A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

He turned, his heart lifting spontaneously, only to find it was not Antonia who stood artfully poised by the end of the chaise.

"Good evening, my lord."

Any thought that Lady Ardale had innocently happened upon him was laid to rest by her tone—pure unadulterated adulteress. A stunningly handsome woman, her voluptuous curves were encased in silk so fine it was clear she wore little beneath. Her skirts rustled again, a softly seductive sound, as, her dark gaze on his, she came slowly towards him.

Despite himself, Philip felt a certain fascination—the sort anyone would feel on observing a sight one had heard tell of but had never before encountered. He had certainly heard tell of Lady Ardale. She was one of those he would unhes­itatingly label a piranha—in her case, she ate up rakes and spat out their bones. Rumour had it she was impossible to satisfy; attempting that feat that had literally brought some of the fraternity to their knees. As Lord Ardale was still strong enough to insist on discretion, her ladyship limited her prey to those already safely wed. Until now, Philip had thought himself safe.

Her ladyship's next words banished the illusion.

"You've been exceedingl

y clever, Ruthven." Halting di­rectly before him, Lady Ardale smiled knowingly. Lifting one long-nailed finger, she traced a fold of his cravat. “Finding a friend of the family, a young lady of breeding but no knowledge of the ton—a sweet, innocent miss to be your bride." Archly, Lady Ardale lifted one brow. "Very clever indeed."

Almost imperceptibly, Philip stiffened.

"Indeed, my lord, such cleverness fairly begs a reward." Lady Ardale swayed closer; automatically, Philip put out one arm to steady her; his hand came to rest on one cur­vaceous hip. Lady Ardale drifted closer still, settling her curves against him. "I expect," she said, her words breathy but definite, "that your plans to marry the chit are well advanced. Might I suggest that, rather than waste the next three weeks at your estate, you join me and my guests at Ardale Place? A convivial little gathering." Lady Ardale's rouged lips curved. Her dark eyes on Philip's face, she caught his free hand and, unblushingly, guided it to her breast, trapping his fingers against the ripe swell. "I can assure you you'll get plenty of opportunity to partake of your just desserts. After all your careful planning, you won't want to deny yourself."

The intensity of the revulsion that swept him, the ap­pallingly strong impulse to fling Lady Ardale from him, forced Philip to pause, to draw a slow, steady breath before declining, with what civility he could muster, her ladyship's salacious invitation. The idea that he would prefer her over­ripe, tawdry charms to those of Antonia struck him as an insult to his intelligence; her pronouncements on Antonia only raised his hackles further.

Lady Ardale misread his stillness; with a siren-like smile, she reached up, intending to draw his head to hers.

Philip's expression hardened. The hand at her hip firmed; his other hand, freed, moved to grip her shoulder.

What made him look up he did not know, but he did— and saw Antonia, a wraith in the shadows, standing just inside the door. Philip froze. -%

Lady Ardale plastered herself to him.

The sob that escaped Antonia broke the web of horror, of utter disbelief, that held her. Philip heard it, a small, broken plaint. She pressed her hand to her lips, suppressing the sound, then whirled and fled the room.

The next thing Lady Ardale knew she lay sprawled upon the chaise—in precisely the position she had intended to assume, with one notable correction. Philip was supposed to have been with her, not striding to the door.

"Ruthven!"

Her ladyship's strident outrage brought Philip up short. Swinging about, he transfixed her with his gaze, cold con­tempt in his eyes. "Madam," he said, biting off the words, "I suggest that in future you exercise greater discretion in selecting your paramours. You are greatly mistaken if you believe that / would wish to join their ranks."

With that, he swung on his heel and strode after Antonia.

Entering the ballroom, he paused by the wall and scanned the company. He eventually located his bride-to-be, dancing the cotillion with some youthful sprig. To any casual ob­server, her carefree expression would have passed unre­marked. Philip saw through it, saw the effort she put into every smile, every lighthearted gesture, saw the pain behind her disguise. He fought the overwhelming urge to go to her, to gather her into his arms and tell her the truth of what she had seen, what she had overheard—only his sure knowledge of the ton's reaction to such an act prevented him from committing it.

Tense, impatient, he waited until the cotillion ended, then strolled purposefully across the ballroom to claim his usual place by her side. She did not look up as he did so, but merely inclined her head.

Philip drew in a calming breath—and waited. When a heated discussion of the rival sporting merits of pheasant over grouse claimed the attention of her attendant swains, he leaned closer. “Antonia, we must talk. Come, stroll with me."

She gave a brittle laugh, drawing attention back to them.

"I greatly fear, my lord, that my dance card is full." On pretext of displaying her card, she slipped her right wrist from his hold. "See?" Without looking at him, she held the card up for his perusal, then she beamed upon her court. "Indeed, I couldn't disappoint so many earnest cavaliers."

Her court immediately came to her rescue, decrying his right to take her from them. Gritting his teeth, Philip was forced to acquiesce with a semblance of grace. He had waltzed with her earlier; as usual, she had no further dances free.

With that avenue blocked, he remained by her side, in­creasingly aware of how tenuous, how flimsy, her blithely gay facade truly was. The knowledge stayed his hand from any further attempt to gain time alone with her; after all her hard work, after all her trepidations, to push her to the brink of some hysterical outburst here, in a ton ballroom, would be the act of a cad. The same consideration kept him where he was; if she did stumble and fall, he was one of the few he would trust to catch her.

And, after all, they would shortly be home; the library fire would already be lit.

With that objective in mind, he escorted her smoothly from the ballroom at the close of the evening, shielding her as best he could from any too-observant eyes. Helpfully, Henrietta proved greatly distracted by Miss Dalling's pros­pects; Geoffrey, drawn into the discussion, filled the gap Antonia left.

She followed Henrietta from the carriage, leaving him to descend in her wake. But Henrietta's slow progress up the steps held her back; coming up beside Antonia, Philip caught her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She started at his touch, then acquiesced, allowing him to lead her to the door.

Henrietta, still demanding to know more of Miss Dalling, stumped up the stairs on Geoffrey's arm. From the hall, Antonia fast by his side, Philip watched until the pair gained the landing.