A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"Just a minute!" Antonia looked at Philip. "Catriona needs a chaperon. She and Ambrose should not be alone at any time—especially now."

Philip took her elbow. "Geoffrey is gooseberry enough. Our appointment lies elsewhere."

"Appointment?" Antonia looked up to see his mask fall away, revealing features hard and uncompromising. His fin­gers were a steel vice about her elbow. As he guided her inexorably into the maze, she narrowed her eyes. "This was what you were planning all along! Not Catriona's meeting, but ours."

Philip shot her a glance. "I'm surprised it took you so long to work that out. While I'm sympathetic enough to Catriona and even Ambrose, though for my money he'd do well to develop a bit more gumption, I have and always have had only one purpose in crossing the Countess's be­nighted threshold."

That declaration and the promise it held—the idea of their impending, very private interview—crystallised An­tonia's thoughts and gave strength to her decision—the de­cision she had only that instant made. They reached the centre of the maze in a suspiciously short space of time. Impelled by a sense of certainty, she barely glanced at the neat lawns of the central square, at the small dolphin grac­ing the marble fountain at its heart. Determined to have her say—to retain control of the situation long enough to do so—she abruptly halted. Pulling back against Philip's hold, she waited until he turned to face her, brows rising impa­tiently. Lifting her chin, she declared, "As it happens, I'm very glad of this chance to speak with you alone, for I have to inform you that I've suffered a change of heart."

She looked up—and saw his face drain of all expression. His fingers fell from her elbow. He stilled; she sensed in his immobility the energy of some turbulent force severely restrained.

One of his brows slowly rose. "Indeed?"

Decisively, Antonia nodded. "I would remind you of the agreement we made—''

"I'm relieved you haven't forgotten it."

His flinty accents made her frown. "Of course I haven't. At that time, if you recall, we discussed the role you wished me to fulfil—in essence, the role of a conventional wife."

"A role you agreed to take on."

His voice had deepened; his expression was starkly ag­gressive. Her lips firming, Antonia stiffly inclined her head. “Precisely. I have also to acknowledge your chivalrous be­haviour in allowing me to come to London without for­malising or making known our agreement." Gliding to­wards the fountain, she clasped her hands and turned. Raising her head, she met Philip's gaze, now opaque and impenetrable, squarely. “As it happens, that was likely very wise."

Mute, Philip looked into her wide eyes—and knew what he thought of that earlier decision. He should have kept her at the Manor—acted the tyrant and married her regardless— anything to have avoided this. He could hardly think—he certainly didn't trust himself to speak. He couldn't, in fact, believe what she was saying; his mind refused to take it in. His emotions, however, were already on the rampage.

"Very wise," Antonia affirmed. "For I have to tell you, my lord—"

"Philip."

She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. "Philip— that on greater acquaintance with the mores of the ton, I have come to the conclusion that I am fundamentally ill-suited to be your wife—at least along the lines we agreed."

That last, thoroughly confusing phrase was, Philip was convinced, the only thing that allowed him to retain any semblance of reason. "What the devil do you mean?" Hands rising to his hips, he glowered at her. "What other lines are there?"

Lifting her chin, Antonia gave him back stare for hard stare. "As I was about to explain, I have discovered there are certain. . .criteria—essential pre-requisites, if you will— for carrying off the position of a fownishly comfortable wife. In short, I do not possess them, nor, I have decided, am I willing to develop them. No." Eyes glinting, she defiantly concluded, “Indeed, on the subject of marriage I find I have my own criteria—criteria I would require to be fulfilled ab­solutely."

Philip's eyes had not left hers. "Which are?"

Antonia didn't blink. "First," she declared, raising one hand to tick off her points on her fingers. “The gentleman I marry must love me—without reservation."

Philip blinked. He hesitated, his eyes searching her face, chest swelling as he drew in a slow breath. Then he frowned. "Second?"

Antonia tapped her next finger. "He will not have any mistresses."

"Ever?"

She hesitated. "After we are wed," she eventually con­ceded.

The tension in Philip's shoulders eased. "Third?"

"He cannot waltz with any other lady."

Philip's lips twitched; he fought to straighten them. "Not at all?"

"Never." There was no doubt in Antonia's mind on that point. "And last but not least, he should never seek to be private with any other lady. Ever." Eyes narrowed, she looked up and met Philip's gaze challengingly, indeed bel­ligerently. "Those are my criteria—if you do not feel you can meet them, then I will, of course, understand." Abruptly, the reality of that alternative struck home; An­tonia caught her breath; pain unexpectedly speared through her.

She looked away, disguising her faltering as a gracious nod. Swinging about to gaze at the fountain, she concluded, her voice suddenly tight, "Just as long as you understand that if such is the case, then I cannot marry you."

Philip had never felt so giddy in his life. Relief so strong it left him weak clashed with a possessiveness he had never thought to feel. Emotions rose and fell like surging waves within him, all dwarfed, subsumed, by one steadfast, rock­like reality. The reality that, despite his understanding, still shook him to the core. Recollection of his customary im­perturbability, of the unshakeable impassivity that had, until now—until Antonia—been his hallmark, drifted mockingly through his mind.