A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Philip's smile deepened. "My dear Antonia, if acting as chatelaine can be termed impertinent, you may be as im­pertinent as you please. Indeed," he continued, one brow rising, his gaze sweeping her face, "I find it distinctly re­assuring to see you thus employed."

For an instant, Antonia met his gaze, then, with the slightest inclination of her head, turned and glided along the path. Reassuring? Because, as she hoped, he saw such actions as evidence of her wifely skills? Or because she might, conceivably, make his unfettered existence more comfortable?

"The design of your gardens is unusual," she said, glancing back to find him strolling in her wake like a pred­ator on her trail. "I've studied both contemporary and clas­sical landscapes—yours seems a combination of both."

Philip nodded. "The fact that the lake and stream are so distant from the house rendered the usual water features ineligible. Capability Brown saw it as a challenge." His eyes met Antonia's. "One he couldn't resist."

"Indeed?" Inwardly cursing the breathlessness that seemed to afflict her whenever he was near, Antonia halted beside a clump of cleomes. "To my mind, he's succeeded in moulding the raw ingredients into a veritable triumph. The vistas are quite enchanting." Setting aside her basket, she bent over the clump of soft white flowers, selecting and snipping two stems for her collection.

Beside her, Philip stood transfixed, his gaze on an un­expected but thoroughly enchanting vista. Antonia shifted, then straightened; Philip quickly lifted his gaze to the neat row of conifers bordering the sunken garden. "Yes," was all he could think of to say.

Antonia threw him a swift, slightly suspicious look; he promptly smiled charmingly down at her. "Have you been through the peony walk?"

"Not for a few days."

"Come, walk with me there—it's always a pleasant route."

Antonia hesitated, then acquiesced. Together, they climbed the steps from the sunken garden, then turned into the narrow hedged walk where peonies of every description filled beds on either side of the flags. Although past their best, the plants were still blooming, displaying splashes of white and all shades of maroon against glossy green leaves. The path had been laid like a stream, gently twisting; here and there, small specimen trees grew, no longer in blossom but adding interest with their foliage.

They strolled in companionable silence, stopping inter­mittently to admire the extravagant displays. Antonia paused to examine the blooms carried on one long stem; Philip watched the subtle play of her thoughts rippling through her expression.

She was, on the one hand, so very familiar; on the other, so startlingly different.

He had almost grown accustomed to the change in her voice, to the husky undertone he found so alluring. Her eyes, a complex medley of greens and golds, had not altered but her gaze, although still direct, seemed more deeply as­sured. As for the rest of her, that had certainly changed. There was poise, now, where before had been youthful he­donism; elegant grace had replaced a young girl's haste.

His gaze caressed her hair, glinting golden in the sun­light; he was prepared to accept that it was still as long and thick as he recalled. The curves that filled her muslin gown were, however, an entirely new development—a thoroughly distracting development.

Her head used to barely reach his shoulder yet when she turned, Philip found his lips level with her forehead. Bare inches away.

His gaze dropped and met hers, wide and, he realised, somewhat startled. Her scent wafted about him, rose, hon­eysuckle and some essence he could not name.

Her gaze trapped in his, Antonia caught her breath, only to find she could not release it. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to tear her eyes from the darkening grey of his, she stood before him, feeling like a canary staring at a cat.

Smoothly, Philip stepped back. "It's nearly time for lun­cheon. Perhaps we should return?" His lids veiled his eyes; languidly, he waved to a cross-path that would lead them back to the house.

Slowly exhaling, Antonia glanced up at the sky. Her heart was racing. "Indeed." In search of a topic—any topic— she asked, "What was it that brought you to the garden?"

Philip's gaze ranged ahead, his expression bland as he considered and rejected the truth. In the distance, he saw Geoffrey returning from the stables. "I wanted to ask if Geoffrey had had any experience of driving. After what you told me of your last years, I imagine he's lacked male guid­ance. Would you like me to teach him?"

Looking down, he caught the peculiar expression that flit­ted, very briefly, across Antonia's features.

"Oh, yes," she said, throwing him a grateful glance. "If you would, you would earn his undying gratitude. And mine."

"I'll take him out then."

Antonia nodded, her eyes downcast. Side by side, they walked towards the house. Puzzling over her strange look, Philip shot her a shrewd glance, then slowly smiled. School­ing his features to an expression of deep consideration, he said, "Actually, I have to confess I've no experience of teaching striplings. Perhaps, as you are, unquestionably, a superior horsewoman and in loco parentis, as it were, I should practise my tutoring skills on you?''

Antonia's head came up; she fixed him with a clear, very direct glance. "You'll teach me to drive?"

Philip managed to keep the smile from his face. "If you would care for it."

"I didn't think—" Antonia frowned. "That is, I'd un­derstood that it was no longer particularly fashionable for ladies of the ton to drive themselves."

"Only in certain circumstances and only—pray God—when they can actually manage the reins." Halting at the bottom of the terrace steps, Philip turned to face her. "It's entirely acceptable for a lady to drive a gig or a phaeton in the country."

Antonia raised a brow. "And in town?"

Both Philip's brows rose. "My dear Antonia, if you imagine I'll let you tool my horses in the Park, you're mis­guided, my child."