The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day. Stephanie Laurens
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Looking ahead, she airily explained, “As you know, I’ve not much experience of society. I understand poetry is much in vogue. I’ve heard it’s common practice for tonnish gentlemen to use poetry, or at least, poetic phrases, to compliment ladies.” She slanted an innocent look upwards. “Is that so?”
Philip’s mind raced. “In some circles.” He glanced down; Antonia’s expression was open, enquiring. “In fact, in certain company it’s de rigueur for the ladies to answer in similar vein.”
“It is?” Antonia’s surprise was unfeigned.
“Indeed.” Smoothly, Philip captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Perhaps, as you’ll shortly be joining the throng, we ought to sharpen your rhymes?”
“Ah—” Her hand trapped beneath his warm palm, Antonia struggled to think. His suggestion was a considerable extrapolation of her plan.
“Here.” Philip stopped by a wrought-iron seat placed to look over the pool. “Let’s sit and try our wits.”
Not at all certain just what she had started, Antonia subsided. Philip sat beside her, half turning, resting one arm along the back of the seat. “Now—where to start?” His gaze roamed her face. “Perhaps we should stick to mere phrases—considering your inexperience?”
Antonia shifted to face him. “That would undoubtedly be wise.”
Only years of experience allowed Philip to keep the smile from his lips. “And perhaps I’d better start the ball rolling. How about—‘Your hair shines like Caesar’s gold, for which battalions gave their lives’?”
Wide-eyed, Antonia stared at him.
“Your turn,” Philip prompted.
“Ah...” Antonia bludgeoned her wits then lifted her gaze to his hair. She dragged in a breath. “‘Your hair glows like chestnuts, burnished by the sun’?”
“Bravo!” Philip smiled. “But that was purely a visual description—I think I win that round.”
“It’s a competition?”
Philip’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s consider it one. My turn. “‘Your brow is white as a snow martin’s breast, smooth as his flight through the sky.’”
On her mettle, Antonia narrowed her eyes, studying the wide sweep of his brow. Then she smiled. “‘Your brow is as noble a Leo’s ever was, your might not less than his.’”
Philip’s smile deepened. “‘Emerald your eyes, set in gold, precious jewels their value untold.’”
“‘Grey clouds and steel, mists and fog, stormy seas and lightning, mix in the depths of your gaze.’”
Brows rising, Philip inclined his head. “I’d forgotten what a quick learner you are. But onward! Let’s see...” Slowly, he raised his hand and gently, very gently, brushed her cheek with the back of one finger. “‘Your cheeks glow soft, ivory silk over rose.’” His voice had deepened.
For a long instant, Antonia sat as one stunned, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only thought in her head was that her stratagem was working. The effects of his touch slowly dissipated; her wits filtered back. She swallowed, then frowned and met his gaze. “It should have been my turn to lead. So—‘Firm of chin and fair of face, your movements marked by languid grace.’”
Philip laughed. “Mercy! How can I hope to counter that?”
Antonia’s smug glance turned superior.
Philip studied her face. “All right. But—” Glancing down, he saw her hands, lightly clasped in her lap. “Ah, yes.” Shifting, he reached out and circled her wrist once more, gently tugging one hand free. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse leap.
She didn’t resist as he lifted her hand, turning it as though examining her slim fingers. Fleetingly, he let his gaze meet hers. Then, still holding her captive, he trailed the fingers of his other hand against her sensitive palm.
The swift intake of her breath sounded sharp to Antonia’s ears. Philip’s eyes flicked up to hers; a smile unlike any she’d yet seen slowly curved his lips. His fingers shifted, so that his fingertips supported hers.
“‘Delicate bones, sensitive skin, awaiting a lover’s caress.’”
His voice was deep and low, the cadence striking chords deep within her. Antonia watched, trapped by his gaze, by his touch, as he slowly lifted her hand and, one by one, touched his lips to her fingertips.
The quivers that ran through her shook her to her core.
“Ah...” Desperation flayed her wits to action. “I’ve just remembered.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed and cleared her throat. “A message I promised to deliver for my aunt—I shouldn’t have forgotten—I should go straight away.” Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative yet, despite all, she couldn’t bring herself to tug her hand free.
Philip’s eyes held hers, steady, unyielding, an expression in the grey that she did not recognize. “A message?”
For one long moment, he studied her eyes, then the planes of his face relaxed. “About the fête?”
Numb, Antonia nodded.
Philip’s lips quirked; ruthlessly, he stilled them. “One you have to deliver immediately?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, Antonia stood; she felt immeasurably grateful when Philip, more languidly, rose too. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. In an agony of near panic, she waited.
“Come—I’ll escort you back.”
With that, Philip tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned her to the house. All but quivering, Antonia had perforce to acquiesce; to her relief, he strolled in companionable silence, making no reference by word or deed to their game by the pool.
He halted by the steps to the terrace and lifted her hand from his sleeve, holding it and her gaze for an instant before releasing her. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With a gentle smile and a nod, he strode away.
Antonia watched him go. Slowly, a warm flush of triumph permeated her being, driving out the skittering panic of moments before.
She had achieved her object. However, Philip now viewed her, it was not as a young friend of the family.
* * *
“GOOD NIGHT, THEN.” With a nod and a smile, Geoffrey left the billiard-room to his host and Hugo, having unexpectedly taken revenge on Hugo for an earlier defeat.
“Quick learner,” Hugo muttered in defense of his skills.
“Mannerings are,” Philip replied, chalking a cue. The rest of the household had retired, Antonia somewhat breathlessly assuring him that she intended getting an early start on the preparations for the fête. A smile in his eyes, Philip waited while Hugo racked the balls, then he broke.
“Actually,” Hugo said, as he watched Philip move about the table, “I’ve been trying to catch you for a quiet word all day.”
“Oh?” Philip glanced up from his shot. “What about?”
Hugo waited until he had pocketed the ball before answering. “I’ve decided to return to town tomorrow.”
Philip straightened, his question in his eyes.
Hugo grimaced and pulled at his ear. “This fête, y’know. All very well for you in the circumstances—you’ll have Miss Mannering to hide behind. But who’s to shield me?” Palms raised in appeal, Hugo shuddered. “All these earnest young misses—your stepmama’s been listing their best features. Having succeeded with you, I rather think she’s considering fixing her sights on me. Which definitely won’t do.”
Philip stilled. “Succeeded?”
“Well,”