A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Philip humphed and turned back to his horses. His tone marginally less severe, he added, "If you behave yourself and don't tease me, you can have a pair of high-steppers for your carriage. I'll speak to Harry when next I see him."

The comment diverted Antonia. "Harry?" He had men­tioned a Harry before.

Philip nodded. "Harry Lester—brother of Jack." After a second's pause, he added, "Both good friends of mine."

"Ah." Antonia knew what she was supposed to make of that. "Does this Harry have horses to sell?"

"Possibly." Philip glanced at her, a smile in his eyes. "Harry Lester is the owner of one of the country's foremost studs. That stallion you claimed at the Manor—Raker—is a colt of one of his champions. When it comes to quality horseflesh, you can't go past Harry."

"I see." As they slowed to join the line of carriages waiting to turn and retrace their route along the avenue, Antonia asked, "Is this the same Harry who married a Lu­cinda?"

Philip nodded. "Lucinda—Mrs Babbacombe that was. They married a few months ago, towards the end of the Season."

"Is there some reason they aren't in London?"

"Knowing Harry," Philip replied, wheeling his horses, "I assume they're too busy amusing themselves at home."

Antonia slanted him a glance. "Amusing themselves?"

Setting his horses to a trot, Philip turned to meet her gaze. "Strange to tell, there's one attraction guaranteed to hold greater allure for rakes than the ton in all its glory."

Antonia opened her eyes wide. "What?"

"Their wives in all their glory."

Blushing furiously, she threw him a speaking look, then switched her attention to the approaching carriages.

Hiding a grin, Philip looked to his horses. Antonia blush­ing was a sight very much to his liking; the response was not one to which she had previously been particularly sus­ceptible. He was becoming adept at making her blush—yet another talent that improved with practice.

He waited until they passed the last of the stationary car­riages before glancing her way again. "With the weather turning, the ranks will start to thin soon. There's really only a week more of the Little Season to go."

Antonia met his gaze, her own open and direct. "And then?"

Philip felt a fierce tension close like a fist about his heart. He kept all hint of the compelling force within him from his expression, from his eyes. "If you're agreeable, we'll return to the Manor. And then—" He broke off, quickly glancing at his horses. When he looked back, his expression was mild. "And then, my dear, we'll proceed as planned."

Antonia's gaze remained steady. She searched his eyes, then, her smile serene, inclined her head. "As we agreed, my lord."

Two nights later, Philip stood by the side of Lady Car-stairs's ballroom and wondered if there was any way he could make the Little Season end sooner. There were still five full nights of balls and parties to be endured; he wasn't sure his patience was up to it—up to the challenge of toeing the line he had drawn, the line beyond which he would not step. Given they were to wed and wed soon, he was not particularly averse to seducing Antonia. Seducing her while she resided under his roof, essentially under his protection, was another matter entirely, one which impinged on his honour, rather than simply his morals.

Swallowing a disgusted "humph", he resisted the urge to cross his arms and glower at the delightful picture she made, swirling down the room in the Roger de Clovely. Lord Ashby, one of his peers, was her partner; despite that, Philip felt no qualms. The fact gave him pause.

He was, now he thought of it, totally, unshakeably, sure of Antonia—sure of her affection, sure of her loyalty, sure of her wish to marry him. Why, then, was he torturing him­self by standing here, watching over her?

None who saw her could doubt her assurance. If she should need any help, Henrietta was there, gossiping avidly with her intimates. Geoffrey, too, was somewhere in the throng, almost certainly with the Marquess, Miss Dalling and Mr Fortescue.

As the music swirled towards its conclusion, Philip cast one last glance about. There was no reason he couldn't do as husbands did and leave the room. Antonia didn't need him; he, however, could use the time to consider an urgent problem—what additional steps he could introduce, what byways they could explore, to lengthen her road to seduc­tion.

Given the unexpected violence of his feelings, and her passionate response, that was an increasingly pertinent re­quirement.

As she rose from her final curtsy, Antonia laughed gaily at Lord Ashby, then automatically scanned the room. She saw Philip's back as he passed through the main door; smil­ing, she assumed he had gone to get some air.

Confident, buoyed by content, she chatted with Lord Ashby and the others who gathered around. Ten minutes of artless, on her part distracted, prattle convinced her that her thoughts had gone with Philip. Idly glancing around, she decided there was really no reason she, too, couldn't slip out to get some air. The blustery weather outside had meant the terrace doors were firmly shut; the temperature in the ballroom was steadily rising.

Smiling sweetly, she turned to Lord Ashby. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I believe I must have a word with my aunt."

Given Henrietta was ensconced in the heart of the Dow­ager Marchioness of Hammersley's circle, Antonia was not the least surprised when none of the gentlemen present in­sisted on accompanying her. Slipping through the crowd, initially towards her aunt, she then changed tack and headed for the ballroom door.

In the library, otherwise deserted, Philip paced slowly before the hearth, his mind engrossed with Antonia and the latest unforeseen problem she had managed to present him. He did not hear the door ease open, then quietly close. It was the soft rustle of silk skirts, a very familiar sound, that brought him alert.