A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Geoffrey grinned. "Philip introduced me to his tailor. Quite a dab hand at his trade, don't you think?" He whirled, setting the capes fluttering.

When he stopped and looked pointedly at her, Antonia nodded. "It's certainly. . ." She hesitated, then, beguiled by Geoffrey's obvious delight, smiled. "Something like."

Geoffrey glowed with pride. "Philip suggested arriving at Oxford in such togs wouldn't hurt. And, of course, it's the perfect garb for today."

Joining them, Henrietta humphed. "The sun's decided to remember us—you'll be too hot in the carriage in that."

"Indeed."

Antonia quickly turned as Philip strolled into the hall. His gaze met hers fleetingly, then he glanced down, lips firming as he pulled on his driving gloves. "So it's as well he's not travelling in the carriage."

"Oh?" Henrietta asked the question, much to Antonia's relief, allowing her to keep her lips shut and her expression satisfyingly distant.

"I'm taking my phaeton." Philip glanced at Antonia. "Geoffrey may as well come with me."

It was an effort not to meet his gaze. Determinedly cool, Antonia nodded. "An exceedingly good notion." Tilting her chin, she added, “It will leave us more space in which to be comfortable."

For an instant, Philip's gaze rested on her face, then he smiled—a slow predatory smile. "It would, perhaps, be wise to gain what rest you might. I suspect you'll discover this houseparty unexpectedly exhausting."

Antonia flicked him a suspicious glance but his expres­sion as he moved forward to help Henrietta down the last steps was bland and uninformative.

The front door bell pealed; Carring came hurrying from the nether regions. He looked out, then set the front door wide. "Your phaeton and the carriage, my lord."

Between them, Philip and Geoffrey helped Henrietta down the front steps. Marshalling his footmen, Carring saw to the stowing of the luggage, assisted by acid comments from both Trant and Nell. Resembling a pair of black crows, the maids between them got Henrietta settled against the padded cushions, protected by a veritable mountain of shawls. Left on the pavement, Antonia glanced about. Geof­frey was already on the box-seat of the phaeton, the reins in his hands as he helped restrain the restive horses.

The sight stiffened her spine. Unbidden, her memory re­played the three, separate excuses she had spent the small hours devising, one for every possible tack Philip might have taken to inveigle her into sharing the phaeton's box-seat on the long drive to Ticehurst Place.

Excuses she had not needed.

Suppressing a disaffected sniff, Antonia turned, one hand raising her skirts to climb the carriage steps. Philip's hand appeared before her. For an instant, she regarded it, the long strong fingers and narrow palm. Reminding herself of her role, she lifted her chin and placed her hand in his.

Philip smoothly raised her fingers to his lips, artfully, lingeringly, caressing her fingertips.

Antonia froze, her breathing suspended. She glanced up through her lashes; Philip trapped her gaze in his.

"Enjoy the drive. I'll be waiting at the other end—to greet you."

Eyes widening, Antonia took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw—and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his grey eyes. A skittering sensation shivered over her skin. Ignoring it, she set one foot on the carriage step. "I dare say there'll be many distractions at Ticehurst Place."

She'd intended the comment as a dismissal of his avowed intention; she expected it to be the conclusion of their exchange. Instead, as he handed her up, Philip's voice reached her, wickedly low. "You may count on that, my dear."

The promise in his words distracted her all the way to Ticehurst Place.

Although her gaze remained fixed on the scenery, she did not notice the sunshine beaming down from between fluffy clouds, did not feel the soft touch of the unexpectedly mild breeze. Summer's last stand had enveloped the country, a final burst of golden weather that had set the doves to coo­ing again in the trees along the way.

Lulled by the sound, Antonia found her mind treading a circuitous path, forever leaving her facing one, unanswer­able question: Just what was her prospective husband about?

She had reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a stop on the gravel sweep before Ticehurst Place. As soon as the door was opened and the steps let down, Trant and Nell descended. Two footmen came hurrying down the long flight of steps leading up to the front door; together with the maids, they endeavoured to ease Henrietta from the carriage.

Antonia glanced out of the window—and saw Philip de­scending the steps, his pace relaxed and leisurely, his ex­pression mild and urbane. Longing to escape the close con­fines of the carriage, aware of the dull headache its stuffiness had evoked, she gave vent to a disgusted sniff— and struggled to keep her mind from dwelling on how pleasant the drive in his phaeton must have been.

"Heh-me!" Henrietta exclaimed as her feet touched the ground. "My old bones are cramping my style." Gri­macing, she leant heavily on the footmen's arms and slowly started up the steps.

Her head haughtily high, Antonia shifted along the seat, then moved to the carriage door.

As he had promised, Philip was there to assist her to the gravel. Alighting, her hand in his, Antonia glanced up— only to see him grimace.

"Much as it goes against the grain, I fear I must plead Miss Dalling's cause. Her situation is more serious than I'd imagined."