A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"My lord?"

Carring stood waiting to take his evening cloak. Releas­ing Antonia, Philip untied the loose ribands and shrugged the cloak from his shoulders. Turning back, he discovered Antonia halfway to the stairs.

"I greatly fear, my lord," she said, one hand rising to her brow, "that I have quite the most hideous headache. If you'll excuse me?"

With a swirling bob by way of farewell, she turned and sailed on up the stairs, not once meeting his gaze.

Philip's eyes narrowed as he watched her ascend; his expression hardened with every step she took.

When Antonia had passed from sight, Carring coughed, then murmured, "No nightcaps tonight, my lord?"

His expression like flint, Philip growled, "As you know damned well, I can pour my own brandy. You may lock up."

With that, he strode into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Upstairs, Antonia reached her chamber only to discover she had to ring for Nell, who had grown used to her inter­ludes in the library. Tense as a bowstring, she waited until Nell appeared, then, resigned, submitted to the maid's min­istrations, excusing her departure from the norm with, "I'm merely feeling a bit peaked. A good night's sleep will no doubt see me right."

Busy with her buttons, Nell shot her a searching glance. "Sure you don't want me to mix up a Blue Powder? Or I could fetch you up the jar of Dr Radcliffe's Restorative Pork Jelly. A spoonful of that does strengthen one."

She could certainly use some strength. "No, thank you." Antonia held herself stiffly, restraining her thoughts, her emotions, by main force. "Just help me into my night­gown—I'll do my hair."

Mumbling, grumbling, citing the benefits of Dr Rad­cliffe's Jelly to the last, Nell eventually took herself off.

Alone, Antonia drew in a deep, difficult breath, then, her brush in her hand, sank onto the stool before her dressing-table. Like one in a dream, she fell to brushing out her thick curls, her gaze fixed on her image in the mirror. The can­delabra to her right threw steady light over her face; briefly, she focused on her image, then reached for the snuffer. Only when the candles were doused, leaving the room wreathed in shadows with the only light coming from the single can­dle by her bed, did she look back at the mirror.

She had no need to see the misery in her eyes to know of the misery in her heart.

For which she had only herself to blame.

She had let her heart rule her head, let love lead her to believe in miracles. Her mother had warned her—she had warned herself—but she hadn't listened. Seduced by love, she'd thought herself safe from its pain. Tonight, she had discovered she was not.

The hold she had maintained over her emotions abruptly shredded; love hit her like a blow, as it had in Lady Car-stairs's library, when concealed by shadows, she had watched Philip respond to some sophisticated harlot. As be­fore, the impact left her reeling; pain speared through her, a vice squeezed her heart. A dull ache filled her, a miasma spreading insidiously through her, swallowing all hope.

Dully, Antonia blinked at the mirror, then laid aside her brush. She had always been strong, always able to cope. She would cope with this, too, and she would not cry—not even when her mother had sold her mare, the last gift her father had given her, had she given way to tears. Slowly, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly stared at her reflection, all but hidden by the flickering shadows.

Her hurt, her anguish, was entirely her own fault. Philip had never said he loved her—she had no cause to reproach him. The truth was as it had always been; she had been foolish to imagine otherwise. Her feelings, her unspoken, unacknowledged hopes, were irrelevant. Ruthlessly, she bundled them together, then buried them deep—and spent the next hour sternly repeating all the strictures, the stric­tures necessary to play the part of Philip's wife, unexpect­edly finding strength in the clear-cut, unemotional edicts. Only when she had regained her sense of purpose did she allow herself to think of other things.

The rest of the night went in a fruitless endeavour, a futile attempt to mend her broken heart.

Chapter Twelve

"Can I fetch you anything, my lord?"

Seated behind his desk in the library, Philip looked up. Carring stood in the open doorway. Philip frowned. "No. Not at the moment."

Carring bowed and backed, reaching for the doorknob.

"And you may leave the door open."

Carring bowed again. "Of course, my lord."

Smothering a growl, Philip refocused on the Gazette. The weak

rays of the midday sun intermittently pierced the clouds, throwing fitful beams across the page.

The weather was not the only thing to have suddenly turned uncertain.

Antonia had given him no chance to explain, no chance to set the record straight. He trusted her implicitly; despite her agreement to do so, she obviously didn't trust him. Ad­mittedly, he carried a certain reputation, one he'd made no effort to hide, but they were friends and had been for years. He had thought that would count for rather more than it had. To his mind, the matter was clear. She should have known better—known him better.