A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Antonia nodded, regally assured. Henrietta humphed and tapped John Coachman on the shoulder. Philip watched the carriage draw away; a frown slowly formed in his eyes. An odd constraint seemed to have sprung up between them— he couldn't for the life of him see why.

At six o'clock that evening, Antonia started up the stairs. The dinner gong had just sounded; it was time to change her gown. Nearing the landing, she heard footsteps above. Looking up, she met Philip's gaze. She stopped on the land­ing, watching as he descended.

He was wearing a stylish coat of Bath superfine over ivory inexpressibles; an intricately tied cravat, tasselled Hessians and a waistcoat of amber silk completed the outfit. His hair looked freshly brushed, waving gently about his head. In one hand, he carried a pair of gloves, flicking them gently against one thigh.

His lips curving, he stopped directly before her.

"I had wondered, my dear, if you are free tomorrow afternoon, whether you might care to drive to Richmond? We could take tea at the Star and Garter and return in good time for dinner."

The poor light on the stairs hid the flash of happiness that lit Antonia's eyes. It also hid the faint blush that suc­ceeded it. "I. . ." Lifting her chin, she clasped her hands before her. "I wouldn't wish to disrupt your normal routine, my lord—I'm sure there are other claims on your time."

"None that can't wait." Philip hid his frown. "Are you free?"

She met his gaze but he could read nothing in her eyes. "I can't recall any other engagement."

Philip tightened his grip on his gloves. "In that case, I'll meet you in the hall at. . .shall we say half past one?"

Gracious but determinedly distant, Antonia inclined her head. "I'll look forward to the outing, my lord."

What, Philip wondered, had happened to his name? "An­tonia—?"

"Will you be dining with us this evening?" It took all Antonia's courage to ask the question; she waited, breath bated, for the answer, dismally aware she was only making a rod for her own back.

Philip hesitated, then forced himself to shake his head. "I'm dining with friends." He was, at Limmer's. As if from a distance, he heard himself say, "I often do." The shadows hid her eyes, too well for him to be sure of her expression. Few men of his age, married or not, dined frequently at their own board; it was a fact of fashionable life, not a situation of his own choosing.

"Indeed?" Determinedly bright, Antonia flashed him a brittle smile. "I'd better go up or I'll be late. I wish you a good night, my lord." With another fleeting smile and a nod, she went past him and on up the stairs. She was, she sternly lectured herself, being foolish beyond permission. To feel rejection when none was intended, to feel down­hearted just because he was behaving as he usually did. This was, after all, what she had come to London to learn—how she would fit into his life.

She reached the upper gallery and all but ran to her room.

Philip listened to her footsteps fade. Slowly, he resumed his descent. By the time he reached the hall, the planes of his face had hardened. She had said not a word out of place, said nothing to make him suspect she was wishful of his company. Not once had she made the mistake of trying to make him feel guilty; she had made no demands of him whatever.

Why, then, did he feel so dissatisfied? So certain some­thing was, if not precisely wrong, then very definitely not right?

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 rapi

dly, 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."