gly satisfied. She now knew how to act, how to behave as his wife, whilst under the ton's chandeliers. She had paraded before the hostesses' censorious eyes and had not stumbled. No more need she fear to put a foot wrong, to bring opprobrium down on her head through some gauche and unforgivable act—to shame Philip by her lack of sophisticated knowledge.
Under his tutelage, her knowledge, her understanding, had grown in leaps and bounds.
Her eyes sought his face, then scanned his frame, large and impressively elegant in the shadows opposite. Her attention was caught by the diamond pin in his cravat, shimmering in the weak light.
She was now confident she could be his wife—the wife he wanted, the wife he needed, the wife he deserved. His support had been steadfast, underlaid by past affection. In every word and deed, his attitude was evident, a subtle fondness that never overstepped the bounds of propriety.
At least not in public.
Her gaze fixed on his diamond pin, Antonia shifted. His private behaviour had not fitted within her mental framework of a conventional relationship—not until she had admitted the existence of desire. It was not an emotion she had had previous experience of, yet it was there, staring back at her every time they were alone and she looked into his eyes. She had finally accepted that it was an integral part of how he viewed her—-she was no longer a girl, after all, but a woman grown.
The thought sent a long shiver slithering down her spine. Abruptly, she straightened and switched her gaze to the passing streetscape.
Despite her sudden breafhlessness, despite her leaping heart, she was not foolish enough to confuse desire with love. Philip's comment in the Park three days before, so easy, so open, so very off-hand, had placed the matter firmly in perspective. Not the most ardent of young ladies— not even Catriona—could have mistaken those few words, his roundabout admission he was smitten with her, as a declaration. It had been no more than a simple restating of his fondness for her, an acknowledgement of his clear preference for her company.
That, admittedly, had surprised her. From beneath her lashes, Antonia viewed the still figure opposite. She had imagined, in light of his freely acknowledged reputation, that other women, perhaps even ladies, would feature rather more significantly in his life.
Perhaps he was reforming?
How would it feel to know that she had been responsible for such a transformation?
A yearning rose within her, deep and strong. Swallowing a contemptuous "humph", she straightened her shoulders and ruthlessly quashed it. That was no part of the bargain between them; that was no part of a conventional marriage. That was none of her business.
A part of her mind jeered—Antonia ignored it. She was, she sternly reminded herself, aiming to be a very comfortable wife, one who did not create ructions over matters beyond her jurisdiction.
With that objective firmly in view, she swept into the hall of Ruthven House. Henrietta and Geoffrey were already on the stairs, deep in conversation. With a smile for Carring, Antonia glided into the library.
As she settled in her usual chair, her gaze fell on the chaise, set directly opposite the hearth. It had appeared nearly a week before; every night since, Philip had inveigled her onto it—and thence, into his arms. Sternly repressing her memories, she reminded herself there was nothing remarkable in a betrothed couple sharing kisses.
Grey eyes dark with desire swam through her mind. A shiver threatened.
Philip had paused at the door; she heard him speak to Carring, then shut the door. He strolled forward, his gaze meeting hers.
“You seem quite at home in the ton these days. I always did think you learned quickly." Gracefully crouching, he built up the fire. The flames transformed his chestnut hair to bronze, each lock burnished bright.
Smiling serenely, Antonia leaned back. "Ah, but I've had an excellent teacher, have I not? I doubt I would have found it half so easy had I had to brave the dragons alone."
Philip straightened, one brow rising. "Flattery, my dear?"
A knock on the door heralded Carring, bearing her glass of milk. Antonia took it with a smile. Carring fetched Philip his brandy then withdrew, leaving them both sipping.
With his usual grace, Philip sank into the chair across the hearth. Silence settled; Antonia relaxed, feeling the warmth of the milk drive the chill from her shoulders. Her lips curved; as peace slowly enfolded her, she lowered her lids.
Cradling his glass in his hands, Philip studied her, his gaze skimming her shoulders, bare above the abbreviated bodice of her evening dress, a confection in pale green silk that had caused any number of ladies to turn greener still. She had not worn her pearls, leaving her throat and the expanse of creamy skin exposed above the low neckline tantalizingly bare. Unadorned, it had drawn more eyes than Lady Darcy-d'Lisle's diamonds. There was an untouched innocence in the gentle swell of her breasts that had halted any number of male conversations.
His eyes on the delicate curves, Philip shifted restlessly.
Antonia blinked. "What's the matter?"
Philip slowly raised a brow. "I was at the point, as it happens, of concluding that women endowed as you are should be forbidden to appear in public without the distraction of jewellery."
As his gaze dropped from hers on the words, Antonia had no difficulty divining his meaning. The warmth that touched her skin owed nothing to the fire. "Indeed?" Determined not to fluster, she sipped her milk.
"Definitely." Abruptly, Philip set aside his glass. Standing, he crossed to his desk; a moment later, he returned, a flat velvet box in his hand.
Placing her glass on a sidetable, Antonia raised wide eyes from the box to his face. "What—?"
"Come—stand before the mirror." Philip caught her hand and drew her to her feet.