A Comfortable Wife

Chapter Twelve

"Can I fetch you anything, my lord?"

Seated behind his desk in the library, Philip looked up. Carring stood in the open doorway. Philip frowned. "No. Not at the moment."

Carring bowed and backed, reaching for the doorknob.

"And you may leave the door open."

Carring bowed again. "Of course, my lord."

Smothering a growl, Philip refocused on the Gazette. The weak rays of the midday sun intermittently pierced the clouds, throwing fitful beams across the page.

The weather was not the only thing to have suddenly turned uncertain.

Antonia had given him no chance to explain, no chance to set the record straight. He trusted her implicitly; despite her agreement to do so, she obviously didn't trust him. Admittedly, he carried a certain reputation, one he'd made no effort to hide, but they were friends and had been for years. He had thought that would count for rather more than it had. To his mind, the matter was clear. She should have known better-known him better.

Rather than believe the evidence of her eyes. And her ears.

Philip grimaced. His gaze, fixed unseeing on the page, grew more deeply abstracted.

A faint creak sounded from beyond the library door.

Instantly, he was out of his chair and rounding the desk. By the time Antonia started down the last flight of stairs, he was waiting to greet her.

"Good morning, my dear. I missed you at breakfast."

The rest of his carefully rehearsed speech, his "I trust you slept well?" followed by a pointed request for a moment of her time, went winging from his head the instant he saw her face.

Antonia hesitated, one hand clutching the balustrade, her gaze deliberately unfocused. "I'm afraid…" Dragging in a breath, she lifted her head. "That is, I slept in." She felt chilled to the marrow, very close to shivering, but if she wished to be his comfortable wife, she had to comport herself appropriately, even at moments like this.

Stiffly poised, she continued her descent, concentrating on her carriage. Behind her, Nell's heavier footfalls followed down the stairs. Defiantly, she kept her head high; Nell had ministered with cucumber water and Denmark Lotion; she assumed the worst was disguised. Reaching the last step, she bestowed an unfocused glance on her husband-to-be. "I trust you are well, my lord?"

"Tolerably," came the brief answer. Then, after a fractional hesitation, "I wonder, my dear, whether you can spare me a moment of your time?''

Surprised, not only by the request but by the gentler tone of his voice, Antonia blinked; unintentionally, she focused on Philip's face. The concern in his eyes had her turning her head away; she disguised the movement by flicking out her skirts. "As it happens, my lord, I was on my way to the back parlour to write letters. I regret to confess I've been greatly remiss in my correspondence; there are many ladies in Yorkshire to whom I owe a degree of thanks."

She was determined to make no fuss, but the idea of being alone with him just now was simply too much. Her gaze fixed on his cravat, she continued, ''I've put the matter off unconscionably long. I understand that if I complete my letters by two, Carring will be able to post them."

"Carring," Philip said, acutely aware of his major-domo hovering behind him, "may put them on my desk. I'll frank them."

Antonia inclined her head. "Thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me, I'll begin them immediately." She made to turn away.

"Perhaps we could take the air later-a stroll around the square once your correspondence is dealt with?"

Antonia hesitated. The idea of a walk in the fresh breeze was tempting but the vision her mind supplied-of them, stiff and silent, circumnavigating the square-was more than enough to dissuade her. "Ah-I believe Henrietta and I are due to take tea with Lady Cathie, and then we had thought to look in on Mrs Melcombe's at-home."

The lame excuse hung in the air; Antonia stiffened, her brittle facade tightening. Tension swelled and stretched, holding them all frozen, then Philip bowed with his usual fluid grace.

"In that case, I'll see you this evening, my dear."

Unnerved by the undercurrent she detected in his tone, Antonia cried off from their evening's engagements. She did not even risk dinner, requesting a tray in her room on the grounds of an incipient headache.

Ensconced in lonely splendour at the head of the dining-table, Philip sat sunk in thought, his gaze fixed on the empty seat beside him. At the table's end, Henrietta and Geoffrey were deep in machinations.

"I have to say that I'm not a great believer in newfangled notions, yet I cannot see my way clear, in this instance, to agree with Meredith Ticehurst." Henrietta pushed away her soup plate. "There's nothing the least-well, questionable about Mr Fortescue, is there?"

"Questionable?" Geoffrey frowned. "Not that I know of. Capital fellow from all I can make out. Drives a neat curricle with a nicely matched pair."

Henrietta returned his frown. "That's not what I meant." Raising her head, she looked up the table. "Do you know anything against Mr Fortescue, Ruthven?''

The sound of his name shook Philip from his thoughts. "Fortescue?"

Henrietta threw him a disgusted look. "Mr Henry Fortescue-Miss Dalling's would-be suitor. I have to tell you, Philip, that I am not at all happy in my mind about the tack Meredith Ticehurst is taking with her niece. No-and not with the Marquess either, although he is, after all, a man and, one would suppose, capable of taking care of himself."

Recalling the Marchioness of Hammersley, Philip considered that last far from certain. "I know nothing against Mr Fortescue-indeed, what I do know would suggest he is an eminently eligible, even desirable, parti.''''

Having delivered himself of that pronouncement, Philip reached for his wine glass. As he sipped, Henrietta's suppositions and concerns, and Geoffrey's predictably straightforward views, drifted past his ears. Their tacit alliance and their half-formed plans to overturn the Countess's applecart did not even register.

Then the meal was at an end; Philip could not even recall if he had eaten. He did not particularly care; he had lost his appetite, among other things.

But when they gathered in the hall preparatory to quitting the house, destined for Lady Arbuthnot's drum, his gaze sharpened. He glanced at Henrietta, his expression bland. "No doubt you'll wish to check on Antonia before we leave."

"Antonia?" Henrietta looked up in surprise. "Whatever for? She's not seriously ill, y'know."

"I had thought," Philip returned, steel glimmering in his tone, "that you might wish to reassure yourself that her indisposition is indeed merely that, and not something more alarming. She is, after all, in your care."

"Phooh!" Henrietta waved her hand dismissively. "It's doubtless merely an upset brought on by going at it too hard." Slanting him a glance, she added, "Have to remember she's a country girl at heart. She might have adapted well to town life but we've been racketing about in grand style these past weeks. She's entitled to some time to recuperate." Henrietta patted his arm in a motherly way then, beckoning Geoffrey, stumped towards the front door.

His expression stony, Philip hesitated, then reluctantly followed.

They returned from Lady Arbuthnot's drum at midnight; to Philip's relief, Henrietta had shown no interest in attending any other of the parties around town. Heads together, thick as thieves, she and Geoffrey negotiated the stairs; frowning, Philip headed for the library. From the corner of his eye, he caught Carring's expression; he shut the door with a decided click.

He hesitated, then crossed to the sideboard and poured out a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he returned to sink into his chair, the one on the left of the hearth. Slowly, he sipped the fine brandy, his gaze broodingly fixed on the empty chair opposite.

Last night he had paced the hearth rug, glowering, possessed by an impotent and thoroughly uncharacteristic anger. Tonight, the anger was still there but tempered by growing concern.

Antonia was avoiding him; now Carring was regarding him with chilly disapproval.

Philip directed a steely glare at the empty chair. He wasn't at fault. Antonia should have been more trusting- ladies were supposed to trust their husbands-to-be. She loved him-

Philip stopped.

For one instant, his world wavered-then he snorted impatiently.

He knew, beyond all doubt, beyond any possibility of error, that Antonia loved him. He had known it for more than eight years. Her love was there in her eyes, a certain wistfully warm expression glowing in the hazel depths. He had not responded to it years ago but he had recognised it nonetheless. It had been there even then.

Philip let the thought warm him. He took a long sip of his brandy then frowned at the smouldering fire.

If she loved him, she should have trusted him. She should have had more confidence in him. She should have had the courage of her convictions.

Again his thoughts faltered and halted; Antonia possessed abundant courage. The courage needed to fearlessly manage high-couraged horses, the courage to face with equanimity eight long years of seclusion and deprivation she had never been raised to expect. Her reservoir of courage could not be questioned; why, then, would she not face him over this? Why had she so readily accepted the obvious and retreated, rather than confronting him and letting him explain?

Why hadn't she had the confidence in him that he had in her?

Philip slowly blinked, then grimaced and took another sip from his glass.

He had told her he was smitten, that they shared a deep mutual attraction-she knew he desired her. Surely it was reasonable to expect a lady of her intelligence to make the appropriate deduction?

His frown deepening, he shifted restlessly.

The clock in the corner ticked relentlessly on; when it struck one, he drained his glass. Grimacing, he stood.

They couldn't go on like this. The pain he had seen in her face that morning was etched in his mind; her misery lay like a lead weight around his heart. If she needed some more formidable declaration, then she would have it. He would talk to her privately-and sort the matter out.

He had forgotten what a quick learner she was.

Despite his best endeavours, his next opportunity to speak with Antonia privately occurred the next evening when they took to the floor in the first waltz at Lady Harris's ball. As he drew her into his arms, Philip felt a distinct tremor ripple through her. Drawing her closer still, he deftly swung them into the swirling throng.

"Antonia-"

"Lady Harris's decor is positively inspired, don't you think, my lord? Whoever would have thought of a fairy grotto lined with miniature cannon?"

Philip's lips thinned. "Lord Harris was a naval man- something to do with Ordinance. But I wanted to-''

"Do they fire, do you suppose?" Her features animated, Antonia raised her brows. "I wouldn't think that would be too wise, what with young sprigs like Geoffrey about."

"I doubt anyone else has considered the matter. Antonia-''

"Now there I am sure you are wrong, my lord. I'm perfectly certain the idea of firing one would have occurred to Geoffrey by now."

Philip drew in a slow, steady breath. "Antonia, I want to explain-"

"There is, my lord, absolutely no reason you should." Resolutely, Antonia lifted her chin, her gaze fixed beyond Philip's right shoulder. "There is nothing you have to explain-it is I who should beg your pardon. I assure you such an incident will not occur again. I'm fully conscious of my indiscretion; I assure you there's no reason we need discuss the matter further."

Metaphorically girding her loins, she let her gaze fleetingly touch Philip's face. His expression was hard and distinctly stern.

"Antonia, that's-"

She missed the beat and stumbled.

Philip caught her, steadying her. For an instant, he wondered if she had stumbled on purpose; the startled, darting glances she sent this way and that assured him she had not. "Nobody saw-it was nothing remarkable." He eased his hold once they were circling freely again. “Now-''

"If it is all the same to you, my lord, I suspect I should concentrate on my steps."

Inwardly, Philip swore. The tremor in her voice was entirely genuine. Reining in his impatience, he guided them on through the couples crowding the floor. When next he spoke, his voice was carefully urbane. "I wish to see you privately, Antonia."

She glanced up fleetingly, then looked away. He could feel the quivering tension that held her.

Antonia took a full minute to gather her defences, to ensure her voice was steady when she said, "I believe, my lord, that it would be wisest for us henceforth to follow the conventional paths. In light of our yet-to-be formalised relationship, I would respectfully suggest we should not meet privately until such meetings are customary."

It took every ounce of Philip's savoir-faire to smother his response to that suggestion. To quell the primitive urge that threatened to shatter his social veneer. "Antonia," he said, his voice deadly calm. "If you imagine-"

"Have you seen Lady Hatchcock's new quizzing glass? Hugo said it made her eye big beyond belief."

"I have not the slightest interest in Lady Hatchcock's quizzing glass."

"No?" Antonia opened her eyes wide. "Then perhaps you have heard of the latest on dit. It seems…" She babbled on, barely pausing for breath.

Philip heard the brittleness in her voice; he noted her wide eyes and too-rapid breathing. Frustration mounting, he desisted, only to be forced to listen to her run on without pause until he handed her back into the bosom of her court.

Breathlessly, she thanked him. Philip bestowed upon her a look she should have felt all the way to her bones, then turned on his heel and headed for the cardroom.

He 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.

When, 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.

Next 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'11 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 houseparty-three or four days in Sussex, just the thing to round off the season."

Philip's hand, carrying his coffee cup, halted in mid-air. "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 houseparty 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.