A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"I'm sure they would." The Marchioness nodded ap­provingly, her compelling gaze fixed on her hapless son.

Ambrose hid a grimace, then glanced at Catriona, mute, beside him. "Perhaps. . ."

"Of course! Just the thing!" The Countess weighed in to stamp her seal on the plan. "Catriona will be thrilled to accompany you."

When everyone looked her way, Catriona nodded dully.

Ten minutes later, they left the house by the morning-room windows and headed into the rose gardens. Strolling on Philip's arm, Antonia studied Catriona and Ambrose, drifting aimlessly ahead, feet trailing, shoulders slumped.

"So—what did you think of my superlative strategy?"

Glancing up, she met Philip's eye. "It was, quite defi­nitely, the most sickeningly cloying exhibition of humbug I have ever witnessed."

Philip looked ahead. "There were a few grains of truth concealed amidst the dross."

Antonia snorted. "Flummery, pure flummery, from start to finish. I'm surprised it didn't stick in your throat."

"I have to admit the whole was rather too sweet for my liking, but their ladyships lapped it up, which was, after all, my purpose."

"Ah, yes—your purpose." Antonia longed to ask, point-blank, what that was. It was not, after all, Catriona and Ambrose's problem which had brought him here.

The thought focused her mind on what lay, ignored yet unresolved, between them. As they strolled in the sunlight, largely without words, she had ample time to consider the possibilities and the actualities—and whether she could convert the former to the latter.

Beneath her fingers, she could feel the strength in Philip's arm; as their shoulders brushed, awareness of him envel­oped her. Like a well-remembered scent laid down in her memories, he was part of her at some deep, uncomprehended level. And just like such a scent, she longed to cap­ture and hold him, his attention, his affection, precisely as laid down in her mind.

"There you are!"

They halted; turning, they saw Geoffrey striding towards them. "You've been with your books barely an hour," An­tonia exclaimed.

"Time enough." Grinning, Geoffrey joined them in the middle of the formal garden. "The three grande dames are snoring fit to shake the rafters."

"Good." Philip shifted his gaze to Catriona as she and Ambrose, alerted by Geoffrey's appearance, joined them. "It's time, I believe, that we headed for the shrubbery."

"The shrubbery?" Ambrose frowned. "Why there?"

"So that Miss Dalling can meet with Mr Fortescue and help him with his plan to apply to Lady Copely for aid."

"Henry?" Catriona's eyes blazed. "He's here?" Her die-away dismals dropped from her like a cloak; eyes spar­kling, colour flowing into her cheeks, she positively vi­brated with suppressed energy. "Where?"

Gesturing towards the shrubbery, Philip raised a cynical brow. "We'll meet him shortly. However, remembering your aun

t's servitors—namely the gardener over there—" with a nonchalant wave he indicated a man on a ladder clipping a weeping cherry "—I suggest you restrain your transports until we're in more shielded surrounds."

Catriona, all but dancing with impatience, led the way.

Following more sedately on Philip's arm, Antonia humphed. “You would be hard-pressed to believe that only this morning she was on the brink of a decline."

Entering the shrubbery, screened from prying eyes by the high clipped hedges, Catriona stopped and waited. Philip shooed her on, consenting to halt and explain only when they were well within the protection of the walks.

"The field at the back of the shrubbery," he eventually deigned to inform her. "He'll be there at three." Pulling his watch from his pocket, he consulted it. "Which is now."

With a squeal of delight, Catriona whirled.

"But—" Philip waited until she looked back at him. "Ambrose and Geoffrey will naturally go with you."

That, of course, presented no problem to Catriona. "Come on!" Lifting her skirts, she ran off.

With a laugh, Geoffrey loped in pursuit; dazed, Ambrose hurried after them.