A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Rather than believe the evidence of her eyes. And her ears.

Philip grimaced. His gaze, fixed unseeing on the page, grew more deeply abstracted.

A faint creak sounded from beyond the library door.

Instantly, he was out of his chair and rounding the desk. By the time Antonia started down the last flight of stairs, he was waiting to greet her.

"Good morning, my dear. I missed you at breakfast."

The rest of his carefully rehearsed speech, his "I trust you slept well?" followed by a pointed request for a mo­ment of her time, went winging from his head the instant he saw her face.

Antonia hesitated, one hand clutching the balustrade, her gaze deliberately unfocused. "I'm afraid. . ." Dragging in a breath, she lifted her head. "That is, I slept in." She felt chilled to the marrow, very close to shivering, but if she wished to be his comfortable wife, she had to comport her­self appropriately, even at moments like this.

Stiffly poised, she continued her descent, concentrating on her carriage. Behind her, Nell's heavier footfalls fol­lowed down the stairs. Defiantly, she kept her head high; Nell had ministered with cucumber water and Denmark Lo­tion; she assumed the worst was disguised. Reaching the last step, she bestowed an unfocused glance on her hus­band-to-be. "I trust you are well, my lord?"

"Tolerably," came the brief answer. Then, after a frac­tional hesitation, "I wonder, my dear, whether you can spare me a moment of your time?''

Surprised, not only by the request but by the gentler tone of his voice, Antonia blinked; unintentionally, she focused on Philip's face. The concern in his eyes had her turning her head away; she disguised the movement by flicking out her skirts. "As it happens, my lord, I was on my way to the back parlour to write letters. I regret to confess I've been greatly remiss in my correspondence; there are many ladies in Yorkshire to whom I owe a degree of thanks."

She was determined to make no fuss, but the idea of being alone with him just now was simply too much. Her gaze fixed on his cravat, she continued, ''I've put the matter off unconscionably long. I understand that if I complete my letters by two, Carring will be able to post them."

"Carring," Philip said, acutely aware of his major-domo hovering behind him, "may put them on my desk. I'll frank them."

Antonia inclined her head. "Thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me, I'll begin them immediately." She made to turn away.

"Perhaps we could take the air later—a stroll around the square once your correspondence is dealt with?"

Antonia hesitated. The idea of a walk in the fresh breeze was tempting but the vision her mind supplied—of them, stiff and silent, circumnavigating the square—was more than enough to dissuade her. "Ah—I believe Henrietta and I are due to take tea with Lady Cathie, and then we had thought to look in on Mrs Melcombe's at-home."

The lame excuse hung in the air; Antonia stiffened, her brittle facade tightening. Tension swelled and stretched, holding them all frozen, then Philip bowed with his usual fluid grace.

"In that case, I'll see you this evening, my dear."

Unnerved by the undercurrent she detected in his tone, Antonia cried off from their evening's engagements. She did not even risk dinner, requesting a tray in her room on the grounds of an incipient headache.

Ensconced in lonely splendour at the head of the dining-table, Philip sat sunk in thought, his gaze fixed on the empty seat beside him. At the table's end, Henrietta and Geoffrey were deep in machinations.

"I have to say that I'm not a great believer in newfangled notions, yet I cannot see my way clear, in this instance, to agree with Meredith Ticehurst." Henrietta pushed away her soup plate. "There's nothing the least—well, questionable about Mr Fortescue, is there?"

"Questionable?" Geoffrey frowned. "Not that I know of. Capital fellow from all I can make out. Drives a neat curricle with a nicely matched pair."

Henrietta returned his frown. "That's not what I meant." Raising her head, she looked up the table. "Do you know anything against Mr Fortescue, Ruthven?''

The sound of his name shook Philip from his thoughts. "Fortescue?"

Henrietta threw him a disgusted look. "Mr Henry For­tescue—Miss Dalling's would-be suitor. I have to tell you, Philip, that I am not at all happy in my mind about the tack Meredith Ticehurst is taking with her niece. No—and not with the Marquess either, although he is, after all, a man and, one would suppose, capable of taking care of himself."

Recalling the Marchioness of Hammersley, Philip con­sidered that last far from certain. "I know nothing against Mr Fortescue—indeed, what I do know would suggest he is an eminently eligible, even desirable, parti.''''

Having delivered himself of that pronouncement, Philip reached for his wine glass. As he sipped, Henrietta's sup­positions and concerns, and Geoffrey's predictably straight­forward views, drifted past his ears. Their tacit alliance and their half-formed plans to overturn the Countess's applecart did not even register.

Then the meal was at an end; Philip could not even recall if he had eaten. He did not particularly care; he had lost his appetite, among other things.

But when they gathered in the hall preparatory to quitting the house, destined for Lady Arbuthnot's drum, his gaze sharpened. He glanced at Henrietta, his expression bland. "No doubt you'll wish to check on Antonia before we leave."

"Antonia?" Henrietta looked up in surprise. "Whatever for? She's not seriously ill, y'know."

"I had thought," Philip returned, steel glimmering in his tone, "that you might wish to reassure yourself that her indisposition is indeed merely that, and not something more alarming. She is, after all, in your care."