A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

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nbsp; Antonia stiffened. Her expression aloof, she waved to the dining-room. "I believe you'll find breakfast still avail­able—if you hurry."

The look Philip cast her could only be called black. With­out a word, he swung on his heel and headed for the dining-room.

A frown in her eyes, Antonia watched him go—then re­alized what seemed so strange. He was striding. Briskly.

"Excuse me, miss, but should I put this chair with those for the terrace?"

"Ah. . ." Antonia swung around to see a footman strug­gling with a wing-chair. "Oh, yes. The dowagers will need all of those that we can find. They'll want to doze in the sun."

As she laboured through the morning, Antonia kept her mind firmly fixed on her aim. The fete had to be a success— a complete, unqualified tour de force. It was a perfect op­portunity to demonstrate to Philip that she was, at least at a county level, fully qualified to be his bride.

Summoning two maids, she led them to the Italian garden and pointed out the lavender. “You need to cut not just the flower but the stem as well—as long as you can. We'll need them to freshen the withdrawing-rooms."

Watching the maids as they set to work, Antonia found her gaze drawn to the seat at the end of the pool. The look in Philip's eyes as he'd kissed her fingers returned, crystal clear, to her mind. A smile tugged at her lips. Despite her panic, she had made definite progress there. Unbidden, the memory of his odd behaviour in the hall rose to taunt her. A frown chased the smile from her eyes.

"This right, miss?"

Jerked back to reality, Antonia examined the spike held up for her approval. "Perfect." The little maid glowed. "Be sure to collect two handfuls each—take them up to Mrs Hobbs as soon as you're done." Ruthlessly banishing Philip from her mind, Antonia stalked back to the house, deter­mined more than ever to focus on the job at hand.

* * *

He would have taken refuge in the library or the billiard room but she had commandeered those as well. In a mood close to perilous, Philip abandoned his search for peace and quiet to wander through the throngs of his servitors, all furiously engaged in executing Antonia's commands.

He wondered if he should tell her her assertiveness was showing. He knew it of old—her tendency to take charge, to organise, to get things done. His lawns looked like chaos run mad, but even he could see, beneath the hectic bustle, that it was effective, organised activity. Pausing to watch two of his farm labourers struggle to erect a stall, he mused on Antonia's very real talent for getting people to work for her, often for no more direct reward than her smile and a brief word of approbation. Even now, he could see her at the far end of the lawn, where a narrow arm of the distant lake lipped a reed-fringed shore, exhorting the undergardeners to get all the punts cleaned and launched.

"Watch it there, Joe! Easy now, lad—just let me see if we've got this thing straight."

Refocusing on the action more immediately before him, Philip saw the younger of the two labourers trying to bal­ance the front beam of the stall while simultaneously hold­ing one of the side walls erect. The older man, a hammer and wooden strut in his hands, had backed, trying to gauge if the beam and wall were at the right angle. Joe, however, had no hope of keeping both pieces still.

Philip hesitated, then stepped forward and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Give Joe a hand, McGill—I'll direct you."

McGill touched his cap. "If you would, m'lord, we'll get on a dashed sight faster." Joe simply looked grateful.

Before they were done, Philip had his coat off and was helping to hammer in nails. That was how Antonia found him when she did her rounds, checking on progress.

She couldn't keep the surprise from her face.

Philip looked up—and read her expression. It didn't im­prove his mood. Nor did the instant urge he felt to call her to him—or go to her. Instead, he held her gaze, his own, he knew, dark and moody. Half of him wanted to speak to her, the other half wasn't at all sure it was a good idea— not yet. He hadn't yet decided how he felt about anything— about her, about what he inwardly labelled her machina­tions. Looking away, he grimly hammered in another nail. He hadn't felt this uncertain in years; pounding metal into wood was a comforting occupation.

Released from his mesmerising stare, Antonia couldn't resist a swift survey of his shoulders and back, muscles flexing beneath his fine shirt as he worked, his hands, long-fingered but strong, gripped about nail and handle. When she moved on, her mouth was dry, her heartbeat not entirely even. Oblivious of the activity about her, she reviewed their recent meetings. He was usually so even-tempered, too in­dolent to be moved to any excess of emotion—his aggra­vated mood was a mystery.

She glanced back—he had paused, shoulders propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.

"Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomor­row?"

"Ah. . ." Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. "Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then."

The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.

Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.

An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sand­wiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on cere­mony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full of ham, Philip noticed Geoffrey's fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.

"Antonia's put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fen-ton's helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I'll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines."

Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey's eyes were alight.