A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Philip's expression blanked as he imagined what might have been.

Antonia shifted to face him. "What is it?"

Philip grimaced. "There's something I should explain— to you both." He focused on Antonia's face. "About riding in town."

Antonia frowned. “I had thought it was acceptable to ride in the Park."

"It is. It's the definition of the term 'riding' wherein the ton and the Mannerings differ."

“Oh?'' Antonia looked her question.

Philip pulled a face. "For ladies, the prescribed activity known as 'riding in the Park' involves a slow walk for much of the time, with at the most a short canter. Galloping, at least as you know it, is not just frowned upon—for you, it's utterly out of the question."

Antonia sat back, her expression a study of disgust and dismay. "Good heavens!"

One of her curls fell in a golden coil over one ear; Philip put out a hand and wound the curl about one finger, then, letting it slowly slip free, he gently brushed his finger against her cheek.

Her eyes flicked to his; Philip felt the familiar tension tighten. He let it hold for one discreet moment, then smoothly retrieved his hand.

"Ah. . .I don't think I'd actually want to ride if I had to restrain myself to a walk or a canter." Forcing in a breath, Antonia shook her head. "I don't think I could."

"An unquestionably wise decision." Philip shifted slightly. "But we'll only be in town for four weeks or so— you'll be able to ride to your heart's content once we return to the Manor."

"Well, then." Antonia gestured resignedly. "I'll just have to consider it a sacrifice made in pursuit of a greater goal."

Lips lifting, Philip inclined his head. When he looked up, his smile had faded. "Unfortunately, that's not all."

Antonia transfixed him with one of her direct looks. "What?"

"Driving in the Park." His eyes on hers, Philip grimaced. “I know I mentioned I might consent to let you drive your­self but I had, at that time, imagined myself on the box beside you."

Antonia frowned. "So?"

"So, my dear, given we are not about to announce our betrothal, the sight of you driving me behind my greys in the Park would lead to instant and quite rabid speculation—something I take it you are keen to avoid."

"Oh." The single syllable accurately conveyed An­tonia's feelings.

"Despite such restrictions," Philip continued, his tone deliberately light, “London is generally considered a haven of entertainment." Catching Antonia's eye, he lifted a brow. “What have you planned for this afternoon?''

Shaking aside her disappointment, a childish response, she told herself, Antonia straightened. “Henrietta thought a visit to the modistes in Bruton Street to decide which to choose." Colouring slightly, she met Philip's gaze. "I'm afraid my wardrobe is hardly up to town standards."

“Having only just escaped from Yorkshire?'' Reaching out, Philip took her hand. "I fear I'm not surprised."

Reassured by his touch rather than his cynical tone, An­tonia continued, “Then we thought to stroll Bond Street to look in on the milliners, followed perhaps by a quick turn through the Park."

Idly playing with her fingers, noting the contrast between her slim digits and his much larger hands, Philip considered, then nodded. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelshelf. "Henrietta should be stirring from her nap. Why don't you go and tell her I've arrived?" Turning his head, he met Antonia's slightly surprised gaze. And smiled. "Give me ten minutes to change and I'll accompany you." Rising, he drew her to her feet, then lifted her hand to his lips. "On your first outing in town."

Twenty minutes later, as she settled into a corner of the Ruthven town carriage, Henrietta and her shawls beside her, Philip directly opposite, Antonia was still in the grip of what she told herself was quite uncalled-for gratification. Despite her trenchant lecturing, her happiness swelled. She had never imagined Philip would join them.

The carriage rattled over the cobbles and rounded a cor­ner. Swaying with the movement, Antonia met Philip's eye; she smiled, then let her gaze drift to the window. She had started allowing herself to think of him as her husband; she was, after all, going to be his wife.

That thought, unfortunately, focused her mind on the anxiety nagging quietly in the back of her mind. Philip's proposal had made success in London even more impera­tive; the ton was her last hurdle—she could not, must not, falter here.

Luckily, the drive to Bruton Street was too short for her to dwell too deeply on her prospects; the carriage pulled up outside a plain wooden door. Philip jumped down, then turned to assist her to the pavement.

As she straightened the skirts of her simple gown, An­tonia's gaze fell on the creation displayed in the window beside the door, a breathtakingly simple robe of blue silk crepe. It was, to her eyes, the epitome of stylish elegance, combining simplicity of line with the richness of expensive fabric. An all-but-overwhelming desire to have a such gown rose within her.

"Not in blue," came Philip's voice in her ear.