A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"Here." Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. "Let's sit and try our wits."

Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia sub­sided. Philip sat beside her, half-turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. "Now—where to start?" His gaze roamed her face. "Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?"

Antonia shifted to face him. "That would undoubtedly be wise."

Only years of experience allowed Philip to keep the smile from his lips. "And perhaps I'd better start the ball rolling. How about—'Your hair shines like Caesear's gold, for which battalions gave their lives'?"

Wide-eyed, Antonia stared at him.

"Your turn," Philip prompted.

"Ah. . ." Antonia bludgeoned her wits then lifted her gaze to his hair. She dragged in a breath. '“Your hair glows like chestnuts, burnished by the sun'?"

"Bravo!" Philip smiled. "But that was purely a visual description—I think I win that round."

"It's a competition?"

Philip's eyes gleamed. "Let's consider it one. My turn. '"Your brow is white as a snow martin's breast, smooth as his flight through the sky.'"

On her mettle, Antonia narrowed her eyes, studying the wide sweep of his brow. Then she smiled. '“Your brow is as noble a Leo's ever was, your might not less than his.'"

Philip's smile deepened. "'Emerald your eyes, set in gold, precious jewels their value untold.'"

'"Grey clouds and steel, mists and fog, stormy seas and lightning, mix in the depths of your gaze.'"

Brows rising, Philip inclined his head. "I'd forgotten what a quick learner you are. But onward! Let's see. . ." Slowly, he raised his hand and gently, very gently, brushed her cheek with the back of one linger. " 'Your cheeks glow soft, ivory silk over rose.'" His voice had deepened.

For a long instant, Antonia sat as one stunned, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only thought in her head was that her stratagem was working. The effects of his touch slowly dis­sipated; her wits filtered back. She swallowed, then frowned and met his gaze. "It should have been my turn to lead. So—"'Firm of chin and fair of face, your movements marked by languid grace.'"

Philip laughed. "Mercy!—how can I hope to counter that?"

Antonia's smug glance turned superior.

Philip studied her face. "All right. But—" Glancing down, he saw her hands, lightly clasped in her lap. "Ah, yes." Shifting, he reached out and circled her wrist once more, gently tugging one hand free. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse leap.

She didn't resist as he lifted her hand, turning it as though examining her slim fingers. Fleetingly, he let his gaze meet hers. Then, still holding her captive, he trailed the fingers of his other hand against her sensitive palm.

The swift intake of her breath sounded sharp to Antonia's ears. Philip's eyes flicked up to hers; a smile unlike any she'd yet seen slowly curved his lips. His fingers shifted, so that his fingertips supported hers.

'"Delicate bones, sensitive skin, awaiting a lover's ca­ress.'"

His voice was deep and low, the cadence striking chords deep within her. Antonia watched, trapped by his gaze, by his touch, as he slowly lifted her hand and, one by one, touched his lips to her fingertips.

The quivers that ran through her shook her to her core.

"Ah. . ." Desperation flayed her wits to action. "I've just remembered." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed and cleared her throat. "A message I promised to deliver for my aunt—I shouldn't have forgotten—I should go straight away." Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative yet, despite all, she couldn't bring herself to tug her hand free.

Philip's eyes held hers, steady, unyielding, an expression in the grey that she did not recognize. "A message?"

For one long moment, he studied her eyes, then the planes of his face relaxed. "About the fete?"

Numb, Antonia nodded.

Philip's lips quirked; ruthlessly, he stilled them. "One you have to deliver immediately?"

"Yes." Abruptly, Antonia stood; she felt immeasurably grateful when Philip, more languidly, rose too. He still hadn't let go of her hand. In an agony of near panic, she waited.

"Come—I'll escort you back."