A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Antonia sniffed. "If we're speaking of planning—"

"Which thankfully we aren't." Ignoring her haughty glance, Philip continued, "Henrietta is your nearest adult relative. I don't see much point in asking her permission to pay my addresses—she's going to be unbearably smug as it is. As for Geoffrey, I doubt he'll object."

"Given he's halfway to idolising you," Antonia retorted. "I sincerely doubt it, too."

Philip's brows rose. "Do you mind?"

Antonia met his gaze; inherently truthful, she shook her head. A species of dizzying panic was gathering momentum inside her. Consternation threatened. This was all happening much too soon.

"Which leaves only your inclination in question." His tone deepening, Philip held out his hand. "So—will you, dear Antonia, agree to be my wife?"

The world was definitely spinning. Her heart raced—An­tonia could feel it beating wildly in her throat. Disregarding the fact, her gaze trapped in the grey of his, she laid her hand in Philip's palm. "Yes, of course. Eventually."

Philip's fingers closed about hers, then convulsively tightened. His features, about to relax into lines of arrogant satisfaction, froze; his expression wavered between shock and incredulity. "Eventually?"

Antonia gestured vaguely. "Afterwards."

"Afterwards when?"

She frowned. "After we return from London was what I had imagined."

"Well, imagine again." Abruptly, Philip stood. "If you imagined I'd consent to letting you swan through London's ballrooms without the protection of a betrothal, free as a bird, attracting God-knows-what attention, you are, my dear, fair and far out. We'll announce our betrothal tomor­row—I'll place a notice in the Gazette when I reach town."

"Tomorrow?" Antonia stared at him. "But that's im­possible!"

"Impossible?" Philip towered over her, his expression growing more intimidating by the second.

Lifting her chin, Antonia met his gaze squarely. "Im­possible," she reiterated—and watched his eyes darken, felt his fingers tighten about hers. "I thought you understood," she said, as the familiar vice tightened about her chest. Frowning, she dropped her gaze to his cravat. "You do understand—of course you do." Raising her head, she looked directly into his eyes. "So why can't you see it?"

For one, long instant, Philip closed his eyes. Then, open­ing them, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, and forced himself to release her hand. "I fear, my dear, that despite your conviction, I must claim temporary mental obfuscation. I have no idea what it is that I'm supposed to be able to see, much less why or how it, whatever it might be, comes to render my proposal ineligible."

Antonia blinked at him. "I didn't say your proposal was ineligible—just that it's impossible to announce our be­trothal before we return from London."

Philip frowned at her; the tension locking his muscles slowly dissipated. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You agree to marry me as long as we don't announce our be­trothal until after we return from London." He held An­tonia's gaze. "Is that right?"

Antonia coloured. "If. . . I mean. . ." hands clasped before her, she lifted her chin ". . . presuming you still want me as your wife."

"That, thank heavens, is not in question." Eyeing her uptilted face, Philip had to fight the urge to take advantage of it. He fell to pacing, two steps away, then two steps back. "Kindly get it fixed in your head that I wish to marry you—if I had my way, immediately. Society and the laws, how­ever, require a certain interval between proposal and exe­cution. I had therefore planned. . ." he paused to throw Antonia a narrow-eyed glance ". . . in light of our apparent similarity of purpose, to announce our betrothal immedi­ately so that we may be married on our return from town. Now you inform me that that's not possible!"

Antonia stood her ground. "It may be theoretically pos­sible, but it's a great deal too soon."

"Too soon?"

Shutting her ears to his disbelief, Antonia nodded. "Too soon for me. You must see that, Philip. You know what. . .that is. . ." She frowned, searching for words to del­icately allude to the effect he had on her. “You know how I react—I don't yet know how to go on in tonnish society. I need to learn the knack—and I can't do that if we're betrothed."

"Why not?" Philip frowned back. He kept pacing.

"What difference does it make if we're betrothed, married or merely acquaintances?"

Antonia lifted her chin. "As you very well know, if we were married or betrothed, people—certainly all the ladies—would expect me to know how things were done, how to behave in all circumstances. They would expect the lady you had chosen as your bride to be accomplished in such matters."

Seeking his face, she fixed her eyes on his. "As you also know, I don't have any experience of society at large—nothing more than a limited exposure to selected entertain­ments in Yorkshire. That's hardly sufficient basis on which to, as you phrased it, swan through the ton. I'd fall at the first hurdle." Her lips twisted wrily. "You know I would. In that particular arena, I've no experience in the saddle, and even less confidence in my ability to clear the hedges."

Philip slowed, then stopped. His frown had deepened.

Calmly, Antonia held his gaze. "You told me I needed to practice my skills before I tried handling the whip. The same is true here—I need to learn how to go on, how to behave as your wife, before we marry."

Philip grimaced then glanced away. To his mind, she needed no instruction in how to behave socially; her innate breeding, her natural directness, her honest openness, would stand her in good stead. Her performance on the day of the fete had been exemplary, but she clearly did not see that success as equivalent to facing the ton, a point he could hardly argue.