A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Drawing in a steadying breath, he studied her half-averted face. "You were going to marry me regardless. What changed your mind?"

She hesitated so long he thought she would not answer. Then she turned her head and met his gaze openly—di­rectly. "You."

Philip felt his lips twist, and recalled his earlier resolution never to ask such questions of her again; she would always floor him with her honesty. He drew in another deep breath—and recalled his purpose—his one and only purpose in engineering this meeting, in coming to Ticehurst Place. "Before I deal with your criteria—your demands of a pro­spective husband—there's one pertinent point I wish to make crystal clear."

His features hardening, he caught Antonia's gaze. "Lady Ardale's performance was no fault of mine. I did not en­courage her in any way, by any look, word or gesture."

A frown slowly formed in her eyes. "She was in your arms."

"No." Philip held her gaze steadily. "She pressed her­self against me—I had to take hold of her to set her away."

A slow blush s

tained Antonia's cheeks. She looked away. "Your hand was on her breast."

Fleetingly, Philip grimaced. “Not by inclination, I assure you."

His tone held sufficient disgust to have her glancing his way again. Her shocked expression tried his control.

"She. . .?" Confounded, Antonia gestured.

"Indeed." Philip's lips thinned. "Strange to tell, some ladies are exceedingly forward—and not a little predatory. If you'd remained a moment longer, you would have wit­nessed her come-uppance."

Antonia's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"She landed on the chaise."

Philip saw her lips twitch, saw the beguiling glint of laughter in her eyes. The stiffness that had, until then, af­flicted him, eased; he held out his hand. "And now, if you'll come here, I'll endeavour to address the criteria you enumerated so clearly."

Antonia studied his face, uncertain of the undertone in his voice. Slowly, she shook her head—and stepped closer to the fountain. "I would much prefer that we discussed this matter in a business-like way."

Philip opened his eyes at her—and took a strolling step forward. "I intend to be exceedingly business-like. In this case, by my reckoning, that requires having you in my arms."

"There's no sense in that—I can't think while in your arms—as you very well know!" Frowning as disapprov­ingly as she could, Antonia circled to put the fountain be­tween them; his intent apparent in every graceful stride, Philip followed. Antonia could not miss the devilish gleam in his eyes. Despite her irritation, she still felt a thrill all the way to her toes. "This is ridiculous," she muttered, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, feeling breathlessness slowly claim her. "Philip—stop!" Imperiously, she halted and held up a hand.

Philip took no notice. In two strides he had rounded the fountain.

Antonia's eyes widened. With a smothered squeal, she grabbed up her skirts and ran.

Unfortunately, she was on the wrong side of the fountain to escape the maze.

And Philip was far too fast. He caught her halfway to the hedge, easily lifting her from her feet. He juggled her in his arms, then carried her, struggling furiously in a froth of muslin, to a weathered stone seat with an ample thyme cushion.

He was grateful for that last when he half-sat, half-fell onto it, Antonia squirming on his lap. He could hear her muttering a string of curses; he was so gripped by the urge to laugh triumphantly that he didn't dare try to speak. In­stead, he caught her chin in one hand and turned her face to his.

Her eyes met his, green spitting golden chips. In that instant, awareness struck—he saw it catch, felt the sudden hitch in her breathing, saw her eyes widen, her lips soften and part. She stilled, her breasts rising and falling, her gaze trapped in his. The same awareness reached for him, ef­fortlessly drawing him under its spell, even while some remnant of sanity frantically fought to remind him where they were, who they were, and how inappropriate was the spectacle they were about to create. As his head slowly lowered, Philip groaned. "God—I must be as besotted as Amberly."

The realization did not stop him from kissing her, from parting her lips and drinking in her sweetness. Like a man parched, he filled his senses with the taste of her, the feel of her, the heady, dizzying scent of her. Experience stopped him from releasing her curls, from running his hands through her hair. But nothing could stop him from laying her breasts bare, from experiencing again the thrill of her reaction as he caressed her.

Trapped in his arms, caught up in the tide, it took all Antonia's remaining strength to complain, "You haven't told me your response to my criteria."

“Do you still need telling?''

His fingers shifted; her mind melted. It was some mo­ments before she could muster enough breath to explain, "I did intend to be a comfortable wife for you but I don't think—" Her breathing suspended wholly; weakly, she rushed on, "That I can manage it."

She arched gently in his arms; Philip groaned again. His lips sought hers, then he drew back enough to murmur against their soft fullness, "I never wanted you as a 'com­fortable' wife—that was your idea." The words focused his attention on what he was trying very hard to overlook. "As God is my witness, the word 'comfortable' is the very last word I would associate with you. I've been wretchedly un­comfortable ever since I walked into the hall at the Manor and saw you come floating down the stairs, the embodiment of my need, the answer to my prayers."

She was, Antonia decided, adapting to his lovemaking; she could actually think enough to take in his words. "Why uncomfortable?''