The Trouble with Virtue: A Comfortable Wife / A Lady By Day. Stephanie Laurens
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lips twisted. “Remind me not to repeat this exercise any time soon.”
He turned—and read the expression in Antonia’s eyes. “Not that it wasn’t a roaring success,” he hastened to reassure her. “However, I doubt my temper will bear the strain of a repeat performance too soon.”
The obvious riposte flashed through Antonia’s mind so forcefully it was all she could do to keep the words from her lips.
Philip read them in her eyes, in the shifting shades of green and gold. The planes of his face hardened. “Indeed,” he said, his tone dry. “When I marry, the problem will disappear.”
Antonia stiffened but did not look away. Their gazes locked; for a moment, all was still.
Then Philip reached for her hand. He raised it; with cool deliberation, he brushed a lingering kiss across her fingertips, savouring the response that rippled through her, the response she could not hide.
Defiantly, her eyes still on his, Antonia lifted her chin.
Philip held her challenging gaze, one brow slowly rising. “A successful day—in all respects.”
With languid grace, he gestured towards the morning-room windows. Together, they went inside.
“AH, ME!” GEOFFREY yawned hugely. “I’m done in. Wrung out like a rag. I think I’ll go up.”
Setting the billiard cues back in their rack, Philip nodded. “I’d rather you did—before you pass out and I have to haul you up.”
Geoffrey grinned. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble. G’night, then.” With a nod, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Philip shut the cue case; turning, his wandering gaze fell on the tantalus set against the opposite wall. Strolling across, he poured himself a large brandy. Cradling the glass, he opened the long windows and went out, thrusting his free hand into his pocket as he slowly paced the terrace.
All was still and silent—his home, his estate, rested under the blanket of night. Stars glimmered through a light cloud; stillness stretched, comforting and familiar, about him. Everyone had retired to recoup after the hectic day. He felt as wrung out as Geoffrey but too restless to seek his bed.
The emotions the day had stirred still whirled and clashed within him, too novel to be easily dismissed, too strong to simply ignore. Protectiveness, jealousy, concern—he was hardly a stranger to such feelings but never before had he felt them so acutely nor in so focused a fashion.
Superimposed over all was a frustrated irritation, a dislike of being compelled even though the compulsion sprang from within him.
In its way, it was all new to him.
He took a long sip of his brandy and stared into the night.
It was impossible to pretend that he didn’t understand. He knew, unequivocally, that if it had been any other woman, he would have found some excuse, some fashionable reason, for being elsewhere, far distant, entirely out of reach.
Instead, he was still here.
Philip drained his glass and felt the fumes wreathe through his head. Presumably this was part of being thirty-four.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO DAYS LATER, Philip stood at the library windows, looking out over the sun-washed gardens. The business that had kept him inside on such a glorious day was concluded; behind him, Banks, his steward, shuffled his papers.
“I’ll take the offer in to Mrs Mortingdale’s man then, m’lord, though heaven knows if she’ll accept it.” Banks’s tone turned peevish. “Smidgins has been doing his best to persuade her to it but she just can’t seem to come at putting her signature to the deed.”
Philip’s gaze roamed the gardens; he wondered where Antonia was hiding today. “She’ll sign in the end—she just needs time to decide.” At Banks’s snort, he swung about. “Patience, Banks. Lower Farm isn’t going anywhere—and all but surrounded by my land as it is, there’ll be precious few others willing to make an offer, let alone one to match mine.”
“Aye—I know,” Banks grumbled. “If you want the truth it’s that that sticks. It’s nothing but senseless female shilly-shallying that’s holding us up.”
Philip’s brows rose. “Shilly-shallying, unfortunately, is what one must endure when dealing with females.”
With a disapproving grunt, Banks took himself off.
After a long, assessing glance at his gardens, Philip followed him out.
She wasn’t in the rose garden, and the formal garden was empty. Deserted, the peony walk slumbered beneath the afternoon sun. The shrubbery was cool and inviting but disappointingly uninhabited. Eyes narrowed, Philip paused in the shadow of a hedge and considered the known characteristics of his quarry. Then, with a grunt to rival Banks’s, he strode towards the house.
He ran her to earth in the still-room.
Antonia looked up, blinking in surprise as he strolled into the dimly lit room. “Hello.” Hands stilling, she hesitated, her gaze shifting to the shelves of bottles and jars ranged along the walls. “Were you after something?”
“As it happens, I was.” Philip leaned against the bench at which she was working. “You.”
Antonia’s eyes widened. She looked down at the herbs she was snipping. “I—”
“I missed you this morning.” Philip lifted a brow as her head came up; he trapped her gaze with his. “Can it be you’ve grown tired of riding?”
“No—of course not.” Antonia blinked, then looked down. “I was merely worn out by the fête.”
“Not still stiff after your collision with Miss Mimms?”
“Indeed not. That was barely a bruise.” Gathering up her chopped herbs, she dumped them into a bowl. “It’s entirely gone now.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I finished with Banks earlier than I’d expected—I wondered if you were wishful of chancing your skill with my greys?”
Brushing her hands on her apron, Antonia considered the prospect. It was definitely enticing. And she’d have to take the first step some time—chancing her skill in an entirely new arena.
“If you can hold them in style,” Philip mused, “perhaps I could demonstrate the basics of handling a whip?” Brows lifting, he met her gaze.
Antonia did not miss the subtle challenge in his eyes. Just how much he truly saw she did not know, but the only way of testing her developing defences was to risk some time in his company. “Very well.” She nodded briskly, then stretched on tiptoe to peer through the high windows.
Philip straightened. “It’s a beautiful day—you’ll just need your hat.” Capturing her hand, he drew her to the door. “I’ll have the horses put to while you fetch it.”
Before she could blink, Antonia found herself by the stairs. Released, she threw a speaking look at her would-be instructor before, determinedly regal, she went up to find her hat.
Ten minutes later, they were bowling down the gravelled sweep, the greys pacing in prime style. The drive, through leafy lanes to the nearby village of Fernhurst, was uneventful; despite her stretched nerves, Antonia could detect not the slightest hint of intent in the figure lounging gracefully by her side. He appeared at ease with the world, without a thought beyond the lazy warmth of the bright sunshine and the anticipation of an excellent dinner.
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