A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"Once this present distraction is passed, I will endeavour to do so, my dear."

The promise in those words sent a delicious shiver down Antonia's spine. Determined to ignore it, and the breathlessness it evoked, she fought to keep her attention on the cards, aware that Philip's too-perceptive gaze remained on her face.

Salvation came from an unlikely source; the doors opened and Scalewether rolled in the tea-trolley. Summoned to take then cups, they abandoned their game; by unspoken accord, they all remained together, standing in a loose group as they sipped.

Under the direction of her aunt, Catriona dutifully ex­tolled the attractions to be found within the grounds. "The folly is probably the most interesting," she concluded. "It stands by the lake and is quite pretty when it's sunny."

Her tone suggested Newgate would be more appealing.

Antonia caught Philip's eye. "Actually, I'm rather tired." Delicately, she smothered a yawn.

"Doubtless the effects of the drive down." Smoothly, Philip relieved her of her cup; together with his, he laid it aside. "So enervating," he murmured solicitously as, turn­ing, he met Antonia's gaze. "Travelling in a carriage."

Brows rising haughtily, Antonia turned to Catriona, rais­ing her voice for the benefit of the ladies nearby. "I believe I should retire—perhaps, Miss Dalling, you would care to accompany me?''

"Yes, indeed." Catriona set down her cup.

"Not deserting us yet, are you, miss?" The Countess's gimlet gaze fastened on Catriona's face. "Why, what will the Marquess think of you, leaving him to entertain himself like this?"

"Indeed," the Marchioness of Hammersley opined. "I suspect my son, like any other young gentleman, would be very grateful for your company, Miss Dalling." With a commanding wave, she continued, “The night is quite mild. I dare say a turn on the terrace in the moonlight is just what you young people would like."

"Ah—no. That is. . ." Aghast, Ambrose goggled at his mother. "Mean to say—"

The Marchioness transfixed him with a penetrating stare. "Yes, Hammersley?" When Ambrose just stared at her, rabbit-like, she enquired, her tone sugar-sweet, "Do you find something objectionable about the notion of strolling her ladyship's terrace?"

"Nothing to say against her ladyship's terrace," Am­brose blurted out. His hand strayed to his neckcloth. "But—"

Philip cut in, his tones dripping with fashionable languor. “Perhaps I should explain, Lady Ticehurst, that Miss Mannering, hailing as she does from Yorkshire, is unaccustomed to finding her way about such. . ." his graceful gesture en­compassed the house about them ". . .grand establishments as your own. I beg you'll allow Miss Dalling to act as her guide. Indeed," he continued, his gaze shifting to Antonia's face, "I must admit the idea of Miss Mannering wandering lost through your corridors quite exercises my imagination. Dare I hope you'll take pity on her poor sense of direction and allow your niece to accompany her?"

Frowning, the countess shifted on the chaise. "Well. . ."

"As for Hammersley," Philip smoothly continued, “there's no need to concern yourself over his entertainment. He and I had thought to adjourn to the billiard room." Turning, he bestowed an elegantly condescending look on the Marchioness. "I understand that, due to the late Mar­quess's early demise, Hammersley has lacked the opportu­nity to polish his talents in such manly arts as billiards. I had thought, perhaps, to be of some use to him while here."

The Marchioness's expression blanked. "Yes, of course. How very kind. . ." Her frown grew as her words trailed away.

"So—if you'll excuse us?" With a supremely graceful bow, Philip turned from the chaise. Avoiding Antonia's eye, he captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Come, Hammersley—let's escort these young ladies to the stairs. Mannering?"

With that, he led the way; in less than a minute, the drawing-room door was shut upon the twin harpies, leaving the rest of them safe in the hall. Pausing at the foot of the stairs to wait for Catriona, Antonia glanced at Philip. "Quite a tour de force, my lord."

Philip met her gaze; he smiled, deliberately, with the full force of his intent. "As I told you, my dear, I'm not one who generally loses." Raising her hand, he kissed each fin­gertip, his eyes on hers all the while. "I suspect you'll be amazed by what forces I can, when moved, bring to bear."

The ripple of awareness that shivered through Antonia and the soft blush that tinged her cheeks stayed with him long after she retreated up the stairs.

* * *

At eight the following morning, Antonia slipped from the lowering bulk of Ticehurst Place and headed for the stables. The sun again ruled the sky; as she entered the low-ceilinged stables, she paused, blinking rapidly. As her vi­sion adjusted, she saw a cap bobbing in a nearby loose box. She hurried forward.

"I'd like a horse, please. As quick as you can." Round­ing the end of the open box, Antonia cast a swift glance over the bay the stableman was bridling. "This one will do nicely."

The aged retainer blinked owlishly at her. "Beggin' your pardon, miss." He broke off to tug at his cap. "But this one's for the gentleman."

"Gentleman?" On the instant, Antonia felt her senses shiver. She swung around—to find herself breast to chest with her nemesis. She took a step back, and hauled in a quick breath. "I didn't see you there, my lord."

"Ob

viously." Philip studied the tinge of colour high­lighting her cheekbones, then let his gaze meet hers. “And where are you headed?"

Inwardly, Antonia cursed. She hesitated, then, recogniz­ing the hint of steel beneath the soft grey of his eyes, ca­pitulated. "I was going for a ride."