A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"Aye—I know," Banks grumbled. "If you want the truth it's that that sticks. It's nothing but senseless female shilly-shallying that's holding us up."

Philip's brows rose. "Shilly-shallying, unfortunately, is what one must endure when dealing with females."

With a disapproving grunt, Banks took himself off.

After a long, assessing glance at his gardens, Philip fol­lowed him out.

She wasn't in the rose garden, the formal garden was empty. Deserted, the peony walk slumbered beneath the af­ternoon sun. The shrubbery was cool and inviting but dis­appointingly uninhabited. Eyes narrowed, Philip paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the known charac­teristics of his quarry. Then, with a grunt to rival Banks's, he strode towards the house.

He ran her to earth in the still-room.

Antonia looked up, blinking in surprise as he strolled into the dimly lit room. "Hello." Hands stilling, she hesitated, her gaze shifting to the shelves of bottles and jars ranged along the walls. "Were you after something?"

"As it happens, I was." Philip leaned against the bench at which she was working. "You."

Antonia's eyes widened. She looked down at the herbs she was snipping. "I—"

"I missed you this morning." Philip lifted a brow as her head came up; he trapped her gaze with his. "Can it be you've grown tired of riding?"

"No—of course not." Antonia blinked, then looked down. "I was merely worn out by the fete."

"Not still stiff after your collision with Miss Mimms?"

"Indeed not. That was barely a bruise." Gathering up her chopped herbs, she dumped them into a bowl. "It's entirely gone, now."

"I'm glad to hear it. I finished with Banks earlier than I'd expected—I wondered if you were wishful of chancing your skill with my greys?"

Brushing her hands on her apron, Antonia considered the prospect. It was definitely enticing. And she'd have to take the first step some time—chancing her skill in an entirely new arena.

"If you can hold them in style," Philip mused, "perhaps

I could demonstrate the basics of handling a whip?'' Brows lifting, he met her gaze.

Antonia did not miss the subtle challenge in his eyes. Just how much he truly saw she did not know, but the only way of testing her developing defences was to risk some time in his company. "Very well." She nodded briskly, then stretched on tiptoe to peer through the high windows.

Philip straightened. "It's a beautiful day—you'll just need your hat." Capturing her hand, he drew her to the door. "I'll have the horses put to while you fetch it."

Before she could blink, Antonia found herself by the stairs. Released, she threw a speaking look at her would-be instructor before, determinedly regal, she went up to find her hat.

Ten minutes later, they were bowling down the gravelled sweep, the greys pacing in prime style. The drive, through leafy lanes to the nearby village of Fernhurst, was un­eventful; despite her stretched nerves, Antonia could detect not the slightest hint of intent in the figure lounging grace­fully by her side. He appeared at ease with the world, with­out a thought beyond the lazy warmth of the bright sunshine and the anticipation of an excellent dinner.

Quelling an unhelpful spurt of disappointment, she lifted her chin. "As I've taken you this far without landing you in a ditch, perhaps you'd consent to instruct me on handling the whip?"

"Ah, yes." Philip straightened. "Put the reins in your left hand, then take the whip in your right. You need to loop the lash through your fingers." After she had fumbled for a minute, he held out a hand. "Here—let me show you."

The rest of the drive passed with the horses pacing steadily, equally oblivious to Philip's expert and intention­ally undistracting wielding of the lash and her less-than-successful attempts to direct them with a flick to their ears.

Indeed, by the time they reached the Manor drive, she would have given a considerable sum just to be able to nick their ears. Philip's stylish expertise with the long whip, sending the lash reaching out to just tickle a leaf then twitching it back so it hissed up the handle, back to his waiting fingers, was not at all easy to emulate.

She was frowning when he lifted her down.

"Never mind—like many skills, it's one that comes with practice."

Antonia looked up—and wondered where he'd left his mask. His eyes had taken on the darker hue she had first recognized in the glade, his hands were firm about her waist, long fingers flexing gently. Cambric was thicker than muslin but even combined with her chemise, the fabric was insufficient to protect her from the heat of his touch.

He held her before him, his gaze on hers; she felt in­tensely vulnerable, deliciously so. Her wits were drifting, her breath slowly seizing.

His gaze sharpened, the grey darkening even more.