A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

The smile Antonia flashed him was as bright as the sun. Inventively grumbling, Geoffrey allowed her to drag him away.

Amused, Philip watched. When the drawing-room door shut behind them, he turned towards the library. Only then did he see his major-domo standing in the shadows of the stairs. Philip's expression blanked. "Carring." He won­dered how much Carring had seen. "Just the one I want."

In the library, Philip crossed to his desk. He scrawled a note to Hugo, informing him that he had been unexpectedly detained but would join him later. Sealing the missive, he directed it then handed it to Carring. "Have that delivered to Brooks."

"Immediately, m'lord. And shall I instruct Cook you've changed your mind?"

Ten full seconds of silence ensued. "Yes. And I expect you should also instruct a footman to lay an extra place at table." Philip eyed his henchman straitly. "Was there any­thing else?"

"No, indeed, m'lord," Carting's expression was smugly benign. "As far as I can tell, all's well with the world." On that cryptic utterance, he departed, Philip's note in hand.

Philip wasted no more than a moment glowering at Carring's black back before rising and heading for the drawing-room.

When, fifteen minutes later, Henrietta entered the draw­ing-room, she discovered her stepson dancing a cotillion with her niece. Geoffrey was perched on a nearby chair, grinning delightedly.

The gatheri

ng at the Mountfords' was much as Antonia had imagined it.

"So glad to see you again, my dear." Lady Mountford greeted Henrietta fondly; she acknowledged Antonia's curtsy and Geoffrey's bow with a matronly nod. "You'll find there's no need to stand on ceremony tonight. My girls are about—you've already met, but introduce yourselves and chat as you please. Getting to know your peers is what the night's for—the musicians won't arrive until later." Her ladyship waved them into a spacious salon already well-filled with young ladies and, in the main, equally young gentlemen.

"You can help me over there." With her cane, Henrietta indicated a large grouping of comfortable chairs at one end of the salon. "Plenty of old friends there for me to catch up with while you two learn the ropes."

Geoffrey assisted her to a chair in the middle of the group. Antonia helped settle her shawls, then, when Hen­rietta waved them away, turned back into the room.

"Well!" she murmured, anticipation in her voice. "Where to start?"

"Where indeed?" Geoffrey had already scanned the room. "Here—take my arm." Antonia threw him a sur­prised look. He grimaced. "It'll make me less conspicu­ous."

Smiling affectionately, Antonia did as he asked. "You don't look conspicuous at all." With his Mannering height and Mannering build, set off by his relatively restrained attire, Geoffrey looked, if anything, a few years older than some of the young sprigs currently gracing her ladyship's floor. Some, indeed, decked out in the height of fashion, looked far younger than they doubtless wished.

"Hmm." Geoffrey's gaze was fixed on a gentleman to their left. "Just look at that silly bounder over there. His collar's so high he can't turn his head."

Antonia raised her brows. "You being such an expert on fashion?"

"Not me," Geoffrey answered, busy scanning the crowd for further spectacles. "But Philip said no true gentleman would be caught dead sporting such extreme affectations—restrained elegance is the hallmark of the out-and-outers."

"The out-and-outers?"

Geoffrey glanced at her. "Top o' the trees. The Corin­thians. You know."

Antonia hid a grin. "No—but I suspect I can imagine. Am I to take it you aspire to such heady heights?"

Geoffrey considered, then shrugged. "I can't say I'd mind being top o' the trees some day, but I've decided to concentrate on getting a working notion of this ton business for now—I'll be going up in a few weeks after all."

Antonia nodded. "A wise idea, I'm sure."

"Philip thought so, too." Geoffrey was looking over the room. "What's say we do as we were bid and go introduce ourselves to some fellow sufferers?"

"Just as long as you refrain from informing them of their status." When he looked expectantly down at her, Antonia raised a brow. "I'm on your arm, remember? You're sup­posed to lead."

"Oh, good!" Geoffrey grinned and lifted his head. "That means I get to choose."

Predictably, he chose the group gathered about the pret­tiest girl in the room. Luckily, this included Cecily Mount-ford who, mindful of her mama's strictures, promptly intro­duced them to the three ladies and four gentlemen loosely grouped before the fireplace. None were more than twenty. Geoffrey was immediately included as one of the group; Antonia, her age declared not only by her innate poise but also by the elegant lines of Lafarge's creation, stood on its outskirts, metaphorically if not literally. Not that any at­tempted to exclude her—indeed, they treated her so defer­entially she felt quite ancient. The young gentlemen blushed, stuttered and bowed while the young ladies leaned forward to shake hands, casting glances of muted envy at her gown.

It rapidly became apparent that their hostess's injunction to set formal restraint aside had been enthusiastically em­braced; with the customary facility of youth, the company quickly got down to brass tacks.

The beauty, a sweet-faced young miss in a pale blue gown with dark ringlets bobbing on her shoulders, proved to be a Miss Catriona Dalling, an orphan from east York­shire who was in town under the aegis of her aunt, the Countess of Ticehurst.