Читать книгу The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day - Stephanie Laurens, Alison DeLaine - Страница 14

CHAPTER FIVE

SEDUCING HIM? AS if that was possible.

Smothering a snort, Antonia dragged her brush through her thick wavy hair. Sunshine streamed in through her bedchamber window; the morning breeze came with it, bringing the crisp tang of grass and dew-washed greenery. The day of the fête had dawned bright and clear; unable to sleep, she had risen and donned her sprig muslin, then sat down to tend her curls.

And consider how best to deal with her host.

She might have tried to make him notice her, she might have tried to make him see her as a potential wife. But to accuse her of seducing him?

“Hah!” Frowning direfully at the mirror, she gritted her teeth and ruthlessly dealt with a tangle. She was not such a scheming female!

The very notion that a lady such as she, of severely restricted experience, could seduce a gentleman of his vast and, she had no doubt, varied background, was ludicrous. None of the seducing that had been done to date could be laid at her door.

She knew very well who had been seducing whom.

Those moments in the woods had opened her eyes; until then she had been too distracted by her reactions, too caught up with suppressing them, to focus on what drew them forth. Now she knew.

The Lord only knew what she was going to do about it.

The hand holding her brush stilled; Antonia studied the face that looked back at her from her mirror, the trim figure displayed therein. It had never occurred to her that Philip, with all the accommodating ladies of the ton from whom to choose, would fix any real part of his interest on her.

She had thought to be his wife but had envisaged he would feel nothing beyond mere affection for her—that and the lingering warmth of long-standing friendship. That was what she had expected, what she had steeled herself to accept—the position of a conventional wife.

His actions in the woods suggested she had miscalculated.

He wanted her—desired her. A delicious thrill ran through her. For an instant, she savoured it, then, frowning again, resumed her brushing. A serious problem had surfaced with his ardour—namely, hers. Or, more specifically, how, given a gentleman’s expectations of his wife, she was supposed to keep her feelings hidden or, at the very least, acceptably disguised.

The door opened; Nell walked in, stopping in amazement at the sight of her.

“Great heavens! And here I’d thought to wake you.”

Antonia brushed more vigorously. “There’s still a lot to do—I don’t wish to be rushed at the last.”

Nell snorted and came to take the brush. “Seemingly you’re not the only one. I just saw his lordship downstairs. Thought he must be going riding, but then I noticed he wasn’t in top boots. Very natty, he looked, I must say.”

“Indeed.” Clasping her hands in her lap, Antonia infused the word with the utmost disinterest. Philip had tried to speak with her last night, first in the drawing-room before dinner, when Geoffrey’s enthusiasm had saved her, then later, when she was pouring the tea. She had affected deafness to his low-voiced “Antonia?” and handed him a brimming cup.

She was not about to forgive him, to let him close again, not until the panicky feelings inside subsided, not until she was again confident of carrying off their interaction with the assurance expected of a prospective wife.

“Dare say you’ll have your hands full today, acting as hostess in her ladyship’s stead.” Nell deftly wound the golden mass of Antonia’s hair into a tight bun, teasing tendrils free to wreathe about her ears and nape. “She told Trant she intends going no further than the terrace.”

Antonia shifted on the stool. “She’s getting too old to stand up to the crowds—I’m only glad I can help her in this way.”

“Aye—and his lordship, too. Can’t think that he’d appreciate having to face it all by himself.”

Antonia glanced searchingly at Nell but there was no evidence of intent in her maid’s homely features. “Naturally I’ll be on hand to aid his lordship in any way I can.”

A role she could hardly escape, having worked so diligently to earn it. Being at odds with Philip on today of all days was going to be simply impossible. They would have to make their peace before the guests arrived.

As soon as Nell pronounced her fit to face the day, Antonia headed downstairs. As she descended the last flight, her nemesis strolled into the hall. Looking up, he stopped at the foot of the stairs—and waited. Antonia paused, meeting his gaze. In the hall above, a door opened then slowly closed. Drawing in a steadying breath, Antonia continued her descent, her expression determinedly aloof.

Philip turned to face her, effectively blocking her way. As Nell had intimated, he was precise to a pin in a grey morning coat, his cravat tied in a simple but elegant knot. A subdued waistcoat, form-fitting breeches and glossy Hessians completed the outfit—perfect for a wealthy gentleman about to greet his neighbours. His movements, Antonia noted, were once again lazy; his habitual air of languid indolence hung like a cloak about him. She stopped on the last step, her eyes level with his. “Good morning, my lord.” She kept her tone coolly polite.

Only his eyes, his grey gaze sharply intent as it met hers, gave evidence of yesterday’s turmoil.

“Good morning, Antonia.” Holding her gaze, Philip raised a brow. “Pax?”

Antonia narrowed her eyes. “You accused me of seducing you.”

“A momentary aberration.” Philip kept his eyes on hers. “I know you didn’t.” He had managed that all by himself.

She was, after all, an innocent; regardless of any scheme she and Henrietta had concocted, what had flared between them was more his doing than hers.

Antonia hesitated, studying his bland countenance.

Despite his determination to remain distant, Philip felt his lips twist. He reached for her hand. “Antonia—”

The sound of a heavy footstep had them both looking up.

“Henrietta.” Lips tightening, Philip caught Antonia’s gaze. “I need you as my hostess, Antonia.” His fingers tightened about hers. “I want you by my side.”

It took a moment for Antonia to subdue her response to his touch, his plea. Stiffly, she inclined her head; behind her, she could hear Henrietta on the landing. “You may count on me, my lord.” She kept her voice low. “I won’t let you down.”

Philip held her gaze. “And I won’t let you down.” For an instant, he held still, then, eyes glinting, swiftly raised her fingers to his lips. “I’ll even promise not to bite.”

* * *

AS THE DAY PROGRESSED, Antonia found herself grateful for the reassurance. Henrietta had elected to greet her visitors at the bottom of the terrace steps; Fenton was stationed at the front of the house, directing all arrivals around the corner to the south lawn.

After settling Henrietta by the balustrade, Antonia, her eye on Mrs Mimms, approaching like a galleon under full sail, two anaemic daughters in tow, murmured, “I’ll just go the rounds and check—”

“Nonsense, my dear.” Closing her crabbed fingers about Antonia’s wrist, Henrietta smiled up at her. “Your place is beside me.”

Antonia frowned. “There’s no need—”

“What say you, Ruthven?” Henrietta glanced at Philip, standing behind her, his gaze fixed on Mrs Mimms. “Don’t you think Antonia should stand by us?”

“Indubitably,” Philip stated. He shifted his gaze to Antonia, subtle challenge in his eyes. “How else, my dear, will we cope with Mrs Mimms—let alone the rest of them?”

She had, of course, to acquiesce; the result was predictable. Introduced by a beaming Henrietta as “My very dear niece—dare say you remember her—spent many summers here with us all. Don’t know how we could have managed this without her,” she found herself transfixed by Mrs Mimms’ basilisk stare.

“Indeed? Helping out?” Mrs Mimms cast a knowledgeable eye over the tables and booths scattered over the lawns and terrace. Her lips thinned as her gaze fell on Philip, already greeting the next guests. “I see.”

Those two bare words effectively summarized Mrs Mimms’s reading of the situation. Determined not to let it, or anything else, rattle her, Antonia smiled serenely. “I do hope you enjoy yourself.” With a gentle nod, she allowed her gaze to shift to Horatia and Honoria Mimms, both of whom had yet to drag their attention from Philip. Their protuberant eyes were fixed on his face in cloying adoration. “And your daughters, too, of course.”

Mrs Mimms glanced sharply at her offspring. “Come along, girls!” She frowned intimidatingly. “Stop dilly-dallying!” With a swirl of her skirts, she led the way up the terrace steps.

Mrs Mimms was not alone among the local ladies in having seen in the Manor’s invitation a chance to press their daughters’ claims. That much was made clear as the guests flooded in. Antonia found herself the object of quite a few disconcerted stares. Many recalled her from her earlier visits; while most greeted her warmly, the matrons with unmarried daughters in tow were distinctly more reserved.

Lady Archibald was characteristically forthright in her surprise. “Damnation! Thought you’d disappeared. Or at least were safely wed!”

Antonia struggled to hide her grin. It was impossible to take offence; her ladyship, while hardly the soul of tact, possessed an indefatigably kind heart. She watched as her ladyship, frowning, looked down on the mousy young lady hugging her shadow, her gaze, like all the other young ladies’ gazes, seemed to be fixed on Philip. Lady Archibald humphed. “Come along, Emily. No point in making sheep’s eyes in that direction.”

Antonia made a point of shaking hands with Emily to soften that trenchant remark. But the girl appeared not to have heeded it, continuing to cast shy but glowing glances at Philip.

After directing her ladyship and Emily to the terrace, Antonia turned to greet the next guest, in doing so, she met Philip’s eye.

She had never before seen such an expression of aggravated exasperation on his face. It was a fight to keep her lips in the prescribed gentle smile; her jaw ached for a full five minutes. Thereafter, she studiously avoided his gaze whenever smitten young ladies stood before them.

The novelty of the event had ensured a large turnout. All their neighbours had accepted, rolling up the drive in chaises and carriages, many open so the occupants could bask in the bright sunshine. Philip’s tenants came in carts or on foot, lifting their caps or dropping shy curtsies as they passed the reception line on their way to join the congregation on the lawn.

Amongst the last to arrive was the party from the Grange, some miles beyond the village. Sir Miles and Lady Castleton were new to the district since Antonia’s last visit; she studied them as they approached, her ladyship strolling in the lead, an aloof expression on her lovely face, a slim, dark-haired young lady in her wake.

“My dear Ruthven!” With a dramatic gesture, Lady Castleton presented her hand. A statuesque brunette, fashionably pale, she was elegantly gowned in figured muslin, her face set in lines of studied boredom. “What a novel—quite exhausting—idea!” A cloud of heady perfume engulfed the reception party. Her ladyship’s gaze shifted to Henrietta. “I don’t know how you could bear to handle all this, my dear. You must be positively prostrated. So naughty of Ruthven to expect it of you.”

“Nonsense, Selina!” Henrietta frowned and straightened her shoulders. “If you must know, having a major gathering was my idea—Ruthven was merely good enough to humour me.”

“Indeed,” Philip drawled, releasing her ladyship’s hand after the most perfunctory shake. He turned to Sir Miles. “I can confirm that it was not my will that gave rise to today’s entertainment.”

Sir Miles, bluffly genial, was a stark contrast to his wife. Chuckling, he pumped Philip’s hand. “No need to tell me that! Not a man here doesn’t know what it’s like.”

“As you say.” Philip’s smile remained easy as he nodded to the girl who stood between Sir Miles and his wife. “Miss Castleton.”

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Boldly, Miss Castleton presented her hand with the same dramatic flair as her mother. She accompanied it with an openly inviting, distinctly brazen look. Not as tall as Antonia, she was possessed of a full figure, more revealed than concealed by her fine muslin gown.

Philip glanced at her hand as if mildly surprised to find it hanging before him. He clasped it but fleetingly, his gaze, blank, shifting to Lady Castleton, then Antonia as he half turned.

“Haven’t introduced you to my niece.” Henrietta gestured to Antonia, adroitly deflecting attention from Miss Castleton, who promptly pouted. “Miss Mannering.”

With a calm smile, Antonia held out her hand.

Lady Castleton’s sharp, black-eyed gaze travelled over her; an arrested expression flitted over her pale face. “Ah,” she said, smiling but not with her eyes. Briefly touching Antonia’s fingers, she looked down at Henrietta. “It’s reassuring to see that you’ve found someone to act as companion at last.”

“Companion?” Henrietta blinked; Antonia noted her aunt’s straight back but could not fault her guileless expression as she exclaimed, “Oh—I keep forgetting you’re newcomers!” Henrietta smiled, all confiding condescension. “No, no—Antonia’s often visited here. Been her second home for years. Now her mama’s passed on, she’s naturally come to stay with me.” Turning, Henrietta squeezed Antonia’s arm. “But you’re right in part—it’s a great relief to have someone capable of organising all this sort of thing—exhausting at my age but, as you must know, quite one’s duty.”

Antonia took her cue, smiling fondly at Henrietta. “Indeed, but I assure you, aunt, I haven’t found it exhausting at all.” Glancing up, still smiling, she met Lady Castleton’s hard gaze. “I’m quite used to organising such affairs—all part of a young lady’s education, as my mama was wont to say.”

Lady Castleton’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed?”

“Be that as it may,” Philip said, deftly coming between Antonia and Henrietta, “I believe it’s time we adjourned to the terrace.” Capturing Antonia’s hand, he tucked it into one elbow, then held his other arm rigid as Henrietta leaned heavily upon it. “Sir Miles?”

“Indeed, m’lord.” Before Lady Castleton could reclaim the initiative, Sir Miles drew her arm through his, then offered his other arm to his daughter. “Couldn’t agree more. Let’s go, what?”

Without a backward glance, Sir Miles ushered his ladies up the steps.

Philip waited until they were out of earshot, then glanced pointedly down at the ladies on his arms. “Might I suggest, my dears, that we get this exhausting, exceedingly well-organised event underway?”

They saw Henrietta settled in her seat at one end of the long table, then Philip escorted Antonia to her chosen position halfway down the board. “I never thought to say it, but thank heaven for Ladies Archibald and Hammond.”

As she sat, Antonia glanced at the head of the table where the two ladies in question, imposing matrons both, flanked Philip’s empty chair. Settling her skirts, she cast a questioning glance up at him.

Philip bent close. “They take precedence over Lady Castleton.” With a glint of a smile and a lifted brow, he straightened and moved away.

Antonia disguised her grin as a cheery smile; she hunted for Lady Castleton and found her seated on the opposite side, some places away, her exquisite features marred by an expression of disaffected boredom. Her ladyship’s disdain, however, was not evinced by others; as the food, laboured over by Mrs Hobbs, Cook and a small battalion of helpers, appeared on the crisp damask cloth, genial conversation rose on all sides. As Fenton and his minions filled goblets and glasses, the festive atmosphere grew.

Philip proposed a toast to the company, then bade them enjoy the day. When he sat, the feast began.

From the corner of her eye, Antonia kept watch over the steady stream of maids carrying platters to the lower tables. To her mind, Philip’s tenants were, in this instance, as important if not more so than his neighbours. Neighbours would be invited on other occasions; this was one of the few when tenants partook of their landlord’s largesse. Trestles groaned as trays loaded with mouth-watering pastries, succulent savouries and roasted meats, together with breads, cheeses and pitchers of ale, were placed upon them. The company seemed in fine fettle; she could detect nothing but unfettered gaiety around the tables on the lawn.

She had wondered whether the noise from the lower tables would prove overwhelming. As she returned her attention to the conversations about her, she dismissed the thought; those on the terrace were more than capable of holding their own.

The long meal passed without incident, bar an altercation which arose at the table set aside for the tenants’ children, which their fathers promptly quashed. When the fruit platters were all but empty, the boards were drawn; the dowagers and others ill-inclined to the games, contests and feats of skill slated to fill the afternoon, settled in their chairs on the terrace to enjoy a comfortable cose and possibly a nap in the warm sunshine.

The more robust of the guests adjourned to the lawns.

Straightening from having a last word with Henrietta, Antonia found Philip by her side.

When she looked her surprise, he raised a brow. “You didn’t seriously imagine I’d brave the dangers of the lawns without you to protect me?”

“Protect...?” Antonia temporarily lost her track when he drew her close, trapping her hand in the crook of his elbow. He was very large—and very hard. She was not yet accustomed to his nearness. “What am I supposed to protect you against?” She managed what she felt was a creditably sceptical look.

Her nemesis merely smiled. “Piranhas.”

“Piranhas?” Antonia cudgelled her brains as, with an elegant nod for the dowagers, Philip led her down the steps. “I thought they were fish,” she said once they gained the lawns.

“Precisely. Social but carnivorous and definitely cold-blooded.”

“On your lawns?”

“Indeed. Here comes a young one, now.”

Antonia looked up to see Miss Castleton bearing down upon them, arm linked with Honoria Mimms.

“Ah—Miss Mannering, is it not?” Miss Castleton came to a halt directly before them. “Poor Honoria seems to have ripped her flounce.”

Looking thoroughly puzzled, Honoria was twisting about, trying to see her trailing flounce. “I don’t know how it happened,” she said. “I felt it rip but when I turned around there was nothing for it to catch on. Luckily, Calliope was standing close by and told me how bad it was.”

“Perhaps, if you would be so good, Miss Mannering,” Calliope Castleton glibly broke in, “you might take poor Honoria up to the house and help her to pin up her lace?”

Honoria blushed beet-red. “Oh, I couldn’t—! I mean, you have all your other guests...”

“Exactly,” Philip calmly interjected. “As you’ve been such a good friend to Miss Mimms, Miss Castleton, I know you won’t mind helping her to the terrace and asking one of the maids for assistance.” He bestowed a smile of calculated charm on Honoria Mimms. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I have great need of Miss Mannering’s talents at present.”

Miss Mimms was dazzled. “Naturally, my lord.” Her eyes were wide and shining. “I wouldn’t dream of...of discommoding you.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Philip took her hand and bowed over it, his grateful smile enough to turn any young girl’s head. “I am in your debt.”

Honoria Mimms looked as if she would burst. Her round face alight, she grabbed Miss Castleton’s arm. “Come on, Calliope—I’m sure we can take care of this ourselves.”

Beaming, Miss Mimms towed Miss Castleton towards the terrace. The sound of Miss Castleton’s protests died behind them.

Antonia opened her eyes wide. “Miss Castleton didn’t seem all that taken with your suggestion, my lord.”

“I dare say. Miss Castleton, as you will have noticed, is somewhat enamoured of her own path.”

Antonia’s eyes lit; her lips quirked.

Philip noticed. “Now what is there in that to make you laugh?” Mentally replaying the conversation, he could see nothing to account for the laughter he sensed welling within her. He lifted one brow interrogatively. “Well?”

Antonia’s smile broke. “I was considering, my lord,” she said, shifting her gaze to the crowds before them, “whether your last comment might not be an example of the pot calling the kettle black?”

She glanced up at him; he trapped her gaze, both brows rising. For a long moment, he held her mesmerised; Antonia felt a shiver start deep inside, spreading through her until it quivered just beneath her skin.

Only when awareness blossomed in her eyes did Philip glance away. “You, my dear, are hardly one to talk.” After a moment, he added, his tone less dark, “I suspect that we should mingle. When are the archery contests scheduled to start?”

The hours passed swiftly, filled with conversations. They strolled the lawns, stopping every few feet to chat with their guests. Antonia was of the firm opinion that Philip should spend at least five minutes with each of his tenants; it transpired he was of similar mind; she was not called on to steer him their way. A fact for which she gave due thanks.

Her control of the fête and its associated events might be absolute; it did not extend to him.

To her surprise, he held by her side, even waiting patiently while she exchanged recipes with one of his farmers’ wives. Despite the years, the majority of his tenants were still known to her; they were keen to renew their acquaintance as well as catch up with their landlord. After every encounter, Philip drew her close before moving on.

Exactly as if she did indeed provide the protection he claimed.

While most of the mamas had read the signs aright and consequently made no effort to put their darlings in his way, their darlings proved less perceptive. Miss Abercrombie and Miss Harris, greatly daring, accosted them as they strolled.

“Such a frightfully warm day, don’t you think, my lord?” Miss Abercrombie’s gaze was certainly sultry. She fanned herself with her hand, the action drawing attention to the ample charms revealed by her deeply scooped neckline.

“Quite positively enervating, I think.” Miss Harris, not to be outdone, fluttered her lashes and cast Philip a languishing look.

Antonia felt him stiffen; his expression was shuttered, remote.

“Before you find yourselves prostrated, ladies, might I suggest you repair to the drawing-room?” Philip’s tone alone lowered the temperature ten degrees. “I believe there are cold drinks laid out there.” With a distant nod, he changed tack, steering Antonia away from the budding courtesans.

After one glance at the rigid set of his lips, Antonia amused herself looking over the stalls. She could have told all the young misses that gushing declarations and fluttering lashes were definitely the wrong way to approach their host. He disliked all show of emotion, preferring the correct, properly restrained modes of interaction. He was a conventional man—she strongly suspected most gentlemen were.

They paused to allow Philip to discuss crop rotation with one of his tenant farmers. Covertly studying him, Antonia smiled wryly. His languid indolence was very much to the fore, at least in his projected image.

The girls watching could not hear his brisk words on ploughing and the optimum depth of furrows. As handsome as any, with that subtle aura of restrained power which derived, she suspected, from that affected indolence, while strolling the lawns with smoothly elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing, die-away looks of the massed host of young girls.

Quelling an unhelpful shiver, Antonia looked around. Horatia Mimms and two of the girls from the vicarage stood in a knot nearby, giggling and whispering. Feeling immeasurably older, she let her gaze pass over them.

Concluding his discussion, Philip placed his hand over hers and turned towards the archery butts. “Looks like the contests are well underway.” He glanced down at her. “I’m not at all sure you shouldn’t be the one to present the ribbon to the winner.”

Antonia shook her head. “You are their master—to the youngsters you’re an idol. Of course they want you to award the prize.”

She shifted as she spoke, swinging slightly forward to glance into his eyes. Unfortunately, that placed her in Horatia Mimms’s path. In a balletic manoeuvre, Horatia flew forward, her trajectory calculated to land her, gracefully tripping, in Philip’s arms. Instead, she cannoned into Antonia’s back.

With a stifled cry, Antonia catapulted forward, coming up hard against Philip’s chest. His arms closed around her, steel bands crushing her to him as he lifted her free of the wild tangle that was Horatia, now sprawled on the grass.

“Are you all right?” Easing his hold, Philip looked down at her.

Antonia nodded, struggling to find her voice. “Just a bump—” She couldn’t help a wince as she tried to pull back.

Philip steadied her, his hands firming on her back, gently kneading. His gaze shifted to the scene before them, where a winded Horatia was being helped to her feet by her two supporters from the vicarage.

Philip’s eyes blazed. “That was the most inconsiderate piece of witless behaviour it has ever been my misfortune to witness!”

Helpless in his arms, unable to stop her senses luxuriating in the feel of his warm hands massaging her back, her forehead resting, for one weak moment, against his chest, Antonia stifled a hysterical giggle. From his tone, from the tension holding him, she knew his temper was on a very short leash. Luckily, they were halfway between the stalls and the crowds watching the archery; there were few witnesses to the scene.

“I cannot believe your parents—” Philip’s gaze coldly swept all three girls “—will find your antics at all acceptable.” His icy words cut like a lash. “I intend to make plain to them—”

Antonia pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to loosen his hold. As she struggled free of his arms, she wasn’t at all surprised to glimpse three white faces, stricken with alarm. “I’m perfectly all right.” One glance at Philip was enough to confirm he wasn’t mollified by her assurance. His face remained stony, his expression chilling. Antonia felt like grimacing at him; she contented herself with narrowing her eyes warningly before facing the girls. “Miss Mimms—I hope you sustained no injury?”

White as a sheet, Horatia Mimms blinked, then dazedly looked down. A long grass stain marred the pink of her muslin skirts. “My best dress!” she moaned. “It’s ruined!”

Philip snorted. “You may consider yourself—”

Antonia stepped back—onto his foot. Philip broke off and frowned down at her.

“Perhaps, Miss Carmichael, Miss Jayne, you could accompany Miss Mimms into the house and see if the stain will shift?”

The vicar’s daughters nodded, quickly taking Horatia’s arms. But Horatia unexpectedly stood her ground, her cheeks slowly turning an unfortunate shade of red. She looked helplessly at Antonia. “I’m most extremely sorry, Miss Mannering. I didn’t mean to—” She broke off and bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the ground.

Antonia took pity on her. “An unfortunate occurrence—we’ll say no more about it.”

The relief that flooded all three faces was almost comical. With quick bobs, the three took themselves off, moving out of Philip’s orbit as fast as they could.

“An unfortunate occurrence, my foot!” Philip glowered after them. “The little wretches—”

“Were only behaving as young girls often do.” Antonia slanted him a glance. “Particularly when presented with such provocation as is present here today.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “I do not appreciate being the butt of their silly fancies.”

Antonia smiled. “Never mind.” She patted his arm soothingly. “Come and present the archery prizes—from the whoops, I think the contests must be over.”

Philip sent her a darkling glance but allowed her to steer him to the area by the lake where the archery contest had been held.

He might not appreciate the adoration of young girls, but he clearly had no difficulty coping with the same emotion in youthful cubs. Antonia watched as they danced about him while he gave an impromptu speech congratulating the winners of the three competitions. With the prizes awarded, he returned to her side.

They adjourned to the terrace for tea. Despite numerous invitations to do otherwise, Philip held trenchantly to her side. Then it was time to cross to where the junior equestrians had been kept busy for most of the afternoon.

They regained the lawns, only to discover Lady Castleton in their path. Her daughter walked beside her on the arm of Mr Gerald Moresby, a younger son of Moresby Hall.

“There you are, Ruthven.” Lady Castleton placed one manicured hand firmly on Philip’s sleeve. “You’ve been positively hiding yourself away amongst the farmers, sir—quite ignoring those who would, one might imagine, have far greater claim to your attention.”

One glance convinced Antonia that her ladyship saw nothing outrageous in her statement. Philip, she noticed, looked bored.

Oblivious, Lady Castleton rolled on. “So you’ve driven us to make our wishes plain, my lord. Calliope has conceived a great wish to view your rose garden but unfortunately Gerald cannot abide the flowers—they make him sneeze.”

“Quite right.” Gerald Moresby grinned. “Can’t abide the smell, y’know.”

“So,” Lady Castleton concluded, “as Miss Mannering is apparently acting as hostess in her aunt’s stead, I suggest she takes Mr Moresby on an amble about the lake while you, my lord, can lend me your arm and escort myself and Calliope through your rose garden.”

Gerald rubbed his hands together, his gaze on Antonia. “Capital idea, what?”

Antonia did not think so. Eight years ago, Gerald had been a most untrustworthy character. Judging by the expression in his pale blue eyes and the way his weak mouth shifted, he had not improved with the years.

Sensing sudden tension beside her, she glanced up to find Philip’s gaze fixed on Gerald’s face, his lips curved in a smile that was not entirely pleasant.

“I’m afraid, dear lady,” Philip smoothly said, shifting his gaze from Gerald Moresby’s lecherous countenance, thereby denying a sudden urge to rearrange it, “that as Miss Mannering and I are sharing the honours in entertaining my tenants, our time is not our own. I’m sure you understand the situation,” he sauvely continued, “being yourself the chatelaine of an estate.”

He was well aware of Lady Castleton’s background; it did not encompass any great experience of “lady of the manor” duties.

Which was why, stumped by his comment, unable to contradict it, her ladyship resorted to a cold-eyed stare.

“I knew you’d understand.” Philip inclined his head, his hand trapping Antonia’s where it rested on his sleeve. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us—the junior equestrians await.” He included Lady Castleton and her daughter in his benedictory smile; it didn’t stretch as far as Gerald Moresby.

As they passed out of earshot, Antonia drew a deep breath. “How positively...” She paused, hunting for words.

“Brilliant?” Philip suggested. “Glib? Artful?”

“I was thinking of ruthless.” She cast him a reproving glance.

The look he bent upon her was less readable. “You wanted to wander by the lake with Gerald Moresby?”

“Of course not.” Antonia quelled a shudder. “He’s a positive toad.”

Philip humphed. “Well, Miss Castleton’s a piranha, so they’re well matched—and we’re well rid of them.”

Antonia had no wish to argue.

They arrived at the edge of the roped-off area in time to watch the final rounds of the low jumps. Johnny Smidgins, the headgroom’s son, won by a whisker. His sister, little Emily, a tiny tot barely big enough to hold the reins, guided a fat pony through the course to take the girls’ prize.

Everybody made much of them both. Ruthven gravely shook Johnny’s hand and presented him with a blue ribbon. Antonia couldn’t resist picking up little Emily and giving her a quick kiss before pinning her blue rosette to her dress. Sheer pride struck the little girl dumb; Philip patted her curls and left well alone.

After that, only the last event remained—the Punch and Judy show. Virtually everyone, even some of the dowagers, crowded before the stage erected in front of the green wall of the shrubbery.

The children sat on the grass, their elders standing behind them. Among the last to join the throng, just as the makeshift curtain arose to whoops, claps and expectant shrieks, Antonia and Philip found themselves at the very back of the crowd. Philip could see; despite ducking and peering, Antonia could not.

“Here.” Philip drew her aside to where a low retaining wall held back a section of lawn. “Stand on this.” Gathering her skirts, Antonia took his proffered hand and let him help her up. The stone was not high but narrow on top.

“Put your hand on my shoulder.”

She had to to keep her balance. He stood beside her, and they both turned to watch the stage.

Geoffrey’s script was hilarious, the puppets inspired. Some of the props, including such diverse items as the cook’s favourite ladle and a moth-eaten tiger’s head from the billiard-room, were both novel and inventively used. By the time the curtain finally dropped—literally—Antonia was leaning heavily on Philip’s shoulder, her other hand pressed to the stitch in her side.

“Oh, my!” she said, blinking away tears of laughter. “I never knew my brother had such a solid grasp of double entendres.”

Philip threw her a cynical look. “I suspect there’s a few things you don’t know about your brother.”

Antonia raised a brow. She straightened, about to lift her hand from his shoulder. And sucked in a breath as her bruised back protested.

Instantly, Philip’s arm came around her.

“You are hurt.”

The words, forced out, sounded almost like an accusation. Leaning into the support of his arm, Antonia looked at him in surprise. Courtesy of the stone wall, their eyes were level; when his lids lifted and his gaze met hers, she had a clear view of the stormy depths, the emotions clouding his grey eyes.

Their gazes locked; for an instant, his sharpened, became clearer, then he blinked and the expression was gone. Her heart thudding, Antonia dropped her gaze and let him lift her gently down. She stretched and shifted, trying to ease the spot between her shoulder blades where Horatia Mimms’s elbow had connected. She wished he would massage it again.

He remained rigid beside her, his hands fisted by his sides. Antonia glanced up through her lashes; his face was unreadable. “It’s only a bit stiff,” she said, in response to the tension in the air.

“That witless female—!”

“Philip—I’m perfectly all right.” Antonia nodded at the people streaming across the lawns. “Come—we must bid your guests farewell.”

They did, standing by the drive and waving each carriage, each family of tenants, goodbye. Needless to say, Horatia Mimms was treated to an unnerving stare; Antonia held herself ready throughout the Mimms’s effusive leave-taking to quell, by force if necessary, any outburst on Philip’s part.

But all passed smoothly; even the Castletons eventually left.

When all had departed, Antonia returned to the lawns to supervise the clearing. Philip strolled beside her, watching the late-afternoon sun strike gold gleams from her hair.

“I’m really very impressed with Geoffrey,” he eventually said. “He took on the responsibility of staging the Punch and Judy and saw it through.”

Antonia smiled. “And very well, too. The children were enthralled.”

“Mmm. As far as I know, none fell in the lake, either—for which he has my heartfelt thanks.” Philip glanced down at her. “But I think some part of his glory is owed to you.” They had almost reached the nearest shore of the lake. Brows rising in question, Antonia stopped on a small rise; meeting her gaze, Philip halted beside her. “You must have had a hard time bringing him up, essentially alone.”

Antonia shrugged and looked away across the lake. “I never regretted having the care of him. In its way, it’s been very rewarding.”

“Perhaps—but there are many who would say it was not your responsibility—not while your mother still lived.”

Antonia’s lips twisted. “True, but after my father died, I’m not entirely certain my mother did live, you see.”

There was a pause, then Philip answered, “No. I don’t.”

Antonia glanced at him, then turned and headed back towards the house. Philip kept pace beside her. They were halfway to the terrace before she spoke again. “My mother was devoted to my father. Totally caught up with him and his life. When that ended unexpectedly, she was lost. Her interest in me and Geoffrey sprang from the fact we were his children—when he died, she lost interest in us.”

Philip’s jaw set. “Hardly a motherly sort.”

“You mustn’t misjudge her—she was never intentionally negligent. But she didn’t see things in the light you might expect—nothing was important after my father had gone.”

Together, they climbed the rising lawns towards the terrace. As they neared the house, Antonia paused and looked up, putting up a hand to shade her eyes so she could admire the elegant facade. “It took a long time for me to understand—to realise what it was to love so completely—to love like that. So that nothing else mattered anymore.”

For long moments, they stood silently side by side, then Antonia lowered her hand. She glanced briefly at Philip then accepted his proffered arm.

On the terrace, they turned, surveying the lawns, neat again but marked by the tramp of many feet.

Philip’s lips twisted. “Remind me not to repeat this exercise any time soon.”

He turned—and read the expression in Antonia’s eyes. “Not that it wasn’t a roaring success,” he hastened to reassure her. “However, I doubt my temper will bear the strain of a repeat performance too soon.”

The obvious riposte flashed through Antonia’s mind so forcefully it was all she could do to keep the words from her lips.

Philip read them in her eyes, in the shifting shades of green and gold. The planes of his face hardened. “Indeed,” he said, his tone dry. “When I marry, the problem will disappear.”

Antonia stiffened but did not look away. Their gazes locked; for a moment, all was still.

Then Philip reached for her hand. He raised it; with cool deliberation, he brushed a lingering kiss across her fingertips, savouring the response that rippled through her, the response she could not hide.

Defiantly, her eyes still on his, Antonia lifted her chin.

Philip held her challenging gaze, one brow slowly rising. “A successful day—in all respects.”

With languid grace, he gestured towards the morning-room windows. Together, they went inside.

“AH, ME!” GEOFFREY yawned hugely. “I’m done in. Wrung out like a rag. I think I’ll go up.”

Setting the billiard cues back in their rack, Philip nodded. “I’d rather you did—before you pass out and I have to haul you up.”

Geoffrey grinned. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble. G’night, then.” With a nod, he went out, closing the door behind him.

Philip shut the cue case; turning, his wandering gaze fell on the tantalus set against the opposite wall. Strolling across, he poured himself a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he opened the long windows and went out, thrusting his free hand into his pocket as he slowly paced the terrace.

All was still and silent—his home, his estate, rested under the blanket of night. Stars glimmered through a light cloud; stillness stretched, comforting and familiar, about him. Everyone had retired to recoup after the hectic day. He felt as wrung out as Geoffrey but too restless to seek his bed.

The emotions the day had stirred still whirled and clashed within him, too novel to be easily dismissed, too strong to simply ignore. Protectiveness, jealousy, concern—he was hardly a stranger to such feelings but never before had he felt them so acutely nor in so focused a fashion.

Superimposed over all was a frustrated irritation, a dislike of being compelled even though the compulsion sprang from within him.

In its way, it was all new to him.

He took a long sip of his brandy and stared into the night.

It was impossible to pretend that he didn’t understand. He knew, unequivocally, that if it had been any other woman, he would have found some excuse, some fashionable reason, for being elsewhere, far distant, entirely out of reach.

Instead, he was still here.

Philip drained his glass and felt the fumes wreathe through his head. Presumably this was part of being thirty-four.