A Comfortable Wife

Chapter Eleven

"Well, my dear? Were you impressed with Hugo's flourishes?" Philip extended his arm as Antonia, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, joined him by the side of Lady Darcy-d'Lisle's ballroom.

"Indeed!" Placing her fingertips on his sleeve, Antonia slanted a playful glance at Hugo. "I cannot recall a more enthusiastic gavotte in all the past weeks."

Hugo's grin turned to a grimace. "Sssh!" Theatrically, he looked about him. "I declare-you'll give me a bad name. Not a rake in London wants to be known as enthusiastic. ''

His expression had Antonia laughing aloud.

Philip savoured the silvery sound. In the last week, Antonia's confidence had steadily grown; his pride and satisfaction had kept pace, swelling at moments like this, feeding his impatience. Suavely, his expression discreetly restrained, he covered her hand with his. "Come. The ball is ended." Her eyes met his. "It's time to go home."

To his house, his library-and their regular nightcap.

To his delight, she blushed delicately, then lifted her head to look across the room. "It appears we'll have to pry Aunt Henrietta from Lady Ticehurst's side."

"Indeed." Philip followed her gaze to where his stepmother was talking animatedly to the Countess. "I'm not at all certain I approve of the connection."

As they started across the floor, Antonia threw him a puzzled look. Philip saw it. He waited until Hugo had taken leave of them before saying, “To my experienced eye, Henrietta is showing alarming signs of involving herself in your youthful friend's affair."

His supposition proved correct; as they strolled up, the Countess was in full flight, declaiming on the wisdom of young ladies allowing their elders to be their matrimonial guides. "For mark my words, it's substance that counts, as my dear niece will be forced to admit." She capped this grim pronouncement with a severe nod, directing a basilisk stare around the ballroom as if searching for dissenters.

Henrietta dutifully nodded, although her expression suggested her opinion was somewhat less trenchantly set.

Antonia watched as Philip applied his not-inconsiderable charm to disengaging Henrietta from her ladyship's side. That accomplished, they found Geoffrey waiting by the door. With smiles and nods, they took leave of their hosts, then descended to their carriage.

As he handed Antonia in, Philip heard his name called.

Turning, he saw Sally Jersey tripping down to her carriage, a distinctly arch look on her face. He replied with a repressive nod. Her ladyship had not been alone in shooting speculative glances his way. Climbing into the carriage, Philip inwardly shrugged. In a few weeks, possibly less, they'd be back at the Manor; thereafter, the rabid interest of the ton would be a matter of no importance, certainly not something he need consider every time he smiled at Antonia. The prospect grew daily more alluring.

Screened by the dark, he settled back against the carriage seat.

Facing him, Antonia sat similarly shrouded by shadows, her thoughts, like Philip's, very much on themselves. Like him, she felt smugly satisfied. She now knew how to act, how to behave as his wife, whilst under the ton's chandeliers. She had paraded before the hostesses' censorious eyes and had not stumbled. No more need she fear to put a foot wrong, to bring opprobrium down on her head through some gauche and unforgivable act-to shame Philip by her lack of sophisticated knowledge.

Under his tutelage, her knowledge, her understanding, had grown in leaps and bounds.

Her eyes sought his face, then scanned his frame, large and impressively elegant in the shadows opposite. Her attention was caught by the diamond pin in his cravat, shimmering in the weak light.

She was now confident she could be his wife-the wife he wanted, the wife he needed, the wife he deserved. His support had been steadfast, underlaid by past affection. In every word and deed, his attitude was evident, a subtle fondness that never overstepped the bounds of propriety.

At least not in public.

Her gaze fixed on his diamond pin, Antonia shifted. His private behaviour had not fitted within her mental framework of a conventional relationship-not until she had admitted the existence of desire. It was not an emotion she had had previous experience of, yet it was there, staring back at her every time they were alone and she looked into his eyes. She had finally accepted that it was an integral part of how he viewed her-she was no longer a girl, after all, but a woman grown.

The thought sent a long shiver slithering down her spine. Abruptly, she straightened and switched her gaze to the passing streetscape.

Despite her sudden breafhlessness, despite her leaping heart, she was not foolish enough to confuse desire with love. Philip's comment in the Park three days before, so easy, so open, so very off-hand, had placed the matter firmly in perspective. Not the most ardent of young ladies- not even Catriona-could have mistaken those few words, his roundabout admission he was smitten with her, as a declaration. It had been no more than a simple restating of his fondness for her, an acknowledgement of his clear preference for her company.

That, admittedly, had surprised her. From beneath her lashes, Antonia viewed the still figure opposite. She had imagined, in light of his freely acknowledged reputation, that other women, perhaps even ladies, would feature rather more significantly in his life.

Perhaps he was reforming?

How would it feel to know that she had been responsible for such a transformation?

A yearning rose within her, deep and strong. Swallowing a contemptuous "humph", she straightened her shoulders and ruthlessly quashed it. That was no part of the bargain between them; that was no part of a conventional marriage. That was none of her business.

A part of her mind jeered-Antonia ignored it. She was, she sternly reminded herself, aiming to be a very comfortable wife, one who did not create ructions over matters beyond her jurisdiction.

With that objective firmly in view, she swept into the hall of Ruthven House. Henrietta and Geoffrey were already on the stairs, deep in conversation. With a smile for Carring, Antonia glided into the library.

As she settled in her usual chair, her gaze fell on the chaise, set directly opposite the hearth. It had appeared nearly a week before; every night since, Philip had inveigled her onto it-and thence, into his arms. Sternly repressing her memories, she reminded herself there was nothing remarkable in a betrothed couple sharing kisses.

Grey eyes dark with desire swam through her mind. A shiver threatened.

Philip had paused at the door; she heard him speak to Carring, then shut the door. He strolled forward, his gaze meeting hers.

“You seem quite at home in the ton these days. I always did think you learned quickly." Gracefully crouching, he built up the fire. The flames transformed his chestnut hair to bronze, each lock burnished bright.

Smiling serenely, Antonia leaned back. "Ah, but I've had an excellent teacher, have I not? I doubt I would have found it half so easy had I had to brave the dragons alone."

Philip straightened, one brow rising. "Flattery, my dear?"

A knock on the door heralded Carring, bearing her glass of milk. Antonia took it with a smile. Carring fetched Philip his brandy then withdrew, leaving them both sipping.

With his usual grace, Philip sank into the chair across the hearth. Silence settled; Antonia relaxed, feeling the warmth of the milk drive the chill from her shoulders. Her lips curved; as peace slowly enfolded her, she lowered her lids.

Cradling his glass in his hands, Philip studied her, his gaze skimming her shoulders, bare above the abbreviated bodice of her evening dress, a confection in pale green silk that had caused any number of ladies to turn greener still. She had not worn her pearls, leaving her throat and the expanse of creamy skin exposed above the low neckline tantalizingly bare. Unadorned, it had drawn more eyes than Lady Darcy-d'Lisle's diamonds. There was an untouched innocence in the gentle swell of her breasts that had halted any number of male conversations.

His eyes on the delicate curves, Philip shifted restlessly.

Antonia blinked. "What's the matter?"

Philip slowly raised a brow. "I was at the point, as it happens, of concluding that women endowed as you are should be forbidden to appear in public without the distraction of jewellery."

As his gaze dropped from hers on the words, Antonia had no difficulty divining his meaning. The warmth that touched her skin owed nothing to the fire. "Indeed?" Determined not to fluster, she sipped her milk.

"Definitely." Abruptly, Philip set aside his glass. Standing, he crossed to his desk; a moment later, he returned, a flat velvet box in his hand.

Placing her glass on a sidetable, Antonia raised wide eyes from the box to his face. "What-?"

"Come-stand before the mirror." Philip caught her hand and drew her to her feet.

Excitement gripping her, Antonia did as he asked.

"No peeking," he said when she tried to glance over her shoulder.

The next instant, he dropped the box on the chaise and held his hands high over her head, a strand of sparkling stones strung between them.

Antonia looked up and caught her breath. “The emeralds from Aspreys!" Her words came in a whisper. "I wondered who had bought them."

"Twas I." Philip lowered the necklace, setting it about her throat. He bent his head to fasten the catch at her nape. "They were obviously made for you-it was only right that you have them."

Her eyes on their reflection, Antonia raised fluttering fingers to the gems. "I…I don't know what to say." She sought Philip's gaze in the mirror; her dazed smile faded. "Philip-I can't wear them. Not yet."

"I know." Grimacing, he placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. "Keep them until we get back to the Manor. You can wear them at our betrothal ball-my gift to you on the occasion."

For a moment longer, Antonia held his gaze, then she turned. "Thank you." Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck and, stretching up on tiptoe, set her lips to his.

For a fractional instant, Philip hesitated, then his hands slid around her silk encased form, smoothly gathering her into his arms. For a single minute, he savoured the freshness of her untutored caress, then desire welled; he parted her lips, confident of his welcome, eager for the taste of her sweetness. She responded as she always did, with simple, unrestrained passion, warm and enticing.

Antonia gave herself up to his kiss, swept up, as she always was, by the warm tide he so effortlessly called forth. When Philip gathered her closer, his head slanting over hers, she tightened her arms about his neck. Her senses drifted; beyond coherent thought, she yielded to the compulsion to press against him.

His hands shifted to her back, tracing the long lines, then dropped to her hips, firming gently, encouragingly. Unable to deny the urging of her senses, she responded, letting her softness sink against his hardness, thrilled, seduced by the unfamiliar excitement that welled within her. The kiss went on; the novel sensation swelled and grew until it filled her entirely.

An indescribable longing swept her.

Philip's hand at her breast felt just right; his gentle fondling eased the odd throbbing ache that had developed there. Then his fingers stroked and her knees went weak; Antonia clung to his shoulders, relieved when his arm tightened about her waist.

Then he was lowering her to the chaise, easing her down to the brocaded cushions without breaking their kiss. Unwilling to leave her realm of delight, Antonia clung to the caress, one arm about his neck. Her other hand fluttered along his jaw in pleading supplication.

Philip felt her tentative touch; accurately interpreting it, he devoted one part of his mind to appeasing her innocent hunger with gentle, lingering kisses while his fingers dealt with the tiny buttons of her bodice. As the closures yielded one by one, he tightened his hold on his passions, ruthlessly harnessing them. Step by step, point by slow point, he had been leading her down the road to seduction by the longest route he could devise. He knew precisely how far he would lead her tonight; that far and no further.

It was a point he made very clear to his surging, restless passions before the last button gave and he slid one hand beneath the fine seagreen silk.

Her breast swelled to his touch; her skin, soft as satin, smoother than the silk he brushed aside, burned him. As he gently closed his fingers about one firm mound, he felt her breath catch, felt tension grow then dissolve into desire. Her lips clung to his, urgent, entreating. She shifted beneath him, flagrantly wanton, deliciously divine.

Philip drank from her lips, fulfilling her needs even as his own raged. It was he who eventually drew back, raising his head to catch his breath.

Her skin flushed and aglow, Antonia lay relaxed against the cushions, her lids too heavy to lift, her lips throbbing and tender yet still hungry for his. She floated on a sea of dreams, cocooned by passion, her desire-drenched mind suborned by sensation.

Blissfully content, she sighed.

Philip's hand shifted; long fingers stroked her breast.

Antonia's eyes flew wide. "Oh!" Jerked back to reality, her stunned mind registered her position, reclining on the chaise with Philip beside her, one hand cupping her breast. "I…" She faltered to a stop, her dazed wits struggling to recall just what had transpired. What had she said? Done? "Oh, heavens!" Sunk in embarrassment, Antonia closed her eyes. Mortification swept her. "I'm so sorry, Philip."

Bemused, Philip nuzzled her ear. "Why sorry?" Bending his head, he touched his lips to the pulse beating wildly in her throat. "If anyone should be making apologies, it is I." He looked down to where her breast filled his hand. "But I've no intention of doing so. I wouldn't hold your breath in expectation of the event."

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 "O".

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 darkeriing, 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 grande 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 raffled 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."

Two nights later, Philip stood by the side of Lady Car-stairs'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."

Given Henrietta was ensconced in the heart of the Dowager Marchioness of Hammersley's circle, Antonia was not the least surprised when none of the gentlemen present insisted on accompanying her. Slipping through the crowd, initially towards her aunt, she then changed tack and headed for the ballroom door.

In the library, otherwise deserted, Philip paced slowly before the hearth, his mind engrossed with Antonia and the latest unforeseen problem she had managed to present him. He did not hear the door ease open, then quietly close. It was the soft rustle of silk skirts, a very familiar sound, that brought him alert.

He turned, his heart lifting spontaneously, only to find it was not Antonia who stood artfully poised by the end of the chaise.

"Good evening, my lord."

Any thought that Lady Ardale had innocently happened upon him was laid to rest by her tone-pure unadulterated adulteress. A stunningly handsome woman, her voluptuous curves were encased in silk so fine it was clear she wore little beneath. Her skirts rustled again, a softly seductive sound, as, her dark gaze on his, she came slowly towards him.

Despite himself, Philip felt a certain fascination-the sort anyone would feel on observing a sight one had heard tell of but had never before encountered. He had certainly heard tell of Lady Ardale. She was one of those he would unhesitatingly label a piranha-in her case, she ate up rakes and spat out their bones. Rumour had it she was impossible to satisfy; attempting that feat that had literally brought some of the fraternity to their knees. As Lord Ardale was still strong enough to insist on discretion, her ladyship limited her prey to those already safely wed. Until now, Philip had thought himself safe.

Her ladyship's next words banished the illusion.

"You've been exceedingly clever, Ruthven." Halting directly before him, Lady Ardale smiled knowingly. Lifting one long-nailed finger, she traced a fold of his cravat. “Finding a friend of the family, a young lady of breeding but no knowledge of the ton-a sweet, innocent miss to be your bride." Archly, Lady Ardale lifted one brow. "Very clever indeed."

Almost imperceptibly, Philip stiffened.

"Indeed, my lord, such cleverness fairly begs a reward." Lady Ardale swayed closer; automatically, Philip put out one arm to steady her; his hand came to rest on one curvaceous hip. Lady Ardale drifted closer still, settling her curves against him. "I expect," she said, her words breathy but definite, "that your plans to marry the chit are well advanced. Might I suggest that, rather than waste the next three weeks at your estate, you join me and my guests at Ardale Place? A convivial little gathering." Lady Ardale's rouged lips curved. Her dark eyes on Philip's face, she caught his free hand and, unblushingly, guided it to her breast, trapping his fingers against the ripe swell. "I can assure you you'll get plenty of opportunity to partake of your just desserts. After all your careful planning, you won't want to deny yourself."

The intensity of the revulsion that swept him, the appallingly strong impulse to fling Lady Ardale from him, forced Philip to pause, to draw a slow, steady breath before declining, with what civility he could muster, her ladyship's salacious invitation. The idea that he would prefer her overripe, tawdry charms to those of Antonia struck him as an insult to his intelligence; her pronouncements on Antonia only raised his hackles further.

Lady Ardale misread his stillness; with a siren-like smile, she reached up, intending to draw his head to hers.

Philip's expression hardened. The hand at her hip firmed; his other hand, freed, moved to grip her shoulder.

What made him look up he did not know, but he did- and saw Antonia, a wraith in the shadows, standing just inside the door. Philip froze. -%

Lady Ardale plastered herself to him.

The sob that escaped Antonia broke the web of horror, of utter disbelief, that held her. Philip heard it, a small, broken plaint. She pressed her hand to her lips, suppressing the sound, then whirled and fled the room.

The next thing Lady Ardale knew she lay sprawled upon the chaise-in precisely the position she had intended to assume, with one notable correction. Philip was supposed to have been with her, not striding to the door.

"Ruthven!"

Her ladyship's strident outrage brought Philip up short. Swinging about, he transfixed her with his gaze, cold contempt in his eyes. "Madam," he said, biting off the words, "I suggest that in future you exercise greater discretion in selecting your paramours. You are greatly mistaken if you believe that / would wish to join their ranks."

With that, he swung on his heel and strode after Antonia.

Entering the ballroom, he paused by the wall and scanned the company. He eventually located his bride-to-be, dancing the cotillion with some youthful sprig. To any casual observer, her carefree expression would have passed unremarked. Philip saw through it, saw the effort she put into every smile, every lighthearted gesture, saw the pain behind her disguise. He fought the overwhelming urge to go to her, to gather her into his arms and tell her the truth of what she had seen, what she had overheard-only his sure knowledge of the ton's reaction to such an act prevented him from committing it.

Tense, impatient, he waited until the cotillion ended, then strolled purposefully across the ballroom to claim his usual place by her side. She did not look up as he did so, but merely inclined her head.

Philip drew in a calming breath-and waited. When a heated discussion of the rival sporting merits of pheasant over grouse claimed the attention of her attendant swains, he leaned closer. “Antonia, we must talk. Come, stroll with me."

She gave a brittle laugh, drawing attention back to them.

"I greatly fear, my lord, that my dance card is full." On pretext of displaying her card, she slipped her right wrist from his hold. "See?" Without looking at him, she held the card up for his perusal, then she beamed upon her court. "Indeed, I couldn't disappoint so many earnest cavaliers."

Her court immediately came to her rescue, decrying his right to take her from them. Gritting his teeth, Philip was forced to acquiesce with a semblance of grace. He had waltzed with her earlier; as usual, she had no further dances free.

With that avenue blocked, he remained by her side, increasingly aware of how tenuous, how flimsy, her blithely gay facade truly was. The knowledge stayed his hand from any further attempt to gain time alone with her; after all her hard work, after all her trepidations, to push her to the brink of some hysterical outburst here, in a ton ballroom, would be the act of a cad. The same consideration kept him where he was; if she did stumble and fall, he was one of the few he would trust to catch her.

And, after all, they would shortly be home; the library fire would already be lit.

With that objective in mind, he escorted her smoothly from the ballroom at the close of the evening, shielding her as best he could from any too-observant eyes. Helpfully, Henrietta proved greatly distracted by Miss Dalling's prospects; Geoffrey, drawn into the discussion, filled the gap Antonia left.

She followed Henrietta from the carriage, leaving him to descend in her wake. But Henrietta's slow progress up the steps held her back; coming up beside Antonia, Philip caught her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She started at his touch, then acquiesced, allowing him to lead her to the door.

Henrietta, still demanding to know more of Miss Dalling, stumped up the stairs on Geoffrey's arm. From the hall, Antonia fast by his side, Philip watched until the pair gained the landing.

"My lord?"

Carring stood waiting to take his evening cloak. Releasing Antonia, Philip untied the loose ribands and shrugged the cloak from his shoulders. Turning back, he discovered Antonia halfway to the stairs.

"I greatly fear, my lord," she said, one hand rising to her brow, "that I have quite the most hideous headache. If you'll excuse me?"

With a swirling bob by way of farewell, she turned and sailed on up the stairs, not once meeting his gaze.

Philip's eyes narrowed as he watched her ascend; his expression hardened with every step she took.

When Antonia had passed from sight, Carring coughed, then murmured, "No nightcaps tonight, my lord?"

His expression like flint, Philip growled, "As you know damned well, I can pour my own brandy. You may lock up."

With that, he strode into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Upstairs, Antonia reached her chamber only to discover she had to ring for Nell, who had grown used to her interludes in the library. Tense as a bowstring, she waited until Nell appeared, then, resigned, submitted to the maid's ministrations, excusing her departure from the norm with, "I'm merely feeling a bit peaked. A good night's sleep will no doubt see me right."

Busy with her buttons, Nell shot her a searching glance. "Sure you don't want me to mix up a Blue Powder? Or I could fetch you up the jar of Dr Radcliffe's Restorative Pork Jelly. A spoonful of that does strengthen one."

She could certainly use some strength. "No, thank you." Antonia held herself stiffly, restraining her thoughts, her emotions, by main force. "Just help me into my nightgown-I'll do my hair."

Mumbling, grumbling, citing the benefits of Dr Radcliffe's Jelly to the last, Nell eventually took herself off.

Alone, Antonia drew in a deep, difficult breath, then, her brush in her hand, sank onto the stool before her dressing-table. Like one in a dream, she fell to brushing out her thick curls, her gaze fixed on her image in the mirror. The candelabra to her right threw steady light over her face; briefly, she focused on her image, then reached for the snuffer. Only when the candles were doused, leaving the room wreathed in shadows with the only light coming from the single candle by her bed, did she look back at the mirror.

She had no need to see the misery in her eyes to know of the misery in her heart.

For which she had only herself to blame.

She had let her heart rule her head, let love lead her to believe in miracles. Her mother had warned her-she had warned herself-but she hadn't listened. Seduced by love, she'd thought herself safe from its pain. Tonight, she had discovered she was not.

The hold she had maintained over her emotions abruptly shredded; love hit her like a blow, as it had in Lady Car-stairs's library, when concealed by shadows, she had watched Philip respond to some sophisticated harlot. As before, the impact left her reeling; pain speared through her, a vice squeezed her heart. A dull ache filled her, a miasma spreading insidiously through her, swallowing all hope.

Dully, Antonia blinked at the mirror, then laid aside her brush. She had always been strong, always able to cope. She would cope with this, too, and she would not cry-not even when her mother had sold her mare, the last gift her father had given her, had she given way to tears. Slowly, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly stared at her reflection, all but hidden by the flickering shadows.

Her hurt, her anguish, was entirely her own fault. Philip had never said he loved her-she had no cause to reproach him. The truth was as it had always been; she had been foolish to imagine otherwise. Her feelings, her unspoken, unacknowledged hopes, were irrelevant. Ruthlessly, she bundled them together, then buried them deep-and spent the next hour sternly repeating all the strictures, the strictures necessary to play the part of Philip's wife, unexpectedly finding strength in the clear-cut, unemotional edicts. Only when she had regained her sense of purpose did she allow herself to think of other things.

The rest of the night went in a fruitless endeavour, a futile attempt to mend her broken heart.