A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

“And you danced them all?''

"Indeed."

Philip stopped by one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace, filled with a cheery blaze. Antonia sat, her skirts sighing about her. Philip paused, studying her. “Would you like a nightcap?"

Antonia looked up, her expression arrested, then smiled and shook her head.

Phili

p was not deceived. "What?"

Her smile reminded him forcefully of the irrepressible girl she had been. "Actually," she said, her eyes dancing, "I would dearly love a glass of warm milk but I cannot imagine how Carring would react to such a request."

"Can you not?" Philip's brows slowly rose. Turning, he crossed to the bellpull.

"Philip!" Antonia sat up.

Philip waved her back. "No—I have a score to settle—hush!" He returned to take the chair opposite hers.

Carring entered, ponderously solemn. "You rang, m'lord?"

"Indeed." Philip's expression was utterly bland. "Miss Mannering would like a nightcap, Carring. A glass of warm milk."

Carring's eyes flickered, then he bowed. "Will that be for two, m'lord?"

It took Philip a moment to master his tone. "No—you may pour me a brandy when you return."

"Very good, m'lord." Bowing, Caning withdrew.

As soon as the door closed, Antonia succumbed. "The thought of you drinking warm milk," she eventually got out, hugging her aching ribs.

Despite himself, Philip's lips curved upward. "One day, I keep telling myself, I'll have the last word."

He was not destined to succeed that night. Carring reap­peared bearing a glass of perfectly warmed milk on a silver tray. He deposited it on the table by Antonia's side with the same care he would have taken had it been aged port, then crossed to the cabinet and poured Philip's brandy, leaving the large glass by his master's elbow.

"Thank you, Carring. You may lock up."

"M'lord." With his usual deep obeisance, the major-domo withdrew.

Reaching for the brandy glass, Philip discovered it was half-full. A subtle hint, he supposed, of Carring's estimation of his state. Taking a sip, he smiled at Antonia. "With whom did you dance?"

Cradling her glass in her hand, she settled back in the chair. "Most of those present were more Geoffrey's age than mine but there were a few older gentlemen present—Mr Riley, Mr Hemming, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Carruthers."

"Indeed?" Philip did not recognize the names, which gave him some idea of their station. He fixed her with a mildly enquiring gaze. "And did you, like Geoffrey, find it dull work?"

Antonia smiled. "While it certainly did not rival Ast-ley's, it was not totally without interest."

"Oh?"

It was more to the light in his eyes and his tone that she responded, relating her observations on all she had seen as she slowly sipped her milk.

Philip watched the firelight strike gleams from her hair; the play of the fire-glow over her pale face, over her lips, sheened by the milk, held him in thrall. The cadence of her voice rose and fell; he sipped his brandy and listened as she painted a picture he had seen many times—through her eyes, it held an innocence, a sparkling freshness he had long grown too jaded to see.

She concluded with a thumbnail sketch of the major pro­tagonists in what promised to be one of the season's more entertaining imbroglios.

"Indeed," Antonia said, setting aside her empty glass. “The situation of Miss Dalling and the Marquess does seem to be of some urgency—but how much of that derives from Miss Dalling's undeniable sense of the dramatic I could not say. Whatever, I'm certain Miss Dalling will prevail, gorgon aunt or no." She looked across at Philip, smiling, in­viting him to share her amusement.

To her surprise, his face remained expressionless. Abruptly, he stood, setting his glass on the table beside him. "Come. It's time you went upstairs."