” That was not, to her understanding, the habit when accommodating young people. “I see.”

“I haven’t told you the half of it yet.” In suitably dramatic style, Catriona proceeded to do so, inevitably embellishing her account.

But no amount of dramatic description could detract from the impact of the basic facts; appraised of the full story of how Ambrose, on arriving late the previous evening, had been shown to Catriona’s room, ostensibly by mistake, Antonia had no doubt of the appropriateness of her sympathies.

“If it hadn’t been for the fact that I’d asked for more coal and the girl was late bringing it up, Ambrose and I could have been...” Catriona’s eyes glazed. “Why—we could have ended sharing a bed.” Her voice faded; Antonia did not think her undisguised horror owed much to her histrionic tendencies.

“Luckily,” she said, leaning forward to pat Catriona’s hand bracingly, “that eventuality was averted. I take it you had not yet gone to sleep and as the girl was there, Ambrose got no further than the threshold?”

Catriona nodded. “But you can see, can’t you, how hopeless it all is? Unless Henry can find some way to rescue me from my aunt’s talons, I’ll be
forced
to the altar.”

“Along with Ambrose.” Antonia frowned. “What does he say to this?”

Catriona sighed. “He was horrified, of course. But his mother is truly overpowering—she has him well under her thumb. He simply cannot stand up to her, no matter how hard he tries.”

“Hmm.” Recalling Philip’s words, Antonia stood and shook out her skirts. “Come—help me choose what to wear. Once I’ve changed, we must see what we can do to brighten you up a trifle.” When this projected endeavour raised no gleam of response, Antonia added, “I should warn you that Ruthven is something of an authority on the subject of feminine attire. If I were you and wished to retain my standing in his eyes, I would not appear at dinner less than well presented.”

Catriona frowned. “He does seem well disposed.”

“Indeed. And if anyone can assist you and Henry, it is he.” As she sailed across the chamber, Antonia added, somewhat acidly, “I can attest that his experience in arranging clandestine meetings is beyond compare.”

As it transpired, that was to be her one and only allusion to what lay between herself and Philip. Absorbed in reinflating Catriona’s confidence while simultaneously considering all possible avenues the Countess might attempt to gain her ends, she had no time to dwell on her husband-to-be’s unfortunate tendencies.

When she met him in the drawing-room two hours later, she made not the slightest demur when he possessed himself of her hand, kissed it, then settled it on his sleeve. The drawing-room was a cold and sombre chamber, designed on the same grandiose scale as the hall, its walls hung with a dark, heavily embossed paper, the ornately carved furniture upholstered in thick black-brown velvet. A small fire in an enormous grate struggled unsuccessfully to dispel the gloom.

Quelling a shiver, Antonia drew closer to Philip, conscious of the aura of safety emanating from his large, familiar frame. Catriona, who had entered with her, reluctantly responded to an imperious summons; haltingly, she made her way to the Countess’s side, to where Ambrose, looking pale and uncomfortable, stood beside his mama.

Leaning towards Philip, Antonia murmured, “Catriona told me what occurred last night.”

Glancing down, Philip frowned. “Last night?”

Antonia blinked, then briefly outlined Catriona’s tale. “It’s no wonder, after that, that she appears so moped. I believe she feels helpless.” Looking up, she saw Philip’s jaw firm, his gaze fixed on the unconvincing tableau the Countess had assembled by the
chaise.