A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Only when awareness blossomed in her eyes did Philip glance away. "You, my dear, are hardly one to talk." After a moment, he added, his tone less dark, "I suspect that we should mingle. When are the archery contests scheduled to start?"

The hours passed swiftly, filled with conversations. They strolled the lawns, stopping every few feet to chat with their guests. Antonia was of the firm opinion that Philip should spend at least five minutes with each of his tenants; it tran­spired he was of similar mind; she was not called on to steer him their way. A fact for which she gave due thanks.

Her control of the fete and its associated events might be absolute; it did not extend to him.

To her surprise, he held by her side, even waiting pa­tiently while she exchanged recipes with one of his farmers' wives. Despite the years, the majority of his tenants were still known to her; they were keen to renew their acquain­tance as well as catch up with their landlord. After every encounter, Philip drew her close before moving on.

Exactly as if she did indeed provide the protection he claimed.

While most of the mamas had read the signs aright and consequently made no effort to put their darlings in his way, their darlings proved less perceptive. Miss Abercrombie and Miss Harris, greatly daring, accosted them as they strolled.

"Such a frightfully warm day, don't you think, my lord?" Miss Abercrombie's gaze was certainly sultry. She fanned herself with her hand, the action drawing attention to the ample charms revealed by

her deeply scooped neck­line.

"Quite positively enervating, I think." Miss Harris, not to be outdone, fluttered her lashes and cast Philip a lan­guishing look.

Antonia felt him stiffen; his expression was shuttered, remote.

"Before you find yourselves prostrated, ladies, might I suggest you repair to the drawing-room?" Philip's tone alone lowered the temperature ten degrees. "I believe there are cold drinks laid out there." With a distant nod, he changed tack, steering Antonia away from the budding courtesans.

After one glance at the rigid set of his lips, Antonia amused herself looking over the stalls. She could have told all the young misses that gushing declarations and fluttering lashes were definitely the wrong way to approach their host. He disliked all show of emotion, preferring the correct, properly restrained modes of interaction. He was a conven­tional man—she strongly suspected most gentlemen were.

They paused to allow Philip to discuss crop rotation with one of his tenant farmers. Covertly studying him, Antonia smiled wrily. His languid indolence was very much to the fore, at least in his projected image.

The girls watching could not hear his brisk words on ploughing and the optimum depth of furrows. As handsome as any, with that subtle aura of restrained power which de­rived, she suspected, from that affected indolence, while strolling the lawns with smoothly elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing, die-away looks of the massed host of young girls.

Quelling an unhelpful shiver, Antonia looked around. Horatia Minims and two of the girls from the vicarage stood in a knot nearby, giggling and whispering. Feeling im­measurably older, she let her gaze pass over them.

Concluding his discussion, Philip placed his hand over hers and turned towards the archery butts. “Looks like the contests are well underway." He glanced down at her. "I'm not at all sure you shouldn't be the one to present the ribbon to the winner."

Antonia shook her head. "You are their master—to the youngsters you're an idol. Of course they want you to award the prize."

She shifted as she spoke, swinging slightly forward to glance into his eyes. Unfortunately, that placed her in Hor­atia Mimms's path. In a balletic manoeuvre, Horatia flew forward, her trajectory calculated to land her, gracefully tripping, in Philip's arms. Instead, she cannoned into An­tonia's back.

With a stifled cry, Antonia catapulted forward, coming up hard against Philip's chest. His arms closed around her, steel bands crushing her to him as he lifted her free of the wild tangle that was Horatia, now sprawled on the grass.

"Are you all right?" Easing his hold, Philip looked down at her.

Antonia nodded, struggling to find her voice. "Just a bump—" She couldn't help a wince as she tried to pull back.

Philip steadied her, his hands firming on her back, gently kneading. His gaze shifted to the scene before them, where a winded Horatia was being helped to her feet by her two supporters from the vicarage.

Philip's eyes blazed. "That was the most inconsiderate piece of witless behaviour it has ever been my misfortune to witness!"

Helpless in his arms, unable to stop her senses luxuriating in the feel of his warm hands massaging her back, her fore­head resting, for one weak moment, against his chest, An­tonia stifled a hysterical giggle. From his tone, from the tension holding him, she knew his temper was on a very short leash. Luckily, they were halfway between the stalls and the crowds watching the archery; there were few wit­nesses to the scene.

"I cannot believe your parents—" Philip's gaze coldly swept all three girls ''—will find your antics at all accept­able." His icy words cut like a lash. "I intend to make plain to them—"

Antonia pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to loosen his hold. As she straggled free of his arms, she wasn't at all surprised to glimpse three white faces, stricken with alarm. "I'm perfectly all right." One glance at Philip was enough to confirm he wasn't mollified by her assur­ance. His face remained stony, his expression chilling. An­tonia felt like grimacing at him; she contented herself with narrowing her eyes warningly before facing the girls. "Miss Mimms—I hope you sustained no injury?"

White as a sheet, Horatio Mimms blinked, then dazedly looked down. A long grass stain marred the pink of her muslin skirts. "My best dress!" she moaned. "It's ruined!"

Philip snorted. "You may consider yourself—"

Antonia stepped back—onto his foot. Philip broke off and frowned down at her.

"Perhaps, Miss Carmichael, Miss Jayne, you could ac­company Miss Mimms into the house and see if the stain will shift?"