A Comfortable Wife

Chapter Eight

At half past one the following afternoon, Philip stood in his hall and watched Antonia descend the stairs. She was wearing a new carriage dress delivered that morning from Madame Lafarge's workshop, a creation in leaf-green twill that emphasized her slender shape and set off the gold of her hair. The bodice and skirt were edged with forest green ribbon, the same shade as the parasol Philip held furled in one hand.

It, too, had come from Madame Lafarge, expressly chosen on his instructions and delivered by one of Madame's lackeys at precisely one o'clock.

The parasol held behind his back, Philip strolled forward, taking Antonia's hand to help her down the last steps. "You look positively enchanting."

Buoyed by the confidence stemming from her first London gown, Antonia returned his smile. When Philip's gaze dropped, shrewdly judging, she obhgingly twirled, her skirts flaring about her. "Madame's skill is beyond question."

"True." Philip recaptured her hand. "But as I am sure she would tell you, perfection can only be attained when one works with the very best of raw materials." His eyes met Antonia's; her heart skittered alarmingly.

She lowered her gaze and bobbed a curtsy. "I fear you flatter me, my lord."

A frown fleetingly crossed Philip's face. "Philip." He held up the parasol, then presented it with a flourish.

Antonia put out a hand to the carved wooden handle, her expression a study in surprise. "For me?" Taking it, she held the parasol as if it were glass. Mesmerised, she stared, then threw Philip a wavering smile. "Thank you." Her voice was husky. "I'm sorry-you must think me a fool." Blinking rapidly, she looked down. "It's been a long time since anyone gave me anything like this-for no real reason."

Philip's mask slipped. It took effort to wrestle it back into place, to hide his reaction to her words. "I would gladly give you more, Antonia-but until we make our relationship public, I'm reduced to such trumpery to win your smiles."

She gave a shaky laugh, then held the parasol against her gown. "It's a perfect match."

"Indeed." Philip smiled. "Obviously an inspired choice."

Antonia's expression immediately turned suspicious. Philip laughed. Taking her arm, he guided her to the door.

Once in his curricle, bowling along behind his greys, the awkwardness Antonia found herself all too often a prey to evaporated. Unfurling the parasol, she deployed it to protect her complexion, then hit upon the notion of asking Philip's advice on how to most elegantly dispose it. His suggestions were half serious, half teasing. She enjoyed the drive, and his company, relaxing enough to let her pleasure show.

The outing passed off without a hitch; Philip returned well content.

Thereafter, he made a point of spending some part of every day by Antonia's side, trying with all the skill at his command to ease the reticence he sensed behind her smiles. He escorted both Mannerings to Astley's Amphitheatre, spending most of the performance in pleasant contemplation of the emotions flickering across Antonia's face. The following afternoon, he yielded to their entreaties and took them on a tour of St Paul's and the city, surprising himself with how much he remembered of the history of the town.

Throughout, Antonia appeared serenely content, yet her underlying hesitancy disturbed him. Aside from anything else, she frequently reverted to addressing him as "my lord", something, he had noticed, she only did when trying to keep him at a distance.

Then came the first of the informal parties.

Philip had already changed for the evening but had yet to quit the house. He was in the library, idly flicking through the stack of invitations on his desk when he heard voices in the hall. Lifting his head, he identified Geoffrey's voice raised in a bantering tone; Antonia answered with a laugh, gayer than any he'd heard in a long while.

Intrigued, he strolled to the door.

The sight that met his eyes as he paused in the doorway locked the breath in his chest. Antonia stood in the centre of his hall, her hair burnished guinea gold by the chandelier above. Bright curls clustered in artful disarray on the top of her head; a few gilded wisps wreathed about her delicate ears and nape, drawing attention to her slender neck. Her shoulders, warmly tinted ivory, were quite bare, entirely revealed by a stunningly elegant gown of the palest green. Lafarge's hand was easily discerned in the long, flattering lines, in the smooth sweeps of the skirt, in the subtle way the bodice emphasized the contours beneath. Tiny puffed sleeves were set well off the shoulders, so small they in no way distracted from the long, graceful curves of Antonia's arms.

Her face was uptilted; as he watched, she laughed, responding to Geoffrey, out of sight up the stairs. Deep inside, Philip felt something tighten, harden, clarifying and coalescing into one, crystal-clear emotion. Antonia's cheeks were delicately flushed, her eyes alight; her lips, rose tinted, parted as she smiled, raising her hands, not yet covered by the regulation long gloves, palms upward.

"I assure you I am very definitely your sister-if you come down here I'll demonstrate that my unique technique for boxing your ears is very much intact."

Geoffrey answered; Philip didn't register his words. Compelled, he moved slowly forward, out of the shadows that had thus far hidden him.

Antonia heard him; she turned and her eyes met his. His gaze held her as she held his attention, absolutely, completely.

He sensed the swift intake of her breath, saw her eyes widen then darken. Her arms slowly drifted together, as if to fold about her, responding to some age-old instinct to protect her body from his gaze. Moving with slow deliberation, Philip reached for her hands, taking them in his to hold them wide. Then, slowly, he raised one to his lips.

He felt his chest swell against the vice clamped so powerfully about it. "You are beauty personified, Antonia."

His voice was deep, darkly enticing; Antonia felt it reverberate through her, felt its seductive quality sink to her marrow. Still moving like one in a dream, he raised one of her arms high; obediently, she twirled, compelled to turn her head to keep her eyes on his. The normally shimmering grey was dark with storm clouds, harbingers of passion. She couldn't tear her gaze from them, from the promise in their depths.

He moved with her; for a moment, it was as if they were dancing, twirling about each other, gazes locked. Then he stopped; her silk skirts shushed softly about her legs, then settled as she halted, facing him.

An age seemed to pass as, eyes locked, they stood, tensed, quivering, as if balanced on the edge of some invisible precipice. Antonia couldn't breathe, dared not blink.

Geoffrey's clattering footsteps as he came down the stairs broke the spell.

"Don't think you can reach my ears anymore." Grinning widely, he strode towards them.

Smoothly, Philip released Antonia's hand; turning, he noted Geoffrey's dark coat and neat but simple cravat. "From your sartorial elegance, I take it you're to make one of the party tonight?''

Geoffrey pulled a face. "Aunt Henrietta thought that seeing I was here, I might as well broaden my horizons."

"It's just an informal gathering of family and friends at the Mountfords in Brook Street." Still breathless, Antonia struggled to keep her tone even. "Nothing too elaborate. According to Henrietta it'll be mostly genteel conversation with some country dances to help the less experienced ladies get accustomed to tonnish ways."

Philip had heard of such mild affairs. "I believe it's the regulation way one commences one's first season." He glanced at Antonia; excitement glowed in her eyes. "Tell me, do you dine in Brook Street or here?''

"Here." Antonia gestured. "I was just on my way to the drawing-room."

"And I was following, intending to get in a little practice." Frowning, Geoffrey shook his head. "Cotillions and quadrilles are all the same to me."

"Nonsense." Antonia linked her arm through his. "If you think to slide out of standing up with such comments you'll have to think again." Glancing at Philip, she smiled. Politely. "But you were on your way out-we're holding you up."

"No," Philip lied. "I'm dining in tonight."

"Oh?" Antonia b!inked in surprise.

"Indeed. Why don't you make a start putting your brother through his paces? I'll join you in a moment and adjudicate."

The smile Antonia flashed him was as bright as the sun. Inventively grumbling, Geoffrey allowed her to drag him away.

Amused, Philip watched. When the drawing-room door shut behind them, he turned towards the library. Only then did he see his major-domo standing in the shadows of the stairs. Philip's expression blanked. "Carring." He wondered how much Carring had seen. "Just the one I want."

In the library, Philip crossed to his desk. He scrawled a note to Hugo, informing him that he had been unexpectedly detained but would join him later. Sealing the missive, he directed it then handed it to Carring. "Have that delivered to Brooks."

"Immediately, m'lord. And shall I instruct Cook you've changed your mind?"

Ten full seconds of silence ensued. "Yes. And I expect you should also instruct a footman to lay an extra place at table." Philip eyed his henchman straitly. "Was there anything else?"

"No, indeed, m'lord," Carting's expression was smugly benign. "As far as I can tell, all's well with the world." On that cryptic utterance, he departed, Philip's note in hand.

Philip wasted no more than a moment glowering at Carring's black back before rising and heading for the drawing-room.

When, fifteen minutes later, Henrietta entered the drawing-room, she discovered her stepson dancing a cotillion with her niece. Geoffrey was perched on a nearby chair, grinning delightedly.

The gathering at the Mountfords' was much as Antonia had imagined it.

"So glad to see you again, my dear." Lady Mountford greeted Henrietta fondly; she acknowledged Antonia's curtsy and Geoffrey's bow with a matronly nod. "You'll find there's no need to stand on ceremony tonight. My girls are about-you've already met, but introduce yourselves and chat as you please. Getting to know your peers is what the night's for-the musicians won't arrive until later." Her ladyship waved them into a spacious salon already well-filled with young ladies and, in the main, equally young gentlemen.

"You can help me over there." With her cane, Henrietta indicated a large grouping of comfortable chairs at one end of the salon. "Plenty of old friends there for me to catch up with while you two learn the ropes."

Geoffrey assisted her to a chair in the middle of the group. Antonia helped settle her shawls, then, when Henrietta waved them away, turned back into the room.

"Well!" she murmured, anticipation in her voice. "Where to start?"

"Where indeed?" Geoffrey had already scanned the room. "Here-take my arm." Antonia threw him a surprised look. He grimaced. "It'll make me less conspicuous."

Smiling affectionately, Antonia did as he asked. "You don't look conspicuous at all." With his Mannering height and Mannering build, set off by his relatively restrained attire, Geoffrey looked, if anything, a few years older than some of the young sprigs currently gracing her ladyship's floor. Some, indeed, decked out in the height of fashion, looked far younger than they doubtless wished.

"Hmm." Geoffrey's gaze was fixed on a gentleman to their left. "Just look at that silly bounder over there. His collar's so high he can't turn his head."

Antonia raised her brows. "You being such an expert on fashion?"

"Not me," Geoffrey answered, busy scanning the crowd for further spectacles. "But Philip said no true gentleman would be caught dead sporting such extreme affectations-restrained elegance is the hallmark of the out-and-outers."

"The out-and-outers?"

Geoffrey glanced at her. "Top o' the trees. The Corinthians. You know."

Antonia hid a grin. "No-but I suspect I can imagine. Am I to take it you aspire to such heady heights?"

Geoffrey considered, then shrugged. "I can't say I'd mind being top o' the trees some day, but I've decided to concentrate on getting a working notion of this ton business for now-I'll be going up in a few weeks after all."

Antonia nodded. "A wise idea, I'm sure."

"Philip thought so, too." Geoffrey was looking over the room. "What's say we do as we were bid and go introduce ourselves to some fellow sufferers?"

"Just as long as you refrain from informing them of their status." When he looked expectantly down at her, Antonia raised a brow. "I'm on your arm, remember? You're supposed to lead."

"Oh, good!" Geoffrey grinned and lifted his head. "That means I get to choose."

Predictably, he chose the group gathered about the prettiest girl in the room. Luckily, this included Cecily Mount-ford who, mindful of her mama's strictures, promptly introduced them to the three ladies and four gentlemen loosely grouped before the fireplace. None were more than twenty. Geoffrey was immediately included as one of the group; Antonia, her age declared not only by her innate poise but also by the elegant lines of Lafarge's creation, stood on its outskirts, metaphorically if not literally. Not that any attempted to exclude her-indeed, they treated her so deferentially she felt quite ancient. The young gentlemen blushed, stuttered and bowed while the young ladies leaned forward to shake hands, casting glances of muted envy at her gown.

It rapidly became apparent that their hostess's injunction to set formal restraint aside had been enthusiastically embraced; with the customary facility of youth, the company quickly got down to brass tacks.

The beauty, a sweet-faced young miss in a pale blue gown with dark ringlets bobbing on her shoulders, proved to be a Miss Catriona Dalling, an orphan from east Yorkshire who was in town under the aegis of her aunt, the Countess of Ticehurst.

"She's a dragon," Miss Dalling informed the company, her big blue eyes huge, her distinctly squared little chin jutting aggressively. "No! I tell a lie-she's worse than that, she's a gorgon!"

"Is she truly insisting on marrying you to the highest bidder?" Cecily Mountford was no more bashful than her guests.

Lovely lips set in a line, Miss Dalling nodded. "What's more, she's set her heart on poor Ambrose here." Dramatically, she put a hand on the bright green embossed silk sleeve of the young gentleman on her right and squeezed meaningfully. "So now we're both being persecuted!"

Ambrose, who gloried in the title of the Marquess of Hammersley, was a pale, obviously nervous young gentleman, short and slightly stocky; he blushed and muttered, and tried to smooth the creases Miss Dalling's strong little fingers had left in his sleeve.

Geoffrey frowned. "Can't you both just say no?"

The comment earned him a host of pitying looks.

"You don't understand," Miss Dalling said. "My aunt is set on me marrying Ambrose because he's a marquess and we haven't had one of those in the family before and a marquess is better than an earl, so she sees it as advancing the family's cause. And Ambrose's mama is pushing the match because of my inheritance, because his estates are not bringing in enough to dower all his sisters. And," she added, with a darkling look, "because I'm so young she thinks I'll be easy to manage."

Antonia couldn't help but wonder if the Marquess's mama was blind.

"It's all arranged for consequence and money," Miss

Dalling continued with undisguised contempt. "But it won't do! I've decided to marry for love or not at all!"

Her dramatic declaration drew approving nods from all around, particularly from the Marquess. Antonia inwardly frowned, wondering if they were all really so young, so untutored in society's ways-or if they were merely headstrong, trying their wings in vocal but not active rebellion.

Miss Dalling's championship of the gentle passion provoked argument on all sides, most, Antonia noted, thoroughly supportive of the heiress's position while openly condemning her aunt's.

Her spirits clearly unimpaired by the browbeating she had assured the company she had endured en route to Brook Street, Catriona Dalling flashed her an engagingly confiding smile. "I understand you're in town for the first time, as indeed we all are, but you have doubtless more experience than we in searching for your one and only love. I do hope you'll forgive me for speaking so plainly and rattling on so, but I dare say you can see things have reached a pretty pass. Ambrose and I will have to make a stand, don't you think?"

Arguments raged about them, revolving about how to spike Lady Ticehurst's ambitions; Geoffrey, Antonia could hear, was urging the participants to check with their men of affairs. Looking into Miss Dalling's unquestionably innocent eyes, she felt the weight of her years.

"While I would certainly not condone your being coerced into marriage, Miss Dalling, the fact remains that most marriages within our class are arranged, at one level or another. Some, perhaps, are underpinned by affection or long-standing acquaintance, but others are promoted on the basis of what I admit sound cold-blooded reasons. However, in the absence of either party's affections being fixed elsewhere, don't you think there's the possibility that your aunt's suggestion might, in the end, bear fruit?" In making the suggestion, Antonia's gaze touched the Marquess; she felt an immediate pang of uncertainty.

"There is that, of course." Miss Dalling nodded sagely. “But you see, I have found my only true love, so the argument does not hold."

"You have?" Antonia could not help eyeing her in concern. The heiress looked barely older than Geoffrey. "Forgive my impertinence, Miss Dalling, but are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely sure." Catriona Dalling's decisive nod set her ringlets bouncing. "Henry and I have known each other since we were children and we're quite sure we want to marry. We had thought to wait for a few years- until Henry has proved himself in running his father's farms, you see-but Aunt Ticehurst stepped in."

"I see." The heiress's straightforwardness rang truer than any impassioned declarations. Antonia frowned. “Have you explained your attachment to your aunt?''

"My aunt does not believe in love, Miss Mannering." The militant gleam was back in Catriona Dalling's eye. "She might be more amenable were Henry a marquess too, only unfortunately he's simply a squire's son, so she's not disposed to acquiescence."

"I had not realized," Antonia admitted "that your situation was quite so…awkward. To be urged to turn your back on love, given the connection is not ineligible and your attachment has proved constant, must be distressing."

Catriona gave another of her decisive nods. "It would be, if I had the slightest intention of giving in to the pressure. As it is, I'm determined to stand firm. Not only would marrying Ambrose ruin my life and Henry's, it would undeniably ruin Ambrose's as well."

Viewing the determined cast of Miss Dalling's fair features, and seeing the Marquess, weak-chinned and timid, in earnest conversation with Geoffrey beyond, Antonia could only concur.

"One way or another, I'm determined to win out. It's not as though love matches are all that rare these days." Catriona gestured grandly. “Even in days gone by, such affairs were known. My very own aunt-not Ticehurst, of course, but my other aunt, her sister, now Lady Copely-she defied the family and married Sir Edmund, a gentleman of sufficient but not extravagant means. They've lived very happily for years and years-their household is one of the most comfortable I know. If I could have as much by marrying for love, I would be entirely satisfied." She paused only for breath. “And only last year, my cousin Amelia-my Aunt Copely's eldest daughter-she married her sweetheart, Mr Gerard Moggs." She broke off to point out a young couple across the room. "They're over there-you can see for yourself how happy they are."

Antonia looked, effectively distracted from Miss Dalling's concerns. This was, after all, what she had come to London to see-married ladies consorting in public with their spouses.

What she saw was a young gentleman of twenty-five or six, standing by a chaise on which a pretty young lady was seated, angled around and looking up to meet her husband's gaze. Mr Moggs made some comment; his wife laughed up at him. She laid a hand on his sleeve, squeezing lightly, affectionately. Mr Moggs responded with an openly adoring look. Reaching out, he touched a finger to his wife's cheek, then bent and whispered in her ear before straightening and, with a nod, leaving her.

Antonia noted he went no further than the refreshment table, returning with two glasses.

"Miss Mannering, is it not?"

With a start, Antonia turned to find a gentleman of much her own age bowing before her. He was neatly if fashionably dressed, having avoided the excesses to which the younger generation had fallen prey.

"Mr Hemming, my dear Miss Mannering." As he straightened, Antonia looked into mild brown eyes set under wavy brown hair. "I hope you'll excuse my impertinence, but Lady Mountford tipped me the wink that the musicians are about to start up. Can I prevail on you to honour me with the first cotillion?"

The invitation was accompanied by an engaging smile; Antonia responded spontaneously, graciously extending her hand. "Indeed, Mr Hemming. I would be pleased to stand up with you."

She was well-versed in the cotillion, more adept, as it transpired, than Mr Hemming. Despite his pleasant disposition, he was forced to give his attention to the figures, leaving Antonia free to pursue her principal purpose. As she twirled and swirled, it was easy to examine those not dancing for couples who might be husband and wife. Other than the Moggs, she found no likely candidates. As for the Moggs, they, she felt certain, were hardly representative specimens.

It would, she felt sure, be unwise to use their behaviour as a guide to how she might behave with Philip. For a start, Philip was a good deal older than Mr Moggs. As, hand held high, she pirouetted, Antonia scanned the room. Indeed, she couldn't imagine Philip at such a gathering-there were no gentlemen like him present.

The age difference was telling in another way. She could not, by any fanciful stretch of her imagination, imagine Philip casting adoring glances at her, in public or otherwise. Likewise, she was quite certain any affectionate squeezes would result in a frown and a reprimand for damaging his suiting.

Gentlemen, her mother and all Yorkshire ladies had assured her, were made uncomfortable by any public show of fondness; ladies must never, so she had been taught, wear their hearts on their sleeves. While Miss Dalling and her family, one branch at least, as well as the youth of the ton, might freely acknowledge the softer emotions, Antonia could not believe that gentlemen of Philip's age and temperament had been won over.

The dance ended and she sank into the prescribed curtsy. Mr Hemming, beaming, raised her. “An excellent measure, Miss Mannering." Gallantly, he offered her his arm. "I take it you'll be attending the coming balls and parties?"

"I expect we'll attend our fair share." Antonia accepted his arm; he very correctly escorted her back towards the fireplace.

"Have you seen Lord Elgin's marbles? Quite worth a visit, in my humble estimation."

Antonia was about to reply when they were joined by an acquaintance of Mr Hemming's, a Mr Carruthers. Introduced, Mr Carruthers bowed extravagantly. Within minutes, two others had joined them, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Riley. Before Antonia could blink, she found herself at the centre of a small circle of gentlemen. They chatted amiably, pleasantly; she danced the quadrille with Sir Frederick and the last cotillion with Mr Carruthers. Mr Riley begged to be remembered when next they met.

Then the party started to break up. Geoffrey appeared by her elbow with the information that Henrietta was ready to depart; Antonia excused herself to her cavaliers and politely withdrew.

Once she had settled Henrietta in the carriage, draping extra shawls about her shoulders, Antonia sat back and pondered all she had seen. "Aunt," she eventually asked, as the carriage rocked into motion, "is it common for married gentlemen to accompany their wives to such entertainments?"

Henrietta snorted. “Noticed the Moggs, did you? Hardly surprising-they attracted quite a bit of interest, that pair of lovebirds." Her tone suggested the matrons had not been impressed. "But to answer your question-no, it's not general practice, but not only is Gerard Moggs quite openly besotted with his wife, she's also in an interesting condition, so I expect we'll have to excuse him."

Antonia nodded; she now had the Moggs in their proper perspective.

"Quite a fine line, actually-just how much husbandly attention is allowable." Henrietta spoke into the darkness, her voice only just audible over the rattle of the carriage wheels. "Not, of course, that the question arises in many cases-gentlemen being what they are. Only too glad to keep to their clubs and their dinners. Most put in an appearance at the best balls and parties, enough to nod to their wives in passing, but the consensus has always been that, in town at least, husbands and wives follow essentially separate social calendars." She fluffed her shawls. "That, of course, limits the opportunities for the sort of exhibition you witnessed tonight."

Any doubts as to her aunt's opinion of the Moggs' behaviour was laid to rest. Antonia shifted in her seat. "I had thought gentlemen often escorted ladies to the various entertainments?"

"Indeed." Henrietta yawned. "But, in the main, such escort duties fall to the unmarried males, the confirmed bachelors or the yet-to-be-snared. Only occasionally would a married lady expect her husband to act as her escort, and then only if he was wishful of attending the same function."

The shadows hid Antonia's frown. Her enjoyment of the outings Philip had organised, the laughter they had shared, the undeniable pleasure she found in his company-would all that change once they were wed? Be relegated to history, never to be experienced again? What, she wondered, was the point of being married-of having a firm friendship with one's husband-if being married prohibited him from spending time in your company?

The carriage swayed around a corner then rumbled on into Grosvenor Square; Geoffrey shifted in his corner. As they drew up outside Ruthven House, he jumped down, smothering a yawn. Between them, Antonia and he helped Henrietta up the steps; Carring stood at the top, holding the door wide.

Behind him, in the glow of the hall chandelier, Antonia spied Philip. He strolled forward as Carring shut the door. "A pleasant evening?"

The question was addressed to her but Geoffrey answered it.

"Dull work," he said, around another yawn. "Nothing of any substance except for the heiress's dragon of an aunt. She really did look like a gorgon."

“Indeed?'' Philip raised an amused brow.

“Absolutely,'' Geoffrey assured him. “But I'm for bed."

"In that case," Henrietta said, poking him in the ribs, "you can give me your arm up the stairs." She glanced over her shoulder. "Send Trant up at once, please, Car-ring."

Carring bowed deeply. "Immediately, m'lady."

Antonia stood by Philip's side, watching until her brother and her aunt gained the upper landing.

"Come into the library." Philip's words and his hand at her elbow had her turning in that direction. "Was there much dancing?"

He had gone out after they had left, stifling a ludicrous wish that he could join them, instead meeting Hugo and a small coterie of friends at Brooks. Together, they'd gone on to Boodles, then to a select establishment in Pall Mall, but he'd been too restless to settle to the play. In the end, he'd cried off and returned home to idly pace the library floor.

"Two cotillions and a quadrille." Antonia yielded to his persuasion. They entered the library; Philip shut the door behind them.

“And you danced them all?''

"Indeed."

Philip stopped by one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace, filled with a cheery blaze. Antonia sat, her skirts sighing about her. Philip paused, studying her. “Would you like a nightcap?"

Antonia looked up, her expression arrested, then smiled and shook her head.

Philip was not deceived. "What?"

Her smile reminded him forcefully of the irrepressible girl she had been. "Actually," she said, her eyes dancing, "I would dearly love a glass of warm milk but I cannot imagine how Carring would react to such a request."

"Can you not?" Philip's brows slowly rose. Turning, he crossed to the bellpull.

"Philip!" Antonia sat up.

Philip waved her back. "No-I have a score to settle-hush!" He returned to take the chair opposite hers.

Carring entered, ponderously solemn. "You rang, m'lord?"

"Indeed." Philip's expression was utterly bland. "Miss Mannering would like a nightcap, Carring. A glass of warm milk."

Carring's eyes flickered, then he bowed. "Will that be for two, m'lord?"

It took Philip a moment to master his tone. "No-you may pour me a brandy when you return."

"Very good, m'lord." Bowing, Caning withdrew.

As soon as the door closed, Antonia succumbed. "The thought of you drinking warm milk," she eventually got out, hugging her aching ribs.

Despite himself, Philip's lips curved upward. "One day, I keep telling myself, I'll have the last word."

He was not destined to succeed that night. Carring reappeared bearing a glass of perfectly warmed milk on a silver tray. He deposited it on the table by Antonia's side with the same care he would have taken had it been aged port, then crossed to the cabinet and poured Philip's brandy, leaving the large glass by his master's elbow.

"Thank you, Carring. You may lock up."

"M'lord." With his usual deep obeisance, the major-domo withdrew.

Reaching for the brandy glass, Philip discovered it was half-full. A subtle hint, he supposed, of Carring's estimation of his state. Taking a sip, he smiled at Antonia. "With whom did you dance?"

Cradling her glass in her hand, she settled back in the chair. "Most of those present were more Geoffrey's age than mine but there were a few older gentlemen present-Mr Riley, Mr Hemming, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Carruthers."

"Indeed?" Philip did not recognize the names, which gave him some idea of their station. He fixed her with a mildly enquiring gaze. "And did you, like Geoffrey, find it dull work?"

Antonia smiled. "While it certainly did not rival Ast-ley's, it was not totally without interest."

"Oh?"

It was more to the light in his eyes and his tone that she responded, relating her observations on all she had seen as she slowly sipped her milk.

Philip watched the firelight strike gleams from her hair; the play of the fire-glow over her pale face, over her lips, sheened by the milk, held him in thrall. The cadence of her voice rose and fell; he sipped his brandy and listened as she painted a picture he had seen many times-through her eyes, it held an innocence, a sparkling freshness he had long grown too jaded to see.

She concluded with a thumbnail sketch of the major protagonists in what promised to be one of the season's more entertaining imbroglios.

"Indeed," Antonia said, setting aside her empty glass. “The situation of Miss Dalling and the Marquess does seem to be of some urgency-but how much of that derives from Miss Dalling's undeniable sense of the dramatic I could not say. Whatever, I'm certain Miss Dalling will prevail, gorgon aunt or no." She looked across at Philip, smiling, inviting him to share her amusement.

To her surprise, his face remained expressionless. Abruptly, he stood, setting his glass on the table beside him. "Come. It's time you went upstairs."

There was a note in his voice she could not place. Bemused, Antonia gave him her hands and let him draw her to her feet. Only then, as she stood directly before him, feeling the warmth of the fire strike through her thin gown did he meet her gaze. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were dark, slate-grey and stormy. Antonia felt her breath catch; she hesitated, then, calmly, her lips gently curving, she inclined her head. "Good night, Philip."

She was not going to retreat in disorder this time, nor take refuge in distance.

Stiffly, Philip returned her nod. He tensed to step back, to let her go-his fingers twined with hers and held tight. He hesitated, his gaze on her face, then slowly, gently, he drew her towards him until her bodice brushed his coat. His fingers slid from hers; he lifted both hands to frame her face.

Antonia held his gaze, her breath tangled in her chest, her heart pulsing in her throat. She saw his lids lower, his head angle over hers, then slowly descend. Her hand rose to his shoulder as she stretched upward, her lips slightly parted.

He kissed her, not forcefully but confidently, as one sure of his welcome. His lips firmed, his tongue teased and tantalised, tracing the ripe curves of her lips. She parted them fully, inviting him to taste; he did, sampling her softness, laying claim to all she offered with a possessive, consummate skill.

The fire burned; the flames leapt. For long minutes, a gentle magic held sway.

Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Philip drew back. His lips bare inches from Antonia's, he waited until her lids fluttered opened. He studied her eyes, burnished gold in emerald green. When they focused, he straightened. Holding tight to his reins, he released her.

"Good night, Antonia." His smile held a wry quality he doubted she'd understand. "Sweet dreams."

She blinked; her eyes searched his, neither frightened nor puzzled, but with an intensity he could not place. Then her lips curved. "Good night."

The soft whisper reached him as she turned away. He watched her go, saw her glance back, once, at the door, then slip through it, shutting it softly behind her.

Drawing in a deep breath, Philip turned towards the fire. Bracing one arm against the mantelpiece, he gazed into the flames. Wonderingly, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips-and fought to quell a shudder.

He had never imagined milk could taste erotic.