A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

As she rose to follow, Antonia caught Philip's eye. He raised a brow at her. Quelling a smile, Antonia followed in their hostess's wake.

In the drawing-room, Catriona was banished to the pi­anoforte with instructions to demonstrate her skill. Visibly tired, Henrietta reluctantly summoned Trant; with polite smiles and nods—and one very direct glance for Antonia— she retired. Reduced to the role of unnecessary cypher, An­tonia duly sat mum and counted the minutes.

She had lost count and Catriona was flagging before the gentlemen reappeared. They were led by Philip, who strolled into the room as if it was his own. With a glib smile, he appropriated her as if she, too, was his.

Antonia told herself she bore it only because she was all but bored witless. "What now?" she asked sotto voce, watching as, beneath the cool glare of his mother's eye, Ambrose dragged his feet to the piano.

Philip took the scene in one comprehensive glance. "Speculation."

Stunned, Antonia stared. "You can't be serious?"

He was—before her astonished eyes, he overrode all re­sistance, somehow inducing Scalewether to produce a pack of cards and counters to serve as betting chips. Ambrose, grasping at straws, hurried to set up a small table and chairs. Within ten minutes, the five of them were seated around the table, leaving the two older ladies isolated by the fire­place.

One glance at the Countess was enough for Antonia; thereafter, she studiously avoided their hostess's basilisk stare.

"Five to me."

Philip's demand focused her attention on the game. "Five?" Antonia studied the cards laid on the table, then sniffed. She doled out the required counters, then reached for the pack. She won three back, but her stack of counters was steadily eroded, falling prey to Philip's ruthless mach­inations. He was, apparently, a past master at this pastime, too.

Reaching for the pack, Antonia cast him a disapproving glance. “I admit I had not thought to find you so expert at this game, my lord."

The smile he turned on her made her toes curl.

"I dare say you'll be amazed, my dear, by just how many games I can play."

Unexpectedly trapped in his gaze, by what she could read in the grey, Antonia froze, her hand, outstretched, hovering above the pack.

"C'mon, Sis—you going to forfeit your turn?"

Geoffrey's words broke the spell. Glancing around, An­tonia drew in a quick breath.

"Not," Geoffrey continued, "something I'd advise—if we don't take care, Ruthven's going to wipe us out. We'll have to use our wits if we're to counter his predatory in­cursions."

Antonia studied the situation afresh—and discovered he was right. "Nonsense," she declared, straightening and picking up the pack. "We'll come about." She dealt, settled the question of trumps, then turned up her first card; it was the ace of trumps. Smiling, she lifted her chin and glanced Philip's way. "When opponents believe they're invincible, they're sure to be defeated."

She received a very direct, definitely challenging look in reply.

Thereafter, the fight was on. Their attention fully en­gaged, Antonia and Geoffrey combined to counter Philip's steady accumulation of chips, draining his pile at every op­portunity. Philip struck back, catching Geoffrey more fre­quently than Antonia, who, very much on her mettle, took care to cover her back.

Fifteen minutes later, Ambrose edged his chair from the table and somewhat ruefully declared, "That's my last three counters."

"I've only got one left," Catriona said.

Their comments halted play. Three heads came up; An­tonia exchanged a glance with Philip. He grimaced, catch­ing Geoffrey's eye as he pulled out his watch. "Too early," was his verdict.

"Right then." Geoffrey seized the pack and dealt.

During the following fifteen minutes, the three endea­voured to lose as many counters as they had earlier won, amidst a great deal of unexpected hilarity.

"Your pile is still a great deal too high, my lord." Mag­nanimously, Antonia handed six counters to Catriona. "It's my belief you're not trying hard enough."

Removing the pack from her fingers, his hand closing briefly about hers, Philip caught her eye. "Put it down to my having to fight against deeply ingrained habit."

Antonia opened her eyes wide. "Oh?"

"Indeed." Philip held her gaze. "None of my ilk like to lose."

Antonia's eyes widened even more; with an effort, she directed them to the table, to the cards he negligently dealt. "See?" Righteously, she nodded. "A knave. You will have to do better, my lord."